Chapter 1

THE CONTENTS.

The friendship betwixt Jonathan and David; and, upon that occasion, a digression concerning the nature of love. A discourse between Jonathan and David, upon which the latter absents himself from court, and the former goes thither to inform himself of Saul's resolution. The feast of the New-moon; the manner of the celebration of it; and therein a digression of the history of Abraham. Saul's speech upon David's absence from the feast, and his anger against Jonathan. David's resolution to fly away. He parts with Jonathan, and falls asleep under a tree. A description of Fancy. An angel makes up a vision in David's head. The vision itself; which is a prophecy of all the succession of his race, till Christ's time, with their most remarkable actions. At his awaking, Gabriel assumes a human shape, and confirms to him the truth of his vision.

But now the early birds began to call The morning forth; up rose the sun and Saul: Both, as men thought, rose fresh from sweet repose; But both, alas! from restless labours rose: For in Saul's breast Envy, the toilsome sin, Had all that night active and tyrannous been: She expelled all forms of kindness, virtue, grace, Of the past day no footstep left, or trace; The new-blown sparks of his old rage appear, Nor could his love dwell longer with his fear. So near a storm wise David would not stay, Nor trust the glittering of a faithless day: He saw the sun call in his beams apace, And angry clouds march up into their place: The sea itself smooths his rough brow awhile, Flatt'ring the greedy merchant with a smile; But he whose shipwrecked bark it drank before, Sees the deceit, and knows it would have more. Such is the sea, and such was Saul; But Jonathan his son, and only good, Was gentle as fair Jordan's useful flood; Whose innocent stream, as it in silence goes, Fresh honours and a sudden spring bestows On both his banks, to every flower and tree; The manner how lies hid, the effect we see: But more than all, more than himself, he loved The man whose worth his father's hatred moved; For when the noble youth at Dammin stood, Adorned with sweat, and painted gay with blood, Jonathan pierced him through with greedy eye, And understood the future majesty Then destined in the glories of his look: He saw, and straight was with amazement strook, To see the strength, the feature, and the grace Of his young limbs; he saw his comely face, Where love and reverence so well-mingled were, And head, already crowned with golden hair: He saw what mildness his bold sp'rit did tame, Gentler than light, yet powerful as a flame: He saw his valour by their safety proved; He saw all this, and as he saw, he loved.

What art thou, Love! thou great mysterious thing? From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? 'Tis thou that movst the world through every part, And holdst the vast frame close, that nothing start From the due place and office first ordained; By thee were all things made, and are sustained. Sometimes we see thee fully, and can say From hence thou tookst thy rise, and wentst that way; But oftener the short beams of Reason's eye See only there thou art, not how, nor why. How is the loadstone, Nature's subtle pride, By the rude iron woo'd, and made a bride? How was the weapon wounded? what hid flame The strong and conquering metal overcame? Love (this world's grace) exalts his natural state; He feels thee, Love! and feels no more his weight. Ye learned heads whom ivy garlands grace, Why does that twining plant the oak embrace? The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, And rough as are the winds that fight with it. How does the absent pole the needle move? How does his cold and ice beget hot love? Which are the wings of lightness to ascend? Or why does weight to the centre downwards bend? Thus creatures void of life obey thy laws, And seldom we, they never, know the cause. In thy large state, life gives the next degree, Where sense and good apparent places thee; But thy chief palace is man's heart alone; Here are thy triumphs and full glories shown: Handsome desires, and rest, about thee flee, Union, inheritance, zeal, and ecstasy, With thousand joys, cluster around thine head, O'er which a gall-less dove her wings does spread: A gentle lamb, purer and whiter far Than consciences of thine own martyrs are, Lies at thy feet; and thy right hand does hold The mystic sceptre of a cross of gold. Thus dost thou sit (like men, ere sin had framed A guilty blush) naked, but not ashamed. What cause, then, did the fab'lous ancients find, When first their superstition made thee blind? 'Twas they, alas! 'twas they who could not see, When they mistook that monster, Lust, for thee. Thou art a bright, but not consuming, flame; Such in the amazed bush to Moses came, When that, secure, its new-crown'd head did rear, And chid the trembling branches' needless fear; Thy darts are healthful gold, and downwards fall, Soft as the feathers that they are fletched withal. Such, and no other, were those secret darts Which sweetly touched this noblest pair of hearts: Still to one end they both so justly drew, As courteous doves together yoked would do: No weight of birth did on one side prevail; Two twins less even lie in Nature's scale: They mingled fates, and both in each did share; They both were servants, they both princes were. If any joy to one of them was sent, It was most his to whom it least was meant; And Fortune's malice betwixt both was cross'd, For striking one, it wounded the other most. Never did marriage such true union find, Or men's desires with so glad violence bind; For there is still some tincture left of sin, And still the sex will needs be stealing in. Those joys are full of dross, and thicker far; These, without matter, clear and liquid are. Such sacred love does heaven's bright spirits fill, Where love is but to understand and will, With swift and unseen motions such as we Somewhat express in heighten'd charity. O ye bless'd One! whose love on earth became So pure, that still in heaven 'tis but the same! There now ye sit, and with mix'd souls embrace, Gazing upon great Love's mysterious face, And pity this base world, where friendship's made A bait for sin, or else at best a trade. Ah, wondrous prince! who a true friend couldst be When a crown flatter'd, and Saul threaten'd thee! Who held'st him dear whose stars thy birth did cross, And bought'st him nobly at a kingdom's loss! Israel's bright sceptre far less glory brings, There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.

To this strong pitch their high affections flew, Till Nature's self scarce looked on them as two. Hither flies David for advice and aid, As swift as love and danger could persuade; As safe in Jonathan's trust his thoughts remain, As when himself but dreams them o'er again.

'My dearest lord! farewell,' said he, 'farewell; Heaven bless the King; may no misfortune tell The injustice of his hate when I am dead: They're coming now; perhaps my guiltless head Here, in your sight, must then a-bleeding lie, And scarce your own stand safe for being nigh. Think me not scared with death, howe'er 't appear; I know thou canst not think so: it is a fear From which thy love and Dammin speaks me free; I've met him face to face, and ne'er could see One terror in his looks to make me fly When virtue bids me stand; but I would die So as becomes my life, so as may prove Saul's malice, and at least excuse your love.'

He stopped, and spoke some passion with his eyes. 'Excellent friend!' the gallant prince replies; 'Thou hast so proved thy virtues, that they're known To all good men, more than to each his own. Who lives in Israel that can doubtful be Of thy great actions? for he lives by thee. Such is thy valour, and thy vast success, That all things but thy loyalty are less; And should my father at thy ruin aim, 'Twould wound as much his safety as his fame. Think them not coming, then, to slay thee here, But doubt mishaps as little as you fear; For, by thy loving God, whoe'er design Against thy life, must strike at it through mine, But I my royal father must acquit From such base guilt, or the low thought of it. Think on his softness, when from death he freed The faithless king of Am'lek's cursed seed; Can he t' a friend, t' a son, so bloody grow, He who even sinned but now to spare a foe? Admit he could; but with what strength or art Could he so long close and seal up his heart? Such counsels jealous of themselves become, And dare not fix without consent of some; Few men so boldly ill great sins to do, Till licensed and approved by others too. No more (believe it) could he hide this from me, Than I, had he discovered it, from thee.'

Here they embraces join, and almost tears, Till gentle David thus new-proved his fears: 'The praise you pleased, great prince! on me to spend, Was all outspoken, when you styled me friend: That name alone does dangerous glories bring, And gives excuse to the envy of a king. What did his spear, force, and dark plots, impart But some eternal rancour in his heart? Still does he glance the fortune of that day When, drowned in his own blood, Goliath lay, And covered half the plain; still hears the sound How that vast monster fell, and strook the around: The dance, and, David his ten thousand slew, Still wound his sickly soul, and still are new. Great acts t' ambitious princes treason grow, So much they hate that safety which they owe. Tyrants dread all whom they raise high in place; From the good danger, from the bad disgrace. They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate, Till blood become a principle of state. Secured not by their guards nor by their right, But still they fear even more than they affright, Pardon me, sir; your father's rough and stern; His will too strong to bend, too proud to learn. Remember, sir, the honey's deadly sting! Think on that savage justice of the King, When the same day that saw you do before Things above man, should see you man no more. 'Tis true, the accursed Agag moved his ruth; He pitied his tall limbs and comely youth; Had seen, alas! the proof of Heaven's fierce hate, And feared no mischief from his powerless fate; Remember how the old seer came raging down, And taught him boldly to suspect his crown. Since then, his pride quakes at the Almighty's rod, Nor dares he love the man beloved by God. Hence his deep rage and trembling envy springs; Nothing so wild as jealousy of kings. Whom should he counsel ask, with whom advise, Who reason and God's counsel does despise? Whose headstrong will no law or conscience daunt, Dares he not sin, do you think, without your grant? Yes, if the truth of our fixed love he knew, He would not doubt, believe it, to kill even you.'

The prince is moved, and straight prepares to find The deep resolves of his grieved father's mind. The danger now appears, love can soon show it, And force his stubborn piety to know it. They agree that David should concealed abide, Till his great friend had the Court's temper tried; Till he had Saul's most sacred purpose found, And searched the depth and rancour of his wound.

'Twas the year's seventh-born moon; the solemn feast, That with most noise its sacred mirth express'd. From opening morn till night shuts in the day, On trumpets and shrill horns the Levites play: Whether by this in mystic type we see The new-year's day of great eternity, When the changed moon shall no more changes make, And scattered death's by trumpets' sound awake; Or that the law be kept in memory still, Given with like noise on Sinai's shining hill; Or that (as some men teach) it did arise From faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice, Who, whilst the ram on Isaac's fire did fry, His horn with joyful tunes stood sounding by; Obscure the cause, but God his will declared, And all nice knowledge then with ease is spared. At the third hour Saul to the hallowed tent, 'Midst a large train of priests and courtiers, went; The sacred herd marched proud and softly by, Too fat and gay to think their deaths so nigh. Hard fate of beasts more innocent than we! Prey to our luxury and our piety! Whose guiltless blood on boards and altars spilt, Serves both to make and expiate, too, our guilt! Three bullocks of free neck, two gilded rams, Two well-washed goats, and fourteen spotless lambs, With the three vital fruits, wine, oil, and bread, (Small fees to Heaven of all by which we're fed) Are offered up: the hallowed flames arise, And faithful prayers mount with them to the skies. From thence the King to the utmost court is brought, Where heavenly things an inspired prophet taught, And from the sacred tent to his palace gates, With glad kind shouts the assembly on him waits; The cheerful horns before him loudly play, And fresh-strewed flowers paint his triumphant way. Thus in slow pace to the palace-hall they go, Rich dressed for solemn luxury and show: Ten pieces of bright tapestry hung the room, The noblest work e'er stretched on Syrian loom, For wealthy Adriel in proud Sidon wrought, And given to Saul when Saul's best gift he sought, The bright-eyed Merab; for that mindful day No ornament so proper seemed as they.

There all old Abram's story you might see, And still some angel bore him company. His painful but well-guided travels show The fate of all his sons, the church below. Here beauteous Sarah to great Pharaoh came; He blushed with sudden passion, she with shame: Troubled she seemed, and labouring in the strife, 'Twixt her own honour and her husband's life. Here on a conquering host, that careless lay, Drowned in the joys of their new-gotten prey, The patriarch falls; well-mingled might you see The confused marks of death and luxury. In the next piece bless'd Salem's mystic king Does sacred presents to the victor bring; Like Him whose type he bears, his rights receives, Strictly requires his due, yet freely gives: Even in his port, his habit, and his face, The mild and great, the priest and prince, had place. Here all their starry host the heavens display; And, lo! a heavenly youth, more fair than they, Leads Abram forth; points upwards; 'Such,' said he, 'So bright and numberless thy seed shall be.' Here he with God a new alliance makes, And in his flesh the marks of homage takes: Here he the three mysterious persons feasts, Well paid with joyful tidings by his guests: Here for the wicked town he prays, and near, Scarce did the wicked town through flames appear: And all his fate, and all his deeds, were wrought, Since he from Ur to Ephron's cave was brought. But none 'mongst all the forms drew then their eyes Like faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice: The sad old man mounts slowly to the place, With Nature's power triumphant in his face O'er the mind's courage; for, in spite of all, From his swoln eyes resistless waters fall. The innocent boy his cruel burden bore With smiling looks, and sometimes walked before, And sometimes turned to talk: above was made The altar's fatal pile, and on it laid The hope of mankind: patiently he lay, And did his sire, as he his God, obey. The mournful sire lifts up at last the knife, And on one moment's string depends his life, In whose young loins such brooding wonders lie. A thousand sp'rits peeped from the affrighted sky, Amazed at this strange scene, and almost fear'd, For all those joyful prophecies they'd heard; Till one leaped nimbly forth, by God's command, Like lightning from a cloud, and stopped his hand. The gentle sp'rit smiled kindly as he spoke; New beams of joy through Abram's wonder broke The angel points to a tuft of bushes near, Where an entangled ram does half appear, And struggles vainly with that fatal net, Which, though but slightly wrought, was firmly set: For, lo! anon, to this sad glory doomed, The useful beast on Isaac's pile consumed; Whilst on his horns the ransomed couple played, And the glad boy danced to the tunes he made.

Near this hall's end a shittim table stood, Yet well-wrought plate strove to conceal the wood; For from the foot a golden vine did sprout, And cast his fruitful riches all about. Well might that beauteous ore the grape express, Which does weak man intoxicate no less. Of the same wood the gilded beds were made, And on them large embroidered carpets laid, From Egypt, the rich shop of follies, brought; But arts of pride all nations soon are taught. Behold seven comely blooming youths appear, And in their hands seven silver washpots bear, Curled, and gay clad, the choicest sons that be Of Gibeon's race, and slaves of high degree. Seven beauteous maids marched softly in behind, Bright scarves their clothes, their hair fresh garlands bind, And whilst the princes wash, they on them shed Rich ointments, which their costly odours spread O'er the whole room; from their small prisons free, With such glad haste through the wide air they flee. The King was placed alone, and o'er his head A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread, Azure the ground, the sun in gold shone bright, But pierced the wandering clouds with silver light. The right-hand bed the King's three sons did grace, The third was Abner's, Adriel's, David's place: And twelve large tables more were filled below, With the prime men Saul's court and camp could show. The palace did with mirth and music sound, And the crowned goblets nimbly moved around: But though bright joy in every guest did shine, The plenty, state, music, and sprightful wine, Were lost on Saul: an angry care did dwell In his dark breast, and all gay forms expel. David's unusual absence from the feast, To his sick sp'rit did jealous thoughts suggest: Long lay he still, nor drank, nor ate, nor spoke, And thus at last his troubled silence broke.

'Where can he be?' said he. 'It must be so.' With that he paused awhile. 'Too well we know His boundless pride: he grieves, and hates to see The solemn triumphs of my court and me. Believe me, friends! and trust what I can show From thousand proofs; the ambitious David now Does those vast things in his proud soul design, That too much business give for mirth or wine. He's kindling now, perhaps, rebellious fire Among the tribes, and does even now conspire Against my crown, and all our lives, whilst we Are loth even to suspect what we might see. By the Great Name 'tis true.' With that he strook the board, and no man there, But Jonathan, durst undertake to clear The blameless prince: and scarce ten words he spoke, When thus his speech the enraged tyrant broke:

'Disloyal wretch! thy gentle mother's shame! Whose cold, pale ghost even blushes at thy name! Who fears lest her chaste bed should doubted be, And her white fame stained by black deeds of thee! Canst thou be mine? A crown sometimes does hire Even sons against their parents to conspire; But ne'er did story yet, or fable, tell Of one so wild who, merely to rebel, Quitted the unquestioned birthright of a throne, And bought his father's ruin with his own. Thou need'st not plead the ambitious youth's defence; Thy crime clears his, and makes that innocence: Nor can his foul ingratitude appear, Whilst thy unnatural guilt is placed so near. Is this that noble friendship you pretend? Mine, thine own foe, and thy worst enemy's friend? If thy low spirit can thy great birthright quit, The thing's but just, so ill deserv'st thou it. I, and thy brethren here, have no such mind, Nor such prodigious worth in David find, That we to him should our just rights resign, Or think God's choice not made so well as thine. Shame of thy house and tribe! hence from mine eye; To thy false friend and servile master fly; He's ere this time in arms expecting thee; Haste, for those arms are raised to ruin me. Thy sin that way will nobler much appear, Than to remain his spy and agent here. When I think this, Nature, by thee forsook, Forsakes me too.' With that his spear he took To strike at him: the mirth and music cease; The guests all rise this sudden storm t' appease. The prince his danger and his duty knew, And low he bowed, and silently withdrew.

To David straight, who in a forest nigh Waits his advice, the royal friend does fly. The sole advice, now, like the danger clear, Was in some foreign land this storm t' outwear. All marks of comely grief in both are seen, And mournful kind discourses passed between. Now generous tears their hasty tongues restrain; Now they begin, and talk all o'er again: A reverent oath of constant love they take, And God's high name their dreaded witness make: Not that at all their faiths could doubtful prove, But 'twas the tedious zeal of endless love. Thus, ere they part, they the short time bestow In all the pomp friendship and grief could show. And David now, with doubtful cares oppressed, Beneath a shade borrows some little rest; When by command divine thick mists arise, And stop the sense, and close the conquered eyes. There is a place which man most high doth rear, The small world's heaven, where reason moves the sphere; Here in a robe which does all colours show, (The envy of birds, and the clouds' gaudy bow,) Fancy, wild dame, with much lascivious pride, By twin-chameleons drawn, does gaily ride: Her coach there follows, and throngs round about Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout. A sea rolls on with harmless fury here; Straight 'tis a field, and trees and herbs appear. Here in a moment are vast armies made, And a quick scene of war and blood displayed. Here sparkling wines, and brighter maids come in, The bawds for Sense, and lying baits of sin. Some things arise of strange and quarrelling kind, The forepart lion, and a snake behind. Here golden mountains swell the covetous place, And Centaurs ride themselves, a painted race. Of these slight wonders Nature sees the store, And only then accounts herself but poor. Hither an angel comes in David's trance, And finds them mingled in an antique dance; Of all the numerous forms fit choice he takes, And joins them wisely, and this vision makes.

First, David there appears in kingly state, Whilst the Twelve Tribes his dread commands await: Straight to the wars with his joined strength he goes, Settles new friends, and frights his ancient foes. To Solima, Canaan's old head, they came, (Since high in note, then not unknown to Fame,) The blind and lame the undoubted wall defend, And no new wounds or dangers apprehend. The busy image of great Joab there Disdains the mock, and teaches them to fear: He climbs the airy walls, leaps raging down, New-minted shapes of slaughter fill the town. They curse the guards their mirth and bravery chose, All of them now are slain, or made like those. Far through an inward scene an army lay, Which with full banners a fair Fish display. From Sidon plains to happy Egypt's coast They seem all met, a vast and warlike host. Thither hastes David to his destined prey, Honour and noble danger lead the way. The conscious trees shook with a reverent fear Their unblown tops: God walked before him there. Slaughter the wearied Rephaims' bosom fills, Dead corpse emboss the vale with little hills. On the other side, Sophenes' mighty king Numberless troops of the bless'd East does bring: Twice are his men cut off, and chariots ta'en; Damascus and rich Adad help in vain; Here Nabathaean troops in battle stand, With all the lusty youth of Syrian land; Undaunted Joab rushes on with speed, Gallantly mounted on his fiery steed; He hews down all, and deals his deaths around; The Syrians leave, or possess, dead, the ground. On the other wing does brave Abishai ride, Reeking in blood and dust: on every side The perjured sons of Ammon quit the field; Some basely die, and some more basely yield. Through a thick wood the wretched Hanun flies, And far more justly then fears Hebrew spies. Moloch, their bloody god, thrusts out his head, Grinning through a black cloud: him they'd long fed In his seven chambers, and he still did eat New-roasted babes, his dear delicious meat. Again they rise, more angered and dismayed; Euphrates and swift Tigris sends them aid: In vain they send it, for again they're slain, And feast the greedy birds on Healy plain. Here Rabba with proud towers affronts the sky, And round about great Joab's trenches lie: They force the walls, and sack the helpless town; On David's head shines Ammon's massy crown. 'Midst various torments the cursed race expires; David himself his severe wrath admires.

Next upon Israel's throne does bravely sit A comely youth, endowed with wondrous wit: Far, from the parched line, a royal dame, To hear his tongue and boundless wisdom, came: She carried back in her triumphant womb The glorious stock of thousand kings to come. Here brightest forms his pomp and wealth display; Here they a temple's vast foundations lay; A mighty work; and with fit glories filled, For God to inhabit, and that King to build. Some from the quarries hew out massy stone, Some draw it up with cranes; some breathe and groan In order o'er the anvil; some cut down Tall cedars, the proud mountain's ancient crown; Some carve the trunks, and breathing shapes bestow, Giving the trees more life than when they grow. But, oh! alas! what sudden cloud is spread About this glorious King's eclipsed head? It all his fame benights, and all his store, Wrapping him round; and now he's seen no more.

When straight his son appears at Sichem crown'd, With young and heedless council circled round; Unseemly object! but a falling state Has always its own errors joined with Fate. Ten tribes at once forsake the Jessian throne, And bold Adoram at his message stone; 'Brethren of Israel!'--More he fain would say, But a flint stopped his mouth, and speech in the way. Here this fond king's disasters but begin; He's destined to more shame by his father's sin. Susac comes up, and under his command A dreadful army from scorched Afric's sand, As numberless as that: all is his prey; The temple's sacred wealth they bear away; Adrazar's shields and golden loss they take; Even David in his dream does sweat and shake. Thus fails this wretched prince; his loins appear Of less weight now than Solomon's fingers were.

Abijah next seeks Israel to regain, And wash in seas of blood his father's stain. Ne'er saw the aged sun so cruel sight; Scarce saw he this, but hid his bashful light. Nebat's cursed son fled with not half his men; Where were his gods of Dan and Bethel then? Yet could not this the fatal strife decide; God punished one, but blessed not the other side.

Asan, a just and virtuous prince, succeeds, High raised by Fame for great and godly deeds: He cut the solemn groves where idols stood, And sacrificed the gods with their own wood. He vanquished thus the proud weak powers of hell; Before him next their doting servants fell: So huge an host of Zerah's men he slew, As made even that Arabia desert too. Why feared he then the perjured Baasha's sight? Or bought the dangerous aid of Syrian's might? Conquest, Heaven's gift, cannot by man be sold; Alas! what weakness trusts he? man and gold.

Next Josaphat possessed the royal state; A happy prince, well worthy of his fate: His oft oblations on God's altar, made With thousand flocks, and thousand herds, are paid, Arabian tribute! What mad troops are those, Those mighty troops that dare to be his foes? He prays them dead; with mutual wounds they fall; One fury brought, one fury slays them all. Thus sits he still, and sees himself to win, Never o'ercome but by his friend Ahab's sin; On whose disguise Fates then did only look, And had almost their God's command mistook: Him from whose danger Heaven securely brings, And for his sake too ripely wicked kings. Their armies languish, burnt with thirst, at Seere, Sighs all their cold, tears all their moisture there: They fix their greedy eyes on the empty sky, And fancy clouds, and so become more dry. Elisha calls for waters from afar To come; Elisha calls, and here they are. In helmets they quaff round the welcome flood, And the decrease repair with Moab's blood. Jehoram next, and Ochoziah, throng For Judah's sceptre; both shortlived too long. A woman, too, from murder title claims; Both with her sins and sex the crown she shames. Proud, cursed woman! but her fall at last To doubting men clears Heaven for what was past. Joas at first does bright and glorious show; In life's fresh morn his fame did early crow: Fair was the promise of his dawning ray, But prophet's angry blood o'ercast his day: From thence his clouds, from thence his storms, begin, It cries aloud, and twice lets Aram in. So Amaziah lives, so ends his reign, Both by their traitorous servants justly slain. Edom at first dreads his victorious hand; Before him thousand captives trembling stand. Down a precipice, deep down he casts them all; The mimic shapes in several postures fall: But then (mad fool!) he does those gods adore, Which when plucked down had worshipped him before. Thus all his life to come is loss and shame: No help from gods, who themselves helped not, came.

All this Uzziah's strength and wit repairs, Leaving a well-built greatness to his heirs; Till leprous scurf, o'er his whole body cast, Takes him at first from men, from earth at last. As virtuous was his son, and happier far; Buildings his peace, and trophies graced his war: But Achaz heaps up sins, as if he meant To make his worst forefathers innocent: He burns his son at Hinnon, whilst around The roaring child drums and loud trumpets sound: This to the boy a barbarous mercy grew, And snatched him from all miseries to ensue. Here Peca comes, and hundred thousands fall; Here Rezin marches up, and sweeps up all; Till like a sea the great Belochus' son Breaks upon both, and both does overrun. The last of Adad's ancient stock is slain, Israel captived, and rich Damascus ta'en; All his wild rage to revenge Judah's wrong; But woe to kingdoms that have friends too strong!

Thus Hezekiah the torn empire took, And Assur's king with his worse gods forsook; Who to poor Judah worlds of nations brings, There rages, utters vain and mighty things. Some dream of triumphs, and exalted names, Some of dear gold, and some of beauteous dames; Whilst in the midst of their huge sleepy boast, An angel scatters death through all the host. The affrighted tyrant back to Babel hies, There meets an end far worse than that he flies. Here Hezekiah's life is almost done! So good, and yet, alas! so short 'tis spun. The end of the line was ravelled, weak, and old; Time must go back, and afford better hold, To tie a new thread to it of fifteen years. 'Tis done; the almighty power of prayer and tears! Backward the sun, an unknown motion, went; The stars gazed on, and wondered what he meant. Manasses next (forgetful man!) begins, Enslaved and sold to Ashur by his sins; Till by the rod of learned Misery taught, Home to his God and country both he's brought. It taught not Ammon, nor his hardness brake, He's made the example he refused to take.

Yet from this root a goodly scion springs, Josiah! best of men, as well as kings. Down went the calves, with all their gold and cost; The priests then truly grieved, Osiris lost. These mad Egyptian rites till now remained; Fools! they their worser thraldom still retained! In his own fires Moloch to ashes fell, And no more flames must have besides his hell. Like end Astartes' horned image found, And Baal's spired stone to dust was ground. No more were men in female habit seen, Or they in men's, by the lewd Syrian queen; No lustful maids at Benos' temple sit, And with their body's shame their marriage get. The double Dagon neither nature saves, Nor flies she back to the Erythraean waves. The travelling sun sees gladly from on high His chariots burn, and Nergal quenched lie. The King's impartial anger lights on all, From fly-blown Accaron to the thundering Baal. Here David's joy unruly grows and bold, Nor could sleep's silken chain its violence hold, Had not the angel, to seal fast his eyes, The humours stirred, and bid more mists arise; When straight a chariot hurries swift away, And in it good Josiah bleeding lay: One hand's held up, one stops the wound; in vain They both are used. Alas! he's slain, he's slain.

Jehoias and Jehoiakim next appear; Both urge that vengeance which before was near. He in Egyptian fetters captive dies, This by more courteous Anger murdered lies. His son and brother next to bonds sustain, Israel's now solemn and imperial chain. Here's the last scene of this proud city's state; All ills are met, tied in one knot of Fate. Their endless slavery in this trial lay; Great God had heaped up ages in one day: Strong works around the walls the Chaldees build, The town with grief and dreadful business filled: To their carved gods the frantic women pray, Gods which as near their ruin were as they: At last in rushes the prevailing foe, Does all the mischief of proud conquest show. The wondering babes from mothers' breasts are rent, And suffer ills they neither feared nor meant. No silver reverence guards the stooping age, No rule or method ties their boundless rage. The glorious temple shines in flames all o'er, Yet not so bright as in its gold before. Nothing but fire or slaughter meets the eyes; Nothing the ear but groans and dismal cries. The walls and towers are levelled with the ground, And scarce aught now of that vast city's found, But shards and rubbish, which weak signs might keep, Of forepast glory, and bid travellers weep. Thus did triumphant Assur homewards pass, And thus Jerus'lem left, Jerusalem that was!

Thus Zedechia saw, and this not all; Before his face his friends and children fall, The sport of insolent victors: this he views, A king and father once: ill Fate could use His eyes no more to do their master spite; All to be seen she took, and next his sight. Thus a long death in prison he outwears, Bereft of grief's last solace, even his tears.

Then Jeconiah's son did foremost come, And he who brought the captived nation home; A row of Worthies in long order passed O'er the short stage; of all old Joseph last. Fair angels passed by next in seemly bands, All gilt, with gilded baskets in their hands. Some as they went the blue-eyed violets strew, Some spotless lilies in loose order threw. Some did the way with full-blown roses spread, Their smell divine, and colour strangely red; Not such as our dull gardens proudly wear, Whom weather's taint, and wind's rude kisses tear. Such, I believe, was the first rose's hue, Which, at God's word, in beauteous Eden grew; Queen of the flowers, which made that orchard gay, The morning-blushes of the Spring's new day.

With sober pace an heavenly maid walks in, Her looks all fair, no sign of native sin Through her whole body writ; immoderate grace Spoke things far more than human in her face: It casts a dusky gloom o'er all the flowers, And with full beams their mingled light devours. An angel straight broke from a shining cloud, And pressed his wings, and with much reverence bowed; Again he bowed, and grave approach he made, And thus his sacred message sweetly said:

'Hail! full of grace! thee the whole world shall call Above all bless'd; thee, who shall bless them all. Thy virgin womb in wondrous sort shall shroud Jesus the God; (and then again he bowed) Conception the great Spirit shall breathe on thee: Hail thou! who must God's wife, God's mother be.' With that his seeming form to heaven he reared, (She low obeisance made) and disappeared. Lo! a new star three Eastern sages see; (For why should only earth a gainer be?) They saw this Phosphor's infant light, and knew It bravely ushered in a sun as new; They hasted all this rising sun t' adore; With them rich myrrh, and early spices, bore. Wise men! no fitter gift your zeal could bring; You'll in a noisome stable find your king. Anon a thousand devils run roaring in; Some with a dreadful smile deform'dly grin; Some stamp their cloven paws, some frown, and tear The gaping snakes from their black-knotted hair; As if all grief, and all the rage of hell Were doubled now, or that just now they fell: But when the dreaded maid they entering saw, All fled with trembling fear and silent awe: In her chaste arms the Eternal Infant lies, The Almighty Voice changed into feeble cries. Heaven contained virgins oft, and will do more; Never did virgin contain Heaven before. Angels peep round to view this mystic thing, And halleluiah round, all halleluiah sing.

No longer could good David quiet bear The unwieldy pleasure which o'erflowed him here: It broke the fetter, and burst ope his eye; Away the timorous Forms together fly. Fixed with amaze he stood, and time must take, To learn if yet he were at last awake. Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision sent, And ordered all the pageants as they went: Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's play, The loose and scattered relics of the day.

When Gabriel (no bless'd sp'rit more kind or fair) Bodies and clothes himself with thickened air; All like a comely youth in life's fresh bloom, Rare workmanship, and wrought by heavenly loom! He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, Washed from the morning beauty's deepest red; A harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, And fell adown his shoulders with loose care: He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies. Where the most sprightly azure please the eyes; This he with starry vapours spangles all, Took in their prime ere they grow ripe, and fall: Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, The choicest piece took out, a scarf is made; Small streaming clouds he does for wings display, Not virtuous lovers' sighs more soft than they; These he gilds o'er with the sun's richest rays, Caught gliding o'er pure streams on which he plays.

Thus dressed, the joyful Gabriel posts away, And carries with him his own glorious day Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades a while Put on fresh, looks, and wonder why they smile; The trembling serpents close and silent lie; The birds obscene far from his passage fly; A sudden spring waits on him as he goes, Sudden as that which by creation rose. Thus he appears to David; at first sight All earth-bred fears and sorrows take their flight: In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest; A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. 'Hail, man belov'd! from highest heaven,' said he. 'My mighty Master sends thee health by me. The things thou saw'st are full of truth and light, Shaped in the glass of the divine foresight. Even now old Time is harnessing the Years To go in order thus: hence, empty fears! Thy fate's all white; from thy bless'd seed shall spring The promised Shilo, the great mystic King. Round the whole earth his dreaded Name shall sound. And reach to worlds that must not yet be found: The Southern clime him her sole Lord shall style, Him all the North, even Albion's stubborn isle. My fellow-servant, credit what I tell.' Straight into shapeless air unseen he fell.

LIFE.

'NASCENTES MORIMUR.'--_Manil_.

1 We're ill by these grammarians used: We are abused by words, grossly abused; From the maternal tomb To the grave's fruitful womb We call here Life; but Life's a name That nothing here can truly claim: This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, We call our dwelling-place; We call one step a race: But angels in their full-enlightened state, Angels who live, and know what 'tis to be, Who all the nonsense of our language see, Who speak things, and our words their ill-drawn picture scorn. When we by a foolish figure say, Behold an old man dead! then they Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born!

2 My eyes are opened, and I see Through the transparent fallacy: Because we seem wisely to talk Like men of business, and for business walk From place to place, And mighty voyages we take, And mighty journeys seem to make O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space; Because we fight, and battles gain, Some captives call, and say the rest are slain; Because we heap up yellow earth, and so Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; Because we draw a long nobility From hieroglyphic proofs of heraldry, And impudently talk of a posterity; And, like Egyptian chroniclers, Who write of twenty thousand years, With maravedies make the account, That single time might to a sum amount; We grow at last by custom to believe That really we live; Whilst all these shadows that for things we take, Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make.

3 But these fantastic errors of our dream Lead us to solid wrong; We pray God our friends' torments to prolong. And wish uncharitably for them To be as long a-dying as Methusalem. The ripened soul longs from his prison to come, But we would seal and sew up, if we could, the womb. We seek to close and plaster up by art The cracks and breaches of the extended shell, And in that narrow cell Would rudely force to dwell The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part.

THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT.

I.

Is this thy bravery, Man! is this thy pride! Rebel to God, and slave to all beside! Captived by everything! and only free To fly from thine own liberty! All creatures, the Creator said, were thine; No creature but might since say, Man is mine! In black Egyptian slavery we lie, And sweat and toil in the vain dru Of tyrant Sin, To which we trophies raise, and wear out all our breath In building up the monuments of death. We, the choice race, to God and angels kin! In vain the prophets and apostles come To call us home, Home to the promised Canaan above, Which does with nourishing milk and pleasant honey flow, And even i' th' way to which we should be fed With angels' tasteful bread: But we, alas! the flesh-pots love; We love the very leeks and sordid roots below.

II.

In vain we judgments feel, and wonders see; In vain did God to descend hither deign, He was his own Ambassador in vain, Our Moses and our guide himself to be. We will not let ourselves to go, And with worse hardened hearts, do our own Pharaohs grow; Ah! lest at last we perish so, Think, stubborn Man! think of the Egyptian prince, (Hard of belief and will, but not so hard as thou,) Think with what dreadful proofs God did convince The feeble arguments that human power could show; Think what plagues attend on thee, Who Moses' God dost now refuse more oft than Moses he.

III.

'If from some God you come,' said the proud king, With half a smile and half a frown, 'But what God can to Egypt be unknown? What sign, what powers, what credence do you bring?' 'Behold his seal! behold his hand!' Cries Moses, and casts down the almighty wand: The almighty wand scarce touched the earth, When, with an undiscerned birth, The almighty wand a serpent grew, And his long half in painted folds behind him drew: Upwards his threatening tail he threw, Upwards he cast his threatening head, He gaped and hissed aloud, With flaming eyes surveyed the trembling crowd, And, like a basilisk, almost looked the assembly dead: Swift fled the amazed king, the guards before him fled.

IV.

Jannes and Jambres stopped their flight, And with proud words allayed the affright. 'The God of slaves!' said they, 'how can he be More powerful than their master's deity?' And down they cast their rods, And muttered secret sounds that charm the servile gods, The evil spirits their charms obey, And in a subtle cloud they snatch the rods away, And serpents in their place the airy jugglers lay: Serpents in Egypt's monstrous land Were ready still at hand, And all at the Old Serpent's first command: And they, too, gaped, and they, too, hissed, And they their threatening tails did twist; But straight on both the Hebrew serpent flew, Broke both their active backs, and both it slew, And both almost at once devoured; So much was overpowered By God's miraculous creation His servant Nature's slightly wrought and feeble generation.

V.

On the famed bank the prophets stood, Touched with their rod, and wounded all the flood; Flood now no more, but a long vein of putrid blood; The helpless fish were found In their strange current drowned; The herbs and trees washed by the mortal tide About it blushed and died: The amazed crocodiles made haste to ground; From their vast trunks the dropping gore they spied, Thought it their own, and dreadfully aloud they cried: Nor all thy priests, nor thou, O King! couldst ever show From whence thy wandering Nile begins his course; Of this new Nile thou seest the sacred source, And as thy land that does o'erflow, Take heed lest this do so. What plague more just could on thy waters fall? The Hebrew infants' murder stains them all. The kind, instructing punishment enjoy; Whom the red river cannot mend, the Red Sea shall destroy.

VI.

The river yet gave one instruction more, And from the rotting fish and unconcocted gore, Which was but water just before, A loathsome host was quickly made, That scaled the banks, and with loud noise did all the country invade; As Nilus when he quits his sacred bed, (But like a friend he visits all the land With welcome presents in his hand,) So did this living tide the fields o'erspread. In vain the alarmed country tries To kill their noisome enemies, From the unexhausted source still new recruits arise: Nor does the earth these greedy troops suffice; The towns and houses they possess, The temples and the palaces, Nor Pharaoh nor his gods they fear, Both their importune croakings hear: Unsatiate yet they mount up higher, Where never sun-born frog durst to aspire, And in the silken beds their slimy members place, A luxury unknown before to all the watery race.

VII.

The water thus her wonders did produce, But both were to no use: As yet the sorcerer's mimic power served for excuse. Try what the earth will do, said God, and lo! They struck the earth a fertile blow, And all the dust did straight to stir begin, One would have thought some sudden wind had been, But, lo! 'twas nimble life was got within! And all the little springs did move, And every dust did an armed vermin prove, Of an unknown and new-created kind, Such as the magic gods could neither make or find. The wretched shameful foe allowed no rest Either to man or beast; Not Pharaoh from the unquiet plague could be, With all his change of raiments, free; The devils themselves confessed This was God's hand; and 'twas but just To punish thus man's pride, to punish dust with dust.

VIII.

Lo! the third element does his plagues prepare, And swarming clouds of insects fill the air; With sullen noise they take their flight, And march in bodies infinite; In vain 'tis day above, 'tis still beneath them night; Of harmful flies the nations numberless Composed this mighty army's spacious boast; Of different manners, different languages, And different habits, too, they wore, And different arms they bore: And some, like Scythians, lived on blood, And some on green, and some on flowery food, And Accaron, the airy prince, led on this various host. Houses secure not men; the populous ill Did all the houses fill: The country all around, Did with the cries of tortured cattle sound; About the fields enraged they flew, And wished the plague that was t' ensue.

IX.

From poisonous stars a mortal influence came, (The mingled malice of their flame,) A skilful angel did the ingredients take, And with just hands the sad composure make, And over all the land did the full viol shake. Thirst, giddiness, faintness, and putrid heats, And pining pains, and shivering sweats, On all the cattle, all the beasts, did fall; With deformed death the country's covered all. The labouring ox drops down before the plough; The crowned victims to the altar led Sink, and prevent the lifted blow: The generous horse from the full manger turns his head, Does his loved floods and pastures scorn, Hates the shrill trumpet and the horn, Nor can his lifeless nostril please With the once-ravishing smell of all his dappled mistresses; The starving sheep refuse to feed, They bleat their innocent souls out into air; The faithful dogs lie gasping by them there; The astonished shepherd weeps, and breaks his tuneful reed.

X.

Thus did the beasts for man's rebellion die; God did on man a gentler medicine try, And a disease for physic did apply. Warm ashes from the furnace Moses took, The sorcerers did with wonder on him look, And smiled at the unaccustomed spell Which no Egyptian rituals tell. He flings the pregnant ashes through the air, And speaks a mighty prayer, Both which the minist'ring winds around all Egypt bear; As gentle western blasts, with downy wings Hatching the tender springs, To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, Ye living buds, why do ye stay? The passionate buds break through the bark their way; So wheresoe'er this tainted wind but blew, Swelling pains and ulcers grew; It from the body called all sleeping poisons out, And to them added new; A noisome spring of sores as thick as leaves did sprout.

XI.

Heaven itself is angry next; Woe to man when Heaven is vexed; With sullen brow it frowned, And murmured first in an imperfect sound; Till Moses, lifting up his hand, Waves the expected signal of his wand, And all the full-charged clouds in ranged squadrons move, And fill the spacious plains above; Through which the rolling thunder first does play, And opens wide the tempest's noisy way: And straight a stony shower Of monstrous hail does downward pour, Such as ne'er Winter yet brought forth, From all her stormy magazines of the north: It all the beasts and men abroad did slay, O'er the defaced corpse, like monuments, lay; The houses and strong-bodied trees it broke, Nor asked aid from the thunder's stroke: The thunder but for terror through it flew, The hail alone the work could do. The dismal lightnings all around, Some flying through the air, some running on the ground, Some swimming o'er the waters' face, Filled with bright horror every place; One would have thought, their dreadful day to have seen, The very hail and rain itself had kindled been.

XII.

The infant corn, which yet did scarce appear, Escaped this general massacre Of every thing that grew, And the well-stored Egyptian year Began to clothe her fields and trees anew; When, lo! a scorching wind from the burnt countries blew, And endless legions with it drew Of greedy locusts, who, where'er With sounding wings they flew, Left all the earth depopulate and bare, As if Winter itself had marched by there, Whate'er the sun and Nile Gave with large bounty to the thankful soil, The wretched pillagers bore away, And the whole Summer was their prey; Till Moses with a prayer, Breathed forth a violent western wind, Which all these living clouds did headlong bear (No stragglers left behind) Into the purple sea, and there bestow On the luxurious fish a feast they ne'er did know. With untaught joy Pharaoh the news does hear, And little thinks their fate attends on him and his so near.

XIII.

What blindness and what darkness did there e'er Like this undocile king's appear? Whate'er but that which now does represent And paint the crime out in the punishment? From the deep baleful caves of hell below, Where the old mother Night does grow, Substantial Night, that does disclaim Privation's empty name, Through secret conduits monstrous shapes arose, Such as the sun's whole force could not oppose; They with a solid cloud All heaven's eclipsed face did shroud; Seemed with large wings spread o'er the sea and earth, To brood up a new Chaos his deformed birth; And every lamp, and every fire, Did, at the dreadful sight, wink and expire, To the empyrean source all streams of light seemed to retire. The living men were in their standing houses buried, But the long night no slumber knows, But the short death finds no repose. Ten thousand terrors through the darkness fled, And ghosts complained, and spirits murmured, And fancy's multiplying sight Viewed all the scenes invisible of night.

XIV.

Of God's dreadful anger these Were but the first light skirmishes; The shock and bloody battle now begins, The plenteous harvest of full-ripened sins. It was the time when the still moon Was mounted softly to her noon, And dewy sleep, which from Night's secret springs arose, Gently as Nile the land o'erflows; When, lo! from the high countries of refined day, The golden heaven without allay, Whose dross, in the creation purged away, Made up the sun's adulterate ray, Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, Swift as the journeys of the sight, Swift as the race of light, And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. He passed through many a star, and as he passed Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there Than they did in their sphere: On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at last, And a mild look of sacred pity cast Down on the sinful land where he was sent To inflict the tardy punishment. 'Ah! yet,' said he, 'yet, stubborn King! repent, Whilst thus unarmed I stand, Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live. Who would, alas! believe That it for man,' said he, 'So hard to be forgiven should be, And yet for God so easy to forgive!'

XV.

He spoke, and downwards flew, And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, Made of the blackest fleece of night, And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light; Yet, wrought so fine, it hindered not his flight, But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, And through the narrowest walks of crooked pores, He passed more swift and free Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee: He took a pointed pestilence in his hand, The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made The strongly-tempered blade, The sharpest sword that e'er was laid Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land: Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, And as he marched the sacred first-born struck Of every womb; none did he spare; None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir.

XVI.

The swift approach of endless night Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; They awake the rest with dying cries, And darkness doubles the affright. The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice Pierces this chaos of confused noise; As brighter lightning cuts a way, Clear and distinguished through the day: With less complaints the Zoan temples sound When the adored heifer's drowned, And no true marked successor to be found: While health, and strength, and gladness does possess The festal Hebrew cottages; The bless'd destroyer comes not there, To interrupt the sacred cheer, That new begins their well-reformed year. Upon their doors he read and understood God's protection writ in blood; Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, And though he passed by it in haste, He bowed, and worshipped as he passed The mighty mystery through its humble sign.

XVII.

The sword strikes now too deep and near, Longer with its edge to play, No diligence or cost they spare To haste the Hebrews now away, Pharaoh himself chides their delay; So kind and bountiful is fear! But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, Is but like fire struck out of stone, So hardly got, and quickly gone, That it scarce outlives the blow. Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, Rage and revenge their place possess'd: With a vast host of chariots and of horse, And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, The travelling nation he pursues, Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews. Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, 'The Egyptian gods, from Syrian magic free, Will now revenge themselves and me; Behold what passless rocks on either hand, Like prison walls, about them stand! Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, And in our injured justice they must find A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; Which shall with crimson gore New paint the water's name, and double dye the shore.'

XVIII.

He spoke; and all his host Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; A bidden wind bore his vain words away, And drowned them in the neighbouring sea. No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, And with degenerous fear to die, Curse their new-gotten liberty: But the great Guide well knew he led them right, And saw a path hid yet from human sight: He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side Unloose their close embraces, and divide, And backwards press, as in some solemn show The crowding people do, (Though just before no space was seen,) To let the admired triumph pass between. The wondering army saw, on either hand, The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand. They marched betwixt, and boldly trod The secret paths of God: And here and there, all scattered in their way, The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay Deserted on the sandy plain: The sun did with astonishment behold The inmost chambers of the opened main, For whatsoe'er of old By his own priests, the poets, has been said, He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed.

XIX.

Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, To the other shore at morning-dawn they came, And saw behind the unguided foe March disorderly and slow: The prophet straight from the Idumean strand Shakes his imperious wand; The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, The beckoning wand espy; Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, And with a murmuring wind Give the word march to all behind; The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, But with a joyful, louder noise, Answer their distant fellows' voice, And haste to meet them make, As several troops do all at once a common signal take. What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, Which on the Chamian army fell, When on both sides they saw the roaring main Broke loose from his invisible chain? They saw the monstrous death and watery war Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; In vain some backward and some forwards fly With helpless haste, in vain they cry To their celestial beasts for aid; In vain their guilty king they upbraid, In vain on Moses he, and Moses' God, does call, With a repentance true too late: They're compassed round with a devouring fate That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all.

GEORGE WITHER

This remarkable man was born in Hampshire, at Bentworth, near Alton, in 1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his 'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed translation.

In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch. When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In 1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand.

Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy.

FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.'

See'st thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? And the vapours that do breathe From the earth's gross womb beneath, Seem they not with their black steams To pollute the sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it unblemished, fair? So, my Willy, shall it be With Detraction's breath and thee: It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy. As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale; Poesy so sometimes drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 'Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power! Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more: Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with Fame at last. Let nought therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight: For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity. But, alas! my Muse is slow; For thy pace she flags too low. Yes, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipped of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a-muing. But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did. And though for her sake I'm cross'd, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more than ten times double; I would love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For though banished from my flocks, And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light, And consume the sullen night; She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the springtide yields; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance, poor relief, That more makes than mends my grief: She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envy's evil will: Whence she should be driven too, Were 't in mortals' power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss, His divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw, I could some invention draw; And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight: By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling; By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can, In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness: The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves, This black den, which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals, that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect, From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this! Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of gladness If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits! And though some, too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them!

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

1 Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May; If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?

2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than The turtle-dove or pelican; If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?

3 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest, Which may merit name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do, That without them dare to woo; And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe-- I will die ere she shall grieve. If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: If she be not fit for me, What care I for whom she be?

THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD.

1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, Though thou prove a thousand charms. Fie, fie, forbear; No common snare Can ever my affection chain: Thy painted baits, And poor deceits, Are all bestowed on me in vain.

2 I'm no slave to such as you be; Neither shall that snowy breast, Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest: Go, go, display Thy beauty's ray To some more soon enamoured swain: Those common wiles Of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain.

3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; Turn away thy tempting eye: Show not me a painted beauty: These impostures I defy: My spirit loathes Where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain: I love her so, Whose look swears No, That all your labours will be vain.

4 Can he prize the tainted posies Which on every breast are worn, That may pluck the virgin roses From their never-touched thorn? I can go rest On her sweet breast That is the pride of Cynthia's train: Then stay thy tongue, Thy mermaid song Is all bestowed on me in vain.

5 He's a fool that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him: Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's noble hills to climb? No, no, though clowns Are scared with frowns, I know the best can but disdain; And those I'll prove: So will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vain.

6 I do scorn to vow a duty Where each lustful lad may woo; Give me her whose sun-like beauty Buzzards dare not soar unto: She, she it is Affords that bliss For which I would refuse no pain: But such as you, Fond fools, adieu! You seek to captive me in vain.

7 Leave me then, you Siren, leave me: Seek no more to work my harms: Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proof against your charms: You labour may To lead astray The heart that constant shall remain; And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vain.

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.

ARGUMENT.

Cuddy tells how all the swains Pity Roget on the plains; Who, requested, doth relate The true cause of his estate; Which broke off, because 'twas long, They begin a three-man song.

WILLY. CUDDY. ROGET.

WILLY.

Roget, thy old friend Cuddy here, and I, Are come to visit thee in these thy bands, Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands. He tells me thy restraint of liberty, Each one throughout the country understands: And there is not a gentle-natured lad, On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad.

CUDDY.

Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do: But some that have but seen thee for thee moan: Yea, many that did never see thee too. Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none; So divers ways do divers rumours go: And at all meetings where our shepherds be, Now the main news that's extant is of thee.

ROGET.

Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom, My name should in obscurity have slept, In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom. Into the world's wide care it had not crept, Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room: But what cause of my sufferings do they know? Good Cuddy, tell me how doth rumour go?

CUDDY.

Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that: Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause, And many a one, prating he knows not what, Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws, As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not: Then doth he speak half-sentences, then pause: That what the most would say, we may suppose: But what to say, the rumour is, none knows.

ROGET.

Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much What the unsteady common-people deems; His conscience doth not always feel least touch, That blameless in the sight of others seems: My cause is honest, and because 'tis such I hold it so, and not for men's esteems: If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad; If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad.

WILLY.

I like that mind; but, Roget, you are quite Beside the matter that I long to hear: Remember what you promised yesternight, You'd put us off with other talk, I fear; Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright, And none but he, except myself, is near: Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate, The true occasion of thy present state.

ROGET.

My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; And not alone the fairest where I live Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: For the delight that most possessed me Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. For this, as also for the love I bear Unto my country, I laid by all care Of gain, or of preferment, with desire Only to keep that state I had entire, And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, Whose names and natures ere I further go, Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. My first esteemed dog that I did find, Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, For all the world is just like one of his: She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, Until she grew to be exceeding large, And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, 'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range Extremely, and is ever full of mange; And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont To come among the rest, but when they hunt. Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, And yet pursues his game most eagerly. With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: She pineth much, and feedeth little too, Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, And hunts not closely with the other hounds: He'll venture on a lion in his ire; Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. This Choler is a brach that's very old, And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, That bites the very stones, if they but stur: Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, The truest of this breed's in Italy: The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, It was a lady's little dog, called Love: The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, As shagged and as rough as is a bear: And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, For he is very large, and near-hand blind; At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad, And I do fear in time he will grow mad. To him I couple Avarice, still poor; Yet she devours as much as twenty more: A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: And having gorged what might a land have found, She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. Ambition is a hound as greedy full; But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, With him I hunt the martin and the cat: And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, He fetches falls are like to break his neck. Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; A stranger cannot make him take a crust: A little thing will soon his courage quail, And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; With him Despair now often coupled goes, Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. None hath a better mind unto the game, But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; And yet she cares not much for any food, Unless it be the purest harmless blood. All these are kept abroad at charge of many, They do not cost me in a year a penny. But there's two couple of a middling size, That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; Compassion, that on every one will fawn. This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then Catch you a hare, and let her go again. The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. Then comes behind all these to bear the base, Two couple more of a far larger race, Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, May far away from all the rest be spied, Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, And yet she hath her proper quality; But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: And when at start he his full roaring makes, The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. Much pains I took, and spent days not a few, To make them keep together, and hunt true: Which yet I do suppose had never been, But that I had a scourge to keep them in. Now when that I this kennel first had got, Out of my own demesnes I hunted not, Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks, After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks; Nor during that time was I ever wont With all my kennel in one day to hunt: Nor had done yet, but that this other year, Some beasts of prey, that haunt the deserts here, Did not alone for many nights together Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether, And so disquiet many a poor man's herd, But that of losing all they were afeard: Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad, Or rather worse, for the best ewes[1] I had (Whose breed should be my means of life and gain) Were in one evening by these monsters slain: Which mischief I resolved to repay, Or else grow desperate, and hunt all away; For in a fury (such as you shall see Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be) I vowed a monster should not lurk about, In all this province, but I'd find him out, And thereupon, without respect or care, How lame, how full, or how unfit they were, In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew, Who were as mad as if my mind they knew, And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs Had roused a hart, and thorough brakes and furs Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear Got in together, so had surely there Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in 'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin, Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing o'erthwart, Despair came in, and griped him to the heart: I hallowed in the res'due to the fall, And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all: Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood, And onward led my thunder to the wood; Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon, My keeper calls me, and I must be gone. Go if you please a while, attend your flocks, And when the sun is over yonder rocks, Come to this cave again, where I will be, If that my guardian so much favour me. Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain, Before you turn your sheep into the plain.

WILLY.

I am content.

CUDDY.

As well content am I.

ROGET.

Then, Will, begin, and we'll the rest supply.

SONG.

WILLY.

Shepherd, would these gates were ope, Thou might'st take with us thy fortune.

ROGET.

No, I'll make this narrow scope, Since my fate doth so importune Means unto a wider hope.

CUDDY.

Would thy shepherdess were here, Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly!

ROGET.

Not for both your flocks, I swear, And the gain they yield you yearly, Would I so much wrong my dear. Yet to me, nor to this place, Would she now be long a stranger; She would hold it no disgrace, (If she feared not more my danger,) Where I am to show her face.

WILLY.

Shepherd, we would wish no harms, But something that might content thee.

ROGET.

Wish me then within her arms, And that wish will ne'er repent me, If your wishes might prove charms.

WILLY.

Be thy prison her embrace, Be thy air her sweetest breathing.

CUDDY.

Be thy prospect her fair face, For each look a kiss bequeathing, And appoint thyself the place.

ROGET.

Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then Come meet you here this afternoon again: But fare you well, since wishes have no power, Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour.

[1] 'Ewes:' hopes.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT,

The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning thus:--

'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, To welcome nature in the early spring, Your numerous feet not tread The banks of Avon, for each flower (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) Hangs there the pensive head.'

Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little excuse.'

He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the Duchess of Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate --to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel' and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, of Ham's conduct to Noah.

'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.'

FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II.

THE ARGUMENT.

The hunting which did yearly celebrate The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: The hunters praised; how true to love they are, How calm in peace and tempest-like in war. The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, And straight his hunters are as hard pursued.

1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow Of slight beginnings to important ends; Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends.

2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, A day grown black in Lombard histories, Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes.

3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, The Duke, with many lovers in his train, Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made.

4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came To celebrate this day with annual sport, On which by battle here he earned his fame,

5 And many of these noble hunters bore Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, When in this forest they interred the foe.

6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, Was listed here, and in the story great; He followed honour, when towards death it went; Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat.

7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, He blushing hid, and now no more would own (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) Than an old wreath when newly overthrown.

8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, That in these vicious times would make it known.

9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; And now Love's power so willingly did bear, That even his arbitrary reign he praised.

10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, Who was in court the public morning glass, Where those, who would reduce nature to art, Practised by dress the conquests of the face.

11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; Of stature small, but was all over heart, And, though unhappy, all that heart was love.

12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing.

13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, As loyal subjects quietly bemoan Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne.

14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, And was no less the joy of public sight.

15 If love's just power he did not early see, Some small excuse we may his error give; Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be That secret vital heat by which we live:

16 But such it is; and though we may be thought To have in childhood life, ere love we know, Yet life is useless till by reason taught, And love and reason up together grow.

17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give Of life, because we see them pained and move, Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live.

18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; Since reason, which is love, and his best known And current image, age has worn away.

19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, May, if I old philosophers control, Confirm the new by some new poet's light, Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul.

20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, And he alike from either's wounds had bled.

21 Public his valour was, but not his love, One filled the world, the other he contained; Yet quietly alike in both did move, Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained.

22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, Many to this recorded hunting came; Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame.

23 New like a giant lover rose the sun From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, As if last night she had not quenched his heat.

24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, His pensioners, for so all lovers are, And all maintained by him at a high rate With daily fire, now for the chase prepare.

25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, Young Nature's livery, and each at strife Who most adorned in favours should be seen, Wrought kindly by the lady of his life.

26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, On which, for now they conquest celebrate, In an embroidered history appear Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate.

27 And on these belts, wrought with their ladies' care, Hung cimeters of Akon's trusty steel; Goodly to see, and he who durst compare Those ladies' eyes, might soon their temper feel.

28 Cheered as the woods, where new-waked choirs they meet, Are all; and now dispose their choice relays Of horse and hounds, each like each other fleet; Which best, when with themselves compared, we praise.

29 To them old forest spies, the harbourers, With haste approach, wet as still weeping night, Or deer that mourn their growth of head with tears, When the defenceless weight does hinder flight.

30 And dogs, such whose cold secrecy was meant By Nature for surprise, on these attend; Wise, temperate lime-hounds that proclaim no scent, Nor harb'ring will their mouths in boasting spend.

31 Yet vainlier far than traitors boast their prize, On which their vehemence vast rates does lay, Since in that worth their treason's credit lies, These harb'rers praise that which they now betray.

32 Boast they have lodged a stag, that all the race Outruns of Croton horse, or Rhegian hounds; A stag made long since royal in the chase, If kings can honour give by giving wounds.

33 For Aribert had pierced him at a bay, Yet 'scaped he by the vigour of his head; And many a summer since has won the day, And often left his Rhegian followers dead.

34 His spacious beam, that even the rights outgrew, From antler to his troch had all allowed, By which his age the aged woodmen knew, Who more than he were of that beauty proud.

35 Now each relay a several station finds, Ere the triumphant train the copse surrounds; Relays of horse, long breathed as winter winds, And their deep cannon-mouthed experienced hounds.

36 The huntsmen, busily concerned in show, As if the world were by this beast undone, And they against him hired as Nature's foe, In haste uncouple, and their hounds outrun.

37 Now wind they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, And through the forest all the beasts are awed; Alarmed by Echo, Nature's sentinel, Which shows that murderous man is come abroad.

38 Tyrannic man! thy subjects' enemy! And more through wantonness than need or hate, From whom the winged to their coverts fly, And to their dens even those that lay in wait.

39 So this, the most successful of his kind, Whose forehead's force oft his opposers pressed, Whose swiftness left pursuers' shafts behind, Is now of all the forest most distressed!

40 The herd deny him shelter, as if taught To know their safety is to yield him lost; Which shows they want not the results of thought, But speech, by which we ours for reason boast.

41 We blush to see our politics in beasts, Who many saved by this one sacrifice; And since through blood they follow interests, Like us when cruel should be counted wise.

42 His rivals, that his fury used to fear For his loved female, now his faintness shun; But were his season hot, and she but near, (O mighty love!) his hunters were undone.

43 From thence, well blown, he comes to the relay, Where man's famed reason proves but cowardice, And only serves him meanly to betray; Even for the flying, man in ambush lies.

44 But now, as his last remedy to live, (For every shift for life kind Nature makes, Since life the utmost is which she can give,) Cool Adice from the swoln bank he takes.

45 But this fresh bath the dogs will make him leave, Whom he sure-nosed as fasting tigers found; Their scent no north-east wind could e'er deceive Which drives the air, nor flocks that soil the ground.

46 Swift here the fliers and pursuers seem; The frighted fish swim from their Adice, The dogs pursue the deer, he the fleet stream, And that hastes too to the Adriatic sea.

47 Refreshed thus in this fleeting element, He up the steadfast shore did boldly rise; And soon escaped their view, but not their scent, That faithful guide, which even conducts their eyes.

48 This frail relief was like short gales of breath, Which oft at sea a long dead calm prepare; Or like our curtains drawn at point of death, When all our lungs are spent, to give us air.

49 For on the shore the hunters him attend: And whilst the chase grew warm as is the day, (Which now from the hot zenith does descend,) He is embossed, and wearied to a bay.

50 The jewel, life, he must surrender here, Which the world's mistress, Nature, does not give, But like dropped favours suffers us to wear, Such as by which pleased lovers think they live.

51 Yet life he so esteems, that he allows It all defence his force and rage can make; And to the eager dogs such fury shows, As their last blood some unrevenged forsake.

52 But now the monarch murderer comes in, Destructive man! whom Nature would not arm, As when in madness mischief is foreseen, We leave it weaponless for fear of harm.

53 For she defenceless made him, that he might Less readily offend; but art arms all, From single strife makes us in numbers fight; And by such art this royal stag did fall.

54 He weeps till grief does even his murderers pierce; Grief which so nobly through his anger strove, That it deserved the dignity of verse, And had it words, as humanly would move.

55 Thrice from the ground his vanquished head he reared, And with last looks his forest walks did view; Where sixty summers he had ruled the herd, And where sharp dittany now vainly grew:

56 Whose hoary leaves no more his wounds shall heal; For with a sigh (a blast of all his breath) That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal, And with their bugle-horns they wind his death.

57 Then with their annual wanton sacrifice, Taught by old custom, whose decrees are vain, And we, like humorous antiquaries, that prize Age, though deformed, they hasten to the plain.

58 Thence homeward bend as westward as the sun, Where Gondibert's allies proud feasts prepare, That day to honour which his grandsire won; Though feasts the eyes to funerals often are.

59 One from the forest now approached their sight, Who them did swiftly on the spur pursue; One there still resident as day and night, And known as the eldest oak which in it grew:

60 Who, with his utmost breath advancing, cries, (And such a vehemence no heart could feign,) 'Away! happy the man that fastest flies! Fly, famous Duke! fly with thy noble train!'

61 The Duke replied: 'Though with thy fears disguised, Thou dost my sire's old ranger's image bear, And for thy kindness shalt not be despised; Though counsels are but weak which come from fear.

62 'Were dangers here, great as thy love can shape, And love with fear can danger multiply, Yet when by flight thou bidst us meanly 'scape, Bid trees take wings, and rooted forests fly.'

63 Then said the ranger: 'You are bravely lost!' (And like high anger his complexion rose.) 'As little know I fear as how to boast; But shall attend you through your many foes.

64 'See where in ambush mighty Oswald lay! And see, from yonder lawn he moves apace, With lances armed to intercept thy way, Now thy sure steeds are wearied with the chase.

65 'His purple banners you may there behold, Which, proudly spread, the fatal raven bear; And full five hundred I by rank have told, Who in their gilded helms his colours wear.'

66 The Duke this falling storm does now discern; Bids little Hugo fly! but 'tis to view The foe, and timely their first count'nance learn, Whilst firm he in a square his hunters drew.

67 And Hugo soon, light as his courser's heels, Was in their faces troublesome as wind; And like to it so wingedly he wheels, No one could catch, what all with trouble find.

68 But everywhere the leaders and the led He temperately observed with a slow sight; Judged by their looks how hopes and fears were fed, And by their order their success in fight.

69 Their number, 'mounting to the ranger's guess, In three divisions evenly was disposed; And that their enemies might judge it less, It seemed one gross with all the spaces closed.

70 The van fierce Oswald led, where Paradine And manly Dargonet, both of his blood, Outshined the noon, and their minds' stock within Promised to make that outward glory good.

71 The next, bold, but unlucky Hubert led, Brother to Oswald, and no less allied To the ambitions which his soul did wed; Lowly without, but lined with costly pride.

72 Most to himself his valour fatal was, Whose glories oft to others dreadful were; So comets, though supposed destruction's cause, But waste themselves to make their gazers fear.

73 And though his valour seldom did succeed, His speech was such as could in storms persuade; Sweet as the hopes on which starved lovers feed, Breathed in the whispers of a yielding maid.

74 The bloody Borgio did conduct the rear, Whom sullen Vasco heedfully attends; To all but to themselves they cruel were, And to themselves chiefly by mischief friends.

75 War, the world's art, nature to them became; In camps begot, born, and in anger bred; The living vexed till death, and then their fame, Because even fame some life is to the dead.

76 Cities, wise statesmen's folds for civil sheep, They sacked, as painful shearers of the wise; For they like careful wolves would lose their sleep, When others' prosperous toils might be their prize.

77 Hugo amongst these troops spied many more, Who had, as brave destroyers, got renown; And many forward wounds in boast they wore, Which, if not well revenged, had ne'er been shown.

78 Such the bold leaders of these lancers were, Which of the Brescian veterans did consist; Whose practised age might charge of armies bear, And claim some rank in Fame's eternal list.

79 Back to his Duke the dexterous Hugo flies, What he observed he cheerfully declares; With noble pride did what he liked despise; For wounds he threatened whilst he praised their scars.

80 Lord Arnold cried, 'Vain is the bugle-horn, Where trumpets men to manly work invite! That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.'

81 'Those beasts are hunted hard that hard can fly,' Replied aloud the noble Hurgonil; 'But we, not used to flight, know best to die; And those who know to die, know how to kill.

82 'Victors through number never gained applause; If they exceed our count in arms and men, It is not just to think that odds, because One lover equals any other ten.'

FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO IV.

1 The King, who never time nor power misspent In subject's bashfulness, whiling great deeds Like coward councils, who too late consent, Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds:

2 'If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, I would, as an example drawn for kings, Proclaim the cause why thou art now my choice.

* * * * *

3 'For she is yours, as your adoption free; And in that gift my remnant life I give; But 'tis to you, brave youth! who now are she; And she that heaven where secondly I live.

4 'And richer than that crown, which shall be thine When life's long progress I have gone with fame, Take all her love; which scarce forbears to shine, And own thee, through her virgin curtain, shame.'

5 Thus spake the king; and Rhodalind appeared Through published love, with so much bashfulness, As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, Moaning to favourite ears a deep distress.

6 For love is a distress, and would be hid Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bashful grow; And in that shame beholders they forbid; Since those blush most, who most their blushes show.

7 And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve At her vailed love, a wound he cannot heal, As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve The virtuous, when through shame they want conceal.

8 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay; Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, But that attendant hope persuades her stay A while, to hear her Duke; who thus replied:

9 'Victorious King! abroad your subjects are, Like legates, safe; at home like altars free! Even by your fame they conquer, as by war; And by your laws safe from each other be.

10 'A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, And brag to strangers of their happy lives.

11 'To foes a winter storm; whilst your friends bow, Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load; To me, next him whom your great self, with low And cheerful duty, serves, a giving God.

12 'Since this is you, and Rhodalind, the light By which her sex fled virtue find, is yours, Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight, The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures;

13 'Since she so precious is, I shall appear All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; And never dare approach her lustre near, Who scarce can hold my value in the shade.

14 'Forgive me that I am not what I seem; But falsely have dissembled an excess Of all such virtues as you most esteem; But now grow good but as I ills confess.

15 'Far in ambition's fever am I gone! Like raging flame aspiring is my love; Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, Does round the world tow'rds change of objects move.

16 'Nor is this now through virtuous shame confessed; But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, As men whom evil spirits have possessed, Tell all when saintly votaries appear.

17 'When she will grace the bridal dignity, It will be soon to all young monarchs known; Who then by posting through the world will try Who first can at her feet present his crown.

18 'Then will Verona seem the inn of kings, And Rhodalind shall at her palace gate Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; Who for that smile would as for empire wait.

19 'Amongst this ruling race she choice may take For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind, Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, In storms look out, in darkness dangers find;

20 'A prince who more enlarges power than lands, Whose greatness is not what his map contains; But thinks that his where he at full commands, Not where his coin does pass, but power remains.

21 'Who knows that power can never be too high; When by the good possessed, for 'tis in them The swelling Nile, from which though people fly, They prosper most by rising of the stream.

22 'Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find, Even he, since men are wolves, must civilise, As light does tame some beasts of savage kind, Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes.'

23 Such was the Duke's reply; which did produce Thoughts of a diverse shape through several ears: His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse; But Astragon it cures of all his fears,

24 Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails; And now her hope a weak physician seems; For hope, the common comforter, prevails Like common medicines, slowly in extremes.

25 The King (secure in offered empire) takes This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness, And a disguise which sudden passion makes, To hide more joy than prudence should express.

26 And Rhodalind, who never loved before, Nor could suspect his love was given away, Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor, But that it might his debts of honour pay.

27 To hasten the rewards of his desert, The King does to Verona him command; And, kindness so imposed, not all his art Can now instruct his duty to withstand.

28 Yet whilst the King does now his time dispose In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, He would a parting kindness pay to those Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown.

29 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the King Lord Astragon through all the house attends, Young Orgo does the Duke to Birtha bring, Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends:

30 'Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? Destroying wholly virtue's race in one: So by the first of my unlucky sex, All in a single ruin were undone.

31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know That virtuous men forsake so willingly Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go.

32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, Which if your pity in my fall procures, I still shall value the advancement high, Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.'

33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense.

34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; Not taken from the Attic silver mine, Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine:

35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time.

36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male Progenitors, was to the loyal she On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee:

37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, And that the emerald is the bridal stone:

38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, And will, when worn by the neglected wife, Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, By faintness, and a pale decay of life.

39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep.

40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, Who may in all your kinder fears be sent To watch at court, if I deserve to die By making this to fade, and you lament.'

41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, He must have fancied first, in early dawn, A sudden break of beauty out of night.

42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, A rosy morn begin a sudden spring.

43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown?

44 'Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, Boldly aspire to take what you have given? But that your virtue has with angels place, And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heaven.

45 'And as towards heaven all travel on their knees, So I towards you, though love aspire, will move: And were you crowned, what could you better please Then awed obedience led by bolder love?

46 'If I forget the depth from whence I rise, Far from your bosom banished be my heart; Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes; Or proudly think my chastity desert.

47 'But thus ascending from your humble maid To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, Till time my duty cancel with my life.

48 'And fruitfully, if heaven e'er make me bring Your image to the world, you then my pride No more shall blame than you can tax the spring For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide.

49 'Orgo I so receive as I am taught By duty to esteem whate'er you love; And hope the joy he in this jewel brought Will luckier than his former triumphs prove.

50 'For though but twice he has approached my sight, He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: But now I am above his planet's spite, And as for sin beg pardon for my fears.'

51 Thus spake she: and with fixed, continued sight The Duke did all her bashful beauties view; Then they with kisses sealed their sacred plight, Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew.

52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste:

53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall.

54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, And bids her hope he with the King shall find, By now appearing forward to obey, A means to serve him less in Rhodalind.

55 She weeping to her closet window hies, Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, When they through curtains spy the rising day.

DR HENRY KING.

Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in 1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is pretty in execution.

SIC VITA.

Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot: The flight is past--and man forgot.

SONG.

1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, Which like growing fountains rise To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks Would better flow in furrowed looks: Thy lovely face was never meant To be the shore of discontent.

2 Then clear those waterish stars again, Which else portend a lasting rain; Lest the clouds which settle there Prolong my winter all the year, And thy example others make In love with sorrow, for thy sake.

LIFE.

1 What is the existence of man's life But open war or slumbered strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements, And never feels a perfect peace Till death's cold hand signs his release.

2 It is a storm--where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood: And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats the bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave.

3 It is a flower--which buds, and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep, Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enrolled.

4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth Is moralised in age and youth; Where all the comforts he can share As wandering as his fancies are, Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away.

5 It is a dial--which points out The sunset as it moves about; And shadows out in lines of night The subtle stages of Time's flight, Till all-obscuring earth hath laid His body in perpetual shade.

6 It is a weary interlude-- Which doth short joys, long woes, include: The world the stage, the prologue tears; The acts vain hopes and varied fears; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but Death!

JOHN CHALKHILL.

This author was of the age of Spenser, and is said to have been an acquaintance and friend of that poet. It was not, however, till 1683 that good old Izaak Walton published 'Thealma and Clearchus,' a pas- toral romance, which, he stated, had been written long since by John Chalkhill, Esq. He says of the author, 'that he was in his time a man generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging in his behaviour--a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent, and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Some have suspected that this production proceeded from the pen of Walton himself. This, however, is rendered extremely unlikely--first, by the fact that Walton, when he printed 'Thealma,' was ninety years of age; and, secondly, by the difference in style and purpose between that poem and Walton's avowed productions. The mind of Walton was quietly ingenious; that of the author of 'Thealma' is adventurous and fantastic. Walton loved 'the green pastures and the still waters' of the Present; the other, the golden groves and ideal wildernesses of the Golden Age in the Past.

'Thealma and Clearchus' may be called an 'Arcadia' in rhyme. It resembles that work of Sir Philip Sidney, not only in subject, but in execution. Its plot is dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its characters are mere shadows. But although a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings beautifully before our imagination that early period in the world's history, in which poets and painters have taught us to believe, when the heavens were nearer, the skies clearer, the fat of the earth richer, the foam of the sea brighter, than in our degenerate days;--when shepherds, reposing under broad, umbrageous oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the groves the shadow of angels, and on the mountain-summits the descending footsteps of God. Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, perhaps Shelley most, in the ideality of his conception, the enthusiasm of his spirit, and the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagination.

ARCADIA.

Arcadia, was of old, a state, Subject to none but their own laws and fate; Superior there was none, but what old age And hoary hairs had raised; the wise and sage, Whose gravity, when they are rich in years, Begat a civil reverence more than fears In the well-mannered people; at that day, All was in common, every man bare sway O'er his own family; the jars that rose Were soon appeased by such grave men as those: This mine and thine, that we so cavil for, Was then not heard of; he that was most poor Was rich in his content, and lived as free As they whose flocks were greatest; nor did he Envy his great abundance, nor the other Disdain the low condition of his brother, But lent him from his store to mend his state, And with his love he quits him, thanks his fate; And, taught by his example, seeks out such As want his help, that they may do as much. Their laws, e'en from their childhood, rich and poor Had written in their hearts, by conning o'er The legacies of good old men, whose memories Outlive their monuments, the grave advice They left behind in writing;--this was that That made Arcadia then so blest a state; Their wholesome laws had linked them so in one, They lived in peace and sweet communion. Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, And that crowned all their plans with merriment. They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, All was their own they had, they paid no rents; Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; On unbought delicates their hunger fed, And for their drink the swelling clusters bled; The valleys rang with their delicious strains, And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; Content and labour gave them length of days, And peace served in delight a thousand ways.

THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS.

Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, And locked their traces to the crooked beam, When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, When forth she leads her tender ewes.

* * * * *

Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, From whence the dew in silver drops distils To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan That there frequented;) gently on it glides, And makes indentures in her crooked sides, And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when His self-love made him cease to live with men. Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, Where swains of old sang stories of their love, But unfrequented now since Colin died-- Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, Under the friendly shadow of a beech She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense. With folded arms she sat, as if she meant To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank Her for those briny showers, and in lieu Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew.

* * * * *

'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, Or souls departed condescend so low, To sympathise with mortals in their woe, Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee. What privilege have they that are born great Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat With more impetuousness upon high lands, Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; Even their contempt doth make them live secure. Had I been born the child of some poor swain, Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: Love and content had been my music's themes; Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, I had been blest!'

PRIESTESS OF DIANA.

Within a little silent grove hard by, Upon a small ascent, he might espy A stately chapel, richly gilt without, Beset with shady sycamores about: And ever and anon he might well hear A sound of music steal in at his ear As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air Would strike a syren mute.--

* * * * *

A hundred virgins there he might espy Prostrate before a marble deity, Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be The image of Diana; on their knee They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. Their garments all alike; beneath their paps Buckled together with a silver claps, And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er. Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, Crowned with a silver crescent on the top. A silver bow their left hand held, their right, For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied In silken cords, and fastened to their side. Under their vestments, something short before, White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore. It was a catching sight for a young eye, That love had fired before. He might espy One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned. He could not see her face, only his ear Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her.

THEALMA IN FULL DRESS.

----Tricked herself in all her best attire, As if she meant this day to invite desire To fall in love with her; her loose hair Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound. Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, And on her breast a costly gem she wears, An adamant, in fashion like a heart, Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, With this same motto graven round about, On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.' This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, At tilt his valour won her for his own. Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore A pair of golden shackles, chained before Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, Whereon in golden letters to the view This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,' And in a true-love's knot, a T and C Buckled it fast together; her silk gown Of grassy green, in equal plaits hung down Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow In a green field; and as the wind did blow, Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, And blushing seems to hide it in the grass: And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew. Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green In equal distance spangeled between, And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, Through which her workmanship more graceful showed.

DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA.

Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun From prying into the actions there done; Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, And hateful elder that in thickets grew, Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night. The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, Where milky hedgehogs nurse their prickly cubs: And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, The adder, and the snake, make their abode. Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: She knew Anaxus was to go to court, And, envying virtue, she made it her sport To hinder him, sending her airy spies Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, As would have fired a hermit's chill desires Into a flame; his greedy eye admires The more than human beauty of her face, And much ado he had to shun the grace; Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, That he was once about in vain to prove Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, But he bethought him of his herb, and so The shadow vanished; many a weary step It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, Until it brought him by a hellish power Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, Where underneath an elder-tree he spied His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate Betid his master; they were newly sate When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze. He called him by his name, but all in vain, Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, And smelling to his herb, he recollects His wandering spirits, and with anger checks His coward fears; resolved now to outdare The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye Found some addition to deformity. An old decrepit hag she was, grown white With frosty age, and withered with despite And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, And on her head a thrummy cap she had. Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes,

Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes Into disorder; on her furrowed brow One might perceive Time had been long at plough. Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: And in the darkest night like fire they shined, The ever-open windows of her mind. Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums. Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair Grew on her upper lip, and here and there A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; Her breasts shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand She always carried her enchanting wand. Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, Nature had that most exquisitely strung, Her oily language came so smoothly from her, And her quaint action did so well become her, Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, But chained the dull'st attention to her lips. With greediness he heard, and though he strove To shake her off, the more her words did move. She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, And with fair promises she quickly won Him to her beck; or rather he, to try What she could do, did willingly comply, With her request. * * * Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock By more than human art; she did not knock, The door stood always open, large and wide, Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines. Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. They served instead of tapers to give light To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance Might bring to light her follies: in they went, The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set With precious stones, and all the roof was fret With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; This Art had made of rubies, clustered so, To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; About the wall lascivious pictures hung, Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. On either side a crew of dwarfish elves Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; Their rich attire so differing; yet so well Becoming her that wore it, none could tell Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. After a low salute they all 'gan sing, And circle in the stranger in a ring. Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. He had forgot his herb: cunning delight Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, And captivated all his senses so, That he was not himself; nor did he know What place he was in, or how he came there, But greedily he feeds his eye and ear With what would ruin him;-- * * * * * Next unto his view She represents a banquet, ushered in By such a shape as she was sure would win His appetite to taste; so like she was To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; So voiced, so habited, of the same gait And comely gesture; on her brow in state Sat such a princely majesty, as he Had noted in Clarinda; save that she Had a more wanton eye, that here and there Rolled up and down, not settling any where. Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, That he was all on fire the truth to know, Whether she was the same she did appear, Or whether some fantastic form it were, Fashioned in his imagination By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, Even with her shadow, to express his love.

CATHARINE PHILLIPS.

Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in 1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox --then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure and the stature of lofty poetry,

THE INQUIRY.

1 If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame But poetry or wit; Yet what's revered by minds so pure Must be a bright idea sure.

2 But as our immortality By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be, It would not be designed: So here how could such copies fall, If there were no original?

3 But if truth be in ancient song, Or story we believe; If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive; There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave.

4 Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade. Why, having filled the world with fame, Left you so little of your flame?

5 Why is't so difficult to see Two bodies and one mind? And why are those who else agree So difficultly kind? Hath Nature such fantastic art, That she can vary every heart?

6 Why are the bands of friendship tied With so remiss a knot, That by the most it is defied, And by the most forgot? Why do we step with so light sense From friendship to indifference?

7 If friendship sympathy impart, Why this ill-shuffled game, That heart can never meet with heart, Or flame encounter flame? What does this cruelty create? Is't the intrigue of love or fate?

8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men, (The ghost at last confessed) The world had then a stranger been To all that heaven possessed. But could it all be here acquired, Not heaven itself would be desired.

A FRIEND.

1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, The being and the harmony of things, Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, From whence man's happiness and safety springs: The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw From her alone their universal law.

2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, The next to angels' love, if not the same, As strong in passion is, though not so gross: It antedates a glad eternity, And is an heaven in epitome.

* * * * *

3 Essential honour must be in a friend, Not such as every breath fans to and fro; But born within, is its own judge and end, And dares not sin though sure that none should know. Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; For none can be a friend that is not good.

* * * * *

4 Thick waters show no images of things; Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, And free from clouds, design, or flattery. For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; Poets and friends are born to what they are.

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.

This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Phillips, was considerably more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maid-of-honour to Henrietta Maria. Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled 'Poems and Fancies.' The pair aided each other in their studies, and the result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was restored, the Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairy-land.' Her poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, present fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the change of her subject and her tone of feeling require.

MELANCHOLY DESCRIBED BY MIRTH.

Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; She hates the light, and is in darkness found; Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, Which various shadows make against the wall. She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone; The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; A mill, where rushing waters run about; The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, She loves to live, and there alone she dwells.

MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF.

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; My music is the buzzing of a fly; I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone; Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, Not filled with cares how riches to increase; I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. Thus am I solitary, live alone, Yet better loved, the more that I am known; And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, After acquaintance, it will give delight. Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; Maintain your credit and your dignity.

THOMAS STANLEY.

Thomas Stanley, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his poetical. He was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1620. He received his education at Pembroke College, Oxford; and after travelling for some years abroad, he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the 'Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled 'The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have been better employed in original composition than in translation. His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678.

CELIA SINGING.

1 Roses in breathing forth their scent, Or stars their borrowed ornament; Nymphs in their watery sphere that move, Or angels in their orbs above; The winged chariot of the light, Or the slow, silent wheels of night; The shade which from the swifter sun Doth in a swifter motion run, Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep.

2 But if the angel which inspires This subtle flame with active fires, Should mould this breath to words, and those Into a harmony dispose, The music of this heavenly sphere Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, And into plants and stones infuse A life that cherubim would choose, And with new powers invert the laws of fate, Kill those that live, and dead things animate.

SPEAKING AND KISSING.

1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, Into my soul like lightning flies; My life retires while thou dost speak, And thy soft breath its room supplies.

2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, I join my trembling lips to thine, And back receive that life from thee Which I so gladly did resign.

3 Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire What numbers do the soul compose; No harmony can life inspire, But that which from these accents flows.

LA BELLE CONFIDANTE.

You earthly souls that court a wanton flame Whose pale, weak influence Can rise no higher than the humble name And narrow laws of sense, Learn, by our friendship, to create An immaterial fire, Whose brightness angels may admire, But cannot emulate. Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, Or make the lilies fade, But all the subtle ways that death doth seek Cannot my love invade.

THE LOSS.

1 Yet ere I go, Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be So wretched as to know What joys thou fling'st away with me.

2 A faith so bright, As Time or Fortune could not rust; So firm, that lovers might Have read thy story in my dust,

3 And crowned thy name With laurel verdant as thy youth, Whilst the shrill voice of Fame Spread wide thy beauty and my truth.

4 This thou hast lost, For all true lovers, when they find That my just aims were crossed, Will speak thee lighter than the wind.

5 And none will lay Any oblation on thy shrine, But such as would betray Thy faith to faiths as false as thine.

6 Yet, if thou choose On such thy freedom to bestow, Affection may excuse, For love from sympathy doth flow.

NOTE ON ANACREON.

Let's not rhyme the hours away; Friends! we must no longer play: Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites To more ravishing delights. Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, Nor his fiddle longer follow: Fie upon his forked hill, With his fiddlestick and quill; And the Muses, though they're gamesome, They are neither young nor handsome; And their freaks in sober sadness Are a mere poetic madness: Pegasus is but a horse; He that follows him is worse. See, the rain soaks to the skin, Make it rain as well within. Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, All night revel, rant, and quaff; Till the morn, stealing behind us, At the table sleepless find us. When our bones, alas! shall have A cold lodging in the grave; When swift Death shall overtake us, We shall sleep and none can wake us. Drink we then the juice o' the vine Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; Bacchus, our debauch beholding, By thy image I am moulding, Whilst my brains I do replenish With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; By thy full-branched ivy twine; By this sparkling glass of wine; By thy Thyrsus so renowned: By the healths with which th' art crowned; By the feasts which thou dost prize; By thy numerous victories; By the howls by Moenads made; By this haut-gout carbonade; By thy colours red and white; By the tavern, thy delight; By the sound thy orgies spread; By the shine of noses red; By thy table free for all; By the jovial carnival; By thy language cabalistic; By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; By thy mystic set of ranters; By thy never-tamed panthers; By this sweet, this fresh and free air; By thy goat, as chaste as we are; By thy fulsome Cretan lass; By the old man on the ass; By thy cousins in mixed shapes; By the flower of fairest grapes; By thy bisks famed far and wide; By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; By thy incense, Indian smoke; By the joys thou dost provoke; By this salt Westphalia gammon; By these sausages that inflame one; By thy tall majestic flagons; By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; By this olive's unctuous savour; By this orange, the wine's flavour; By this cheese o'errun with mites; By thy dearest favourites; To thy frolic order call us, Knights of the deep bowl install us; And to show thyself divine, Never let it want for wine.

ANDREW MARVELL.

This noble-minded patriot and poet, the friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a dark and corrupt age,--'faithful found among the faithless, faithful only he,'--was born in Hull in 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said there to have nearly fallen a victim to the proselytising Jesuits, who enticed him to London. His father, however, a clergyman in Hull, went in search of and brought him back to his university, where speedily, by extensive culture and the vigorous exercise of his powerful faculties, he emancipated himself for ever from the dominion, and the danger of the dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We know little more about the early days of our poet. When only twenty, he lost his father in remarkable circumstances. In 1640, he had embarked on the Humber in company with a youthful pair whom he was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather was calm; but Marvell, seized with a sudden presentiment of danger, threw his staff ashore, and cried out, 'Ho for heaven!' A storm came on, and the whole company perished. In consequence of this sad event, the gentleman, whose daughter was to have been married, conceiving that the father had sacrificed his life while performing an act of friendship, adopted young Marvell as his son. Owing to this, he received a better education, and was sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome he met and formed a friendship with Milton, then engaged on his immortal continental tour. We find Marvell next at Constantinople, as Secretary to the English Embassy at that Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, when he was engaged by the Protector to superintend the education of a Mr Dutton at Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's death, Marvell assisted Milton as Latin Secretary to the Protector. Our readers are all familiar with the print of Cromwell and Milton seated together at the council-table, --the one the express image of active power and rugged grandeur, the other of thoughtful majesty and ethereal grace. Marvell might have been added as a third, and become the emblem of strong English sense and incorruptible integrity. A letter of Milton's was, not long since, discovered, dated February 1652, in which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his knowledge of Latin and his experience of teaching, to be his assistant. He was not appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660, he became member for Hull, and was re-elected as long as he lived. He was absent, however, from England for two years, in the beginning of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- wards he sought leave from his constituents to act as Ambassador's Secretary to Lord Carlisle at the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 to his death, his attention to his parliamentary duties was unremitting. He constantly corresponded with his constituents; and after the longest sittings, he used to write out for their use a minute account of public proceedings ere he went to bed, or took any refreshment. He was one of the last members who received pay from the town he represented; (2s. a-day was probably the sum;) and his constituents were wont, besides, to send him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. Marvell spoke little in the House; but his heart and vote were always in the right place. Even Prince Eupert continually consulted him, and was sometimes persuaded by him to support the popular side; and King Charles having met him once in private, was so delighted with his wit and agreeable manners, that he thought him worth trying to bribe. He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark of his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who was seated in a dingy room up several flights of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, called his servant to witness that he had dined for three successive days on the same shoulder of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to care for or need a bribe. When the Treasurer was gone, he had to send to a friend to borrow a guinea. Although, a silent senator, Marvell was a copious and popular writer. He attacked Bishop Parker for his slavish principles, in a piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' in which he takes occasion to vindicate and panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His anonymous 'Account of the Growth of Arbitrary Power and Popery in England' excited a sensation, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the author and printer. Marvell had many of the elements of a first-rate political pamphleteer. He had wit of a most pungent kind, great though coarse fertility of fancy, and a spirit of independence that nothing could subdue or damp. He was the undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this kind of authorship reached its perfection, ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical rank.

Marvell had been repeatedly threatened with assassination, and hence, when he died suddenly on the 16th of August 1678, it was surmised that he had been removed by poison. The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to defray his funeral expenses, and for raising a monument to his memory; but owing to the interference of the Court, through the rector of the parish, this votive tablet was not at the time erected. He was buried in St Giles-in-the-Fields.

'Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' saith the Hebrew record. And so from the sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such soft and lovely strains as 'The Emigrants,' 'The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn,' 'Young Love,' &c. The statue of Memnon became musical at the dawn; and the stern patriot, whom no bribe could buy and no flattery melt, is found sympathising in song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in the remote Bermudas, and inditing 'Thoughts in a Garden,' from which you might suppose that he had spent his life more with melons than with men, and was better acquainted with the motions of a bee-hive than with the contests of Parliament, and the distractions of a most distracted age. It was said (not with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could cut out a Colossus from a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones--a task which his assistant may be said to have performed in his stead, in his small but delectable copies of verse.

THE EMIGRANTS.

1 Where the remote Bermudas ride, In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along, The listening winds received this song.

2 'What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own!

3 'Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, That lift the deep upon their backs; He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates' rage.

4 'He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air.

5 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night: * * * * * And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name.

6 'Oh, let our voice his praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay.'

7 Thus sung they in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death to them do any good. I'm sure I never wished them ill; Nor do I for all this; nor will: But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears, Rather than fail. But, O my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of every thing, And nothing may we use in vain: Even beasts must be with justice slain.

* * * * *

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then: I'm sure I do. Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. This waxed tame while he grew wild, And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this, and very well content Could so my idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart; and did invite Me to its game; it seemed to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me! Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at my own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than they: It had so sweet a breath; and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say, than my hand? Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness, And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid; Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within. * * *

ON PARADISE LOST.

When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, In slender book his vast design unfold, Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree, Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument Held me a while misdoubting his intent, That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) The sacred truths to fable and old song; (So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite) The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

Yet as I read, still growing less severe, I liked his project, the success did fear; Through that wild field how he his way should find, O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite be spanned, Jealous I was that some less skilful hand (Such as disquiet always what is well, And, by ill imitating, would excel) Might hence presume the whole creation's day To change in scenes, and show it in a play.

Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. But I am now convinced, and none will dare Within thy labours to pretend a share. Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit. And all that was improper dost omit; So that no room is here for writers left, But to detect their ignorance or theft.

That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane. And things divine thou treat'st of in such state As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; And above human flight dost soar aloft With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. The bird named from that Paradise you sing, So never flags, but always keeps on wing.

Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight.

Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: Their fancies like our bushy points appear; The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. I too, transported by the mode, offend, And while I meant to praise thee, must commend. Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime, In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.

1 How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays! And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose.

2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

3 No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.

4 What wondrous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head. The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine. The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach. Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

5 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness. The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

6 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

7 Such was the happy garden state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises are in one, To live in paradise alone.

8 How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?

SATIRE ON HOLLAND.

Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but the offscouring of the British sand; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots when they heaved the lead; Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; This indigested vomit of the sea Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: And dived as desperately for each piece Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away; Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; And to the stake a struggling country bound, Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; Building their watery Babel far more high To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. Yet still his claim the injured Ocean laid, And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; As if on purpose it on land had come To show them what's their _mare liberum_. A daily deluge over them does boil; The earth and water play at level-coil. The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; Or, as they over the new level ranged, For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, Would throw their land away at duck and drake, Therefore necessity, that first made kings, Something like government among them brings. For, as with Pigmies, who best kills the crane, Among the hungry he that treasures grain, Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, So rules among the drowned he that drains. Not who first see the rising sun commands, But who could first discern the rising lands. Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, Him they their lord, and country's father, speak. To make a bank was a great plot of state; Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. Hence some small dikegrave unperceived invades The power, and grows, as 'twere, a king of spades; But, for less envy some joined states endures, Who look like a commission of the sewers: For these half-anders, half-wet and half-dry, Nor bear strict service, nor pure liberty. 'Tis probable religion, after this, Came next in order; which they could not miss. How could the Dutch but be converted, when The apostles were so many fishermen? Besides, the waters of themselves did rise, And, as their land, so them did re-baptize; Though herring for their God few voices missed, And Poor-John to have been the Evangelist. Faith, that could never twins conceive before, Never so fertile, spawned upon this shore More pregnant than their Marg'ret, that laid down For Hands-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. Sure, when religion did itself embark, And from the east would westward steer its ark, It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, Each one thence pillaged the first piece he found: Hence Amsterdam, Turk, Christian, Pagan, Jew, Staple of sects, and mint of schism grew; That bank of conscience, where not one so strange Opinion, but finds credit, and exchange. In vain for Catholics ourselves we bear: The universal church is only there. * * *

IZAAK WALTON.

This amiable enemy of the finny tribe was born in Stafford, in August 1593. We hear of him first as settled in London, following the trade of a sempster, or linen-draper, having a shop in the Royal Burse, in Cornhill, which was 'seven feet and a half long, and five wide,' and where he became possessed of a moderate fortune. He spent his leisure time in fishing 'with honest Nat and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, he removed to Fleet Street, where he had 'one half of a shop,' a hosier occupying the other half. In 1632, he married Anne, the daughter of Thomas Ken of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, the celebrated Bishop of Bath and Wells. Through her and her kindred, he became acquainted with many eminent men of the day. His wife, 'a woman of remarkable prudence and primitive piety,' died long before him. He retired from business in 1643, and lived, for forty years after, a life of leisure and quiet enjoyment, spending much of his time in the houses of his friends, and much of it by the still waters, which he so dearly loved. Walton commenced his literary career by writing a Life of Dr Donne, and followed with another of Sir Henry Wotton, prefixed to his literary remains. In 1653 appeared his 'Complete Angler,' four editions of which were called for before his decease. He wrote, in 1662, a Life of Richard Hooker; in 1670, a Life of George Herbert; and, in 1678, a Life of Bishop Sanderson--all distinguished by _naivete_ and heart. In 1680, he published an anonymous discourse on the 'Distempers of the Times.' In 1683, he printed, as we have seen, Chalkhill's 'Thealma and Clearchus;' and on the 15th of December in the same year, he died at Winchester, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, Prebendary of Winchester Cathedral.

Walton is one of the most loveable of all authors. Your admiration of him is always melting into affection. Red as his and is with the blood of fish, you pant to grasp it and press it to yours. You go with him to the fishing as you would with a bright-eyed boy, relishing his simple-hearted enthusiasm, and leaning down to listen to his precocious remarks, and to pat his curly head. It is the prevalence of the childlike element which makes Walton's 'Angler' rank with Bunyan's 'Pilgrim,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and White's 'Natural History of Selborne,' as among the most delightful books in the language. Its descriptions of nature, too, are so fresh, that you smell to them as to a green leaf. Walton would not have been at home fishing in the Forth or Clyde, or in such rivers as are found in Norway, the milk-blue Logen, or the grass- green Rauma, uniting, with its rich mediation, Romsdale Horn to the tremendous Witch-Peaks which lower on the opposite side of the valley; --the waters of his own dear England, going softly and somewhat drowsily on their path, are the sources of his inspiration, and seem to sound like the echoes of his own subdued but gladsome spirit. Johnson defined angling as a rod with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; in Walton's case, we may correct the expression to 'a rod with a fish at one end, and a fine old fellow--the "ae best fellow in the world"--at the other'--

'In wit a man, simplicity a child.'

We have given a specimen of the verse he intersperses sparingly in a book which _is itself a complete poem._

THE ANGLER'S WISH.

1 I in these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me, To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice: Sit here and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

2 Or on that bank feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty: please my mind To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers! Here hear my Kenna sing a song, There see a blackbird feed her young,

3 Or a leverock build her nest: Here give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love; Or, with my Bryan[1] and my book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook:

4 There sit by him and eat my meat, There see the sun both rise and set, There bid good morning to next day, There meditate my time away, And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to the grave.

[1] Probably his dog.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER

We hear of the Spirit of Evil on one occasion entering into swine, but, if possible, a stranger sight is that of the Spirit of Poesy finding a similar incarnation. Certainly the connexion of genius in the Earl of Rochester with a life of the most degrading and desperate debauchery is one of the chief marvels of this marvellous world.

John Wilmot was the son of Henry, Lord Rochester, and was born April 10, 1647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. He was taught grammar at the school of Burford. He then 'entered a nobleman' into Wadham College, when twelve years old, and at 1661, when only fourteen, he was, in conjunction with some others of rank, made M.A. by Lord Clarendon in person. Pursuing his travels in France and Italy, he went in 1665 to sea with the Earl of Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen in an attack on the Dutch fleet. Next year, while serving under Sir Edward Spragge, his commander sent him in the heat of an engagement with a reproof to one of his captains--a duty which Wilmot gallantly accomplished amidst a storm of shot. With this early courage some of his biographers have contrasted his subsequent reputation for cowardice, his slinking away out of street-quarrels, his refusing to fight the Duke of Buckingham, &c. This diversity at different periods may perhaps be accounted for on the ground of the nervousness which continued dissipation produces, and perhaps from his poetical temperament. A poet, we are persuaded, is often the bravest, and often the most pusillanimous of men. Byron was unquestionably in general a brave, almost a pugnacious man; and yet he confesses that at certain times, had one proceeded to horsewhip him, he would not have had the hardihood to resist. Shelley, who, in a tremendous storm, behaved with dauntless heroism, and who would at any time have acted on the example of his own character in 'Prometheus,' who, in a shipwreck,

'gave an enemy His plank, then plunged aside to die,'

was yet subject to paroxysms of nervous horror, which made him perspire and tremble like a spirit-seeing steed. Rochester had the same temperament, and a similar creed, with these men, although inferior to them both in _morale_ and in genius.

His character was certainly very depraved. He told Burnet on his deathbed that for five years he had not known the sensation of sobriety, having been all that time either totally drunk, or mad through the dregs of drunkenness. He on one occasion, while in this state, erected a stage on Tower Hill, and addressed the mob as a naked mountebank. Even after he became more temperate, he continued and even increased his licentiousness--one devil went out, and seven entered in. He pursued low amours in disguise; he practised occasionally as a quack doctor; and at other times he retired to the country, and, like Byron, amused himself by libelling all his acquaintances--every line in each libel being a lie. Notwithstanding all this, he was a favourite with Charles II., who made him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of Woodstock Park. In his lucid intervals he recurred to his studies, wrote occasional verses, read in French Boileau and in English Cowley, and is called by Wood the best scholar among all the nobility.

At last, ere he was thirty-one, the 'dreary old sort of feel,' and the 'rigid fibre and stiffening limbs,' of which Byron and Burns, when scarcely older, complained, began to assail Rochester. He had exhausted his capacity of enjoyment by excess, and had deprived himself of the consolations of religion by infidelity. His unbelief was not like Shelley's--the growth of his own mind, and the fruit of unbridled, though earnest, speculation;--it was merely a drug which he snatched from the laboratories of others to deaden his remorse, and enable him to look with desperate calmness to the blotted Past and the lowering Future. At this stage of his career, he became acquainted with Bishop Burnet, who has recorded his conversion and edifying end in a book which, says Johnson, 'the critic ought to read for its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety.' To this, after Johnson's example, we refer our readers. Eochester died July 26, 1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year. He was married, and left three daughters and a son named Charles, who did not long survive his father. With him the male line ceased, and the title was conferred on a younger son of Lord Clarendon. His poems appeared in the year of his death, professing on the title-page to be printed at Antwerp. They contain much that is spurious, but some productions that are undoubtedly Rochester's. They are at the best, poor fragmentary exhibitions of a vigorous, but undisciplined mind. His songs are rather easy than lively. His imitations are distinguished by grace and spirit. His 'Nothing' is a tissue of clever conceits, like gaudy weeds growing on a sterile soil, but here and there contains a grand and gloomy image, such as--

'And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.'

His 'Satire against Man' might be praised for its vigorous misanthropy, but is chiefly copied from Boileau.

Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious person, so far as we remember, who assumed the office of the satirist, --the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, while rather inconsistently assailing the faults of others; but here, for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, (his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- misrepresented character,') and whose life was one mass of wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, --becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character. Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed.

SONG.

1 Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye.

2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story.

SONG.

1 My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When with love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

2 Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who was at once uncle and godfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, and took him to his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was taught Latin with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's day, many of what used to be called his 'superstitions' have been established as certain facts, although their explanation is still shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age.

From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, as well as in pecuniary embarassments.

Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorkshire.

Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'--

'My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end.'

This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey.

Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His 'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered a blot upon the poem.

FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE."

Immodest words admit of no defence; For want of decency is want of sense. What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? Variety of such is to be found: Take then a subject proper to expound; But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; For men of sense despise a trivial choice; And such applause it must expect to meet, As would some painter busy in a street, To copy bulls and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: It must delight us when 'tis understood. He that brings fulsome objects to my view, As many old have done, and many new, With nauseous images my fancy fills, And all goes down like oxymel of squills. Instruct the listening world how Maro sings Of useful subjects and of lofty things. These will such true, such bright ideas raise, As merit gratitude, as well as praise: But foul descriptions are offensive still, Either for being like, or being ill: For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, And Horace looks with indignation down: My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, And whom they like implicitly admires.

On sure foundations let your fabric rise, And with attractive majesty surprise; Not by affected meretricious arts, But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; Which through the whole insensibly must pass, With vital heat to animate the mass: A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, The race of gods, have reached that envied height. No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: The grizzly ferryman of hell denied Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. How justly then will impious mortals fall, Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call!

Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. The men who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast: For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. How many ages since has Virgil writ! How few are they who understand him yet! Approach his altars with religious fear: No vulgar deity inhabits there. Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, Than poets should before their Mantuan god. Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse!

What I have instanced only in the best, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; Search every comment that your care can find; Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: The multitude is always in the wrong. When things appear unnatural or hard, Consult your author, with himself compared. Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, And future ages to your labour owe? Such secrets are not easily found out; But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt.

Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; While in your thoughts you find the least debase, You may confound, but never can translate. Your style will this through all disguises show; For none explain more clearly than they know. He only proves he understands a text, Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. They who too faithfully on names insist, Rather create than dissipate the mist; And grow unjust by being over nice, For superstitious virtue turns to vice. Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name.

Words in one language elegantly used, Will hardly in another be excused; And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, May neither suit our genius nor our clime. The genuine sense, intelligibly told, Shows a translator both discreet and bold.

Excursions are inexpiably bad; And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. Abstruse and mystic thought you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. Your author always will the best advise, Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. Affected noise is the most wretched thing, That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. Vowels and accents, regularly placed, On even syllables (and still the last) Though gross innumerable faults abound, In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, But this is meant of even verse alone, As being most harmonious and most known: For if you will unequal numbers try, There accents on odd syllables must lie. Whatever sister of the learned Nine Does to your suit a willing ear incline, Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. But if a wild uncertainty prevail, And turn your veering heart with every gale, You lose the fruit of all your former care, For the sad prospect of a just despair.

A quack, too scandalously mean to name, Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; As if Lucina had forgot her trade, The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. But what a thoughtless animal is man! How very active in his own trepan! For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, From female mellow praise he takes degrees; Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then From saving women falls to killing men. Another such had left the nation thin, In spite of all the children he brought in. His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; And where they fell, as certainly they slew: His name struck everywhere as great a damp, As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; For smarting soundly may convince a fool. But now repentance came too late for grace; And meagre famine stared him in the face: Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, But found no husband left to own a child. The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: In this sad case, what could our vermin do? Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive.

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, Who to your country owe your swords and cares, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For rich ill poets are without excuse; 'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, The profit's small, and you have much to lose; For though true wit adorns your birth or place, Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. No poet any passion can excite, But what they feel transport them when they write. Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: With words not hers, and more than human sound, She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, And man in vain the sacred call withstands, Beware what spirit rages in your breast; For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: Thus make the proper use of each extreme, And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, Your pulse advises, and begins to beat Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: So when a Muse propitiously invites, Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; But when you find that vigorous heat abate, Leave off, and for another summons wait. Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, Appear not meaner than mere human lines, Compared with those whose inspiration shines: These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; Whose lazy waters without motion lay, While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way.

CHARLES COTTON.

Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:--

'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby dilly, with its six insides.'

Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a jointure of L1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at Westminster in 1687.

Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his 'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' (which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet.

INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON.

1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time Has been of many years before;

2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks The dullest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made;

3 Whilst all the ills are so improved Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, We would not now wish with us here:

4 In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this, You, our dear friend, have more repose;

5 And some delight to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again.

6 If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day.

7 We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly.

8 A day with not too bright a beam; A warm, but not a scorching sun; A southern gale to curl the stream; And, master, half our work is done.

9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray, We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, To make the preying trout our prey;

10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry.

11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then--should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream.

A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE.