Chapter 10

In May, as that Aurora did upspring, With crystal een[1] chasing the cluddes sable, I heard a Merle[2] with merry notes sing A song of love, with voice right comfortable, Against the orient beamis, amiable, Upon a blissful branch of laurel green; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 'A lusty life in Love's service been.'

Under this branch ran down a river bright, Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, Against the heavenly azure skyis light, Where did upon the other side pursue A Nightingale, with sugar'd notes new, Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone; This was her song, and of a sentence true, 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

With notes glad, and glorious harmony, This joyful merle, so salust[3] she the day, While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May; Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray, As nature, has her taught, the noble queen, The fields be clothed in a new array; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Than made this merry gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran, Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale; 'O Merle!' quoth she, 'O fool! stint of thy tale, For in thy song good sentence is there none, For both is tint,[4] the time and the travail, Of every love but upon God alone.'

'Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale: Shall folk their youth spend into holiness? Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but[5] fable; Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness, Against the law of kind[6] thou goes express, That crooked age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse: A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild,[7] and every hour, The love of God most dear to man should be; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, And died himself, from death him to succour; Oh, whether was kythit[8] there true love or none? He is most true and steadfast paramour, And love is lost but upon him alone.'

The Merle said, 'Why put God so great beauty In ladies, with such womanly having, But if he would that they should loved be? To love eke nature gave them inclining, And He of nature that worker was and king, Would nothing frustir[9] put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his own making; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoof Put God such beauty in a lady's face, That she should have the thank therefor or love, But He, the worker, that put in her such grace; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space, And every goodness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in every place: All love is lost but upon God alone.'

'O Nightingale! it were a story nice, That love should not depend on charity; And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice, Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me; For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be: God bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen;[10] And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be? A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Bird, why does thou rave? Man may take in his lady such delight, Him to forget that her such virtue gave, And for his heaven receive her colour white: Her golden tressed hairis redomite,[11] Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, Should not him blind from love that is perfite; All love is lost but upon God alone.'

The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye, Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, Love makis knightis hardy at essay, Love makis wretches full of largeness, Love makis sweir[12] folks full of business, Love makis sluggards fresh and well beseen,[13] Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary; Such frustis love it blindis men so far, Into their minds it makis them to vary; In false vain-glory they so drunken are, Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware, Till that all worship away be from them gone, Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well say I dare, All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then said the Merle, 'Mine error I confess: This frustis love is all but vanity: Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, To argue so against the verity; Wherefore I counsel every man that he With love not in the fiendis net be tone,[14] But love the love that did for his love die: All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, 'Man, love God that has thee wrought.' The Nightingale sang, 'Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought.' The Merle said, 'Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.' The Nightingale sang, 'And with his death thee bought: All love is lost but upon him alone.'

Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small; Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,[15] Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail; Me to recomfort most it does avail, Again for love, when love I can find none, To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale; 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

[1] 'Een:' eyes. [2] 'Merle:' blackbird. [3] 'Salust:' saluted. [4] 'Tint:' lost. [5] 'But:' without. [6] 'Kind:' nature. [7] 'Eild:' age. [8] 'Kythit:' shewn. [9] 'Frustrir:' in vain. [10] 'Spleen:' from the heart. [11] 'Redomite:' bound, encircled. [12] 'Sweir:' slothful. [13] 'Well beseen:' of good appearance. [14] 'Tone:' taken. [15] 'Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein:' whose close disputation made my thoughts yearn.

GAVIN DOUGLAS.

This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth Earl of Angus. He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. He studied at the University of Paris. He became a churchman, and yet united with attention to the duties of his calling great proficiency in polite learning. In 1513 he finished a translation, into Scottish verse, of Virgil's 'Aeneid,' which, considering the age, is an extraordinary performance. It occupied him only sixteen months. The multitude of obsolete terms, however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as a whole, illegible. After passing through various subordinate offices, such as the 'Provostship' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the 'Abbotship' of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dunkeld. Dunkeld was not then the paradise it has become, but Birnam hill and the other mountains then, as now, stood round about it, the old Cathedral rose up in mediaeval majesty, and the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to the ocean. And, doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quite as warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, he set up the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar inn, and thence delighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of enchantment which stretch around. The good Bishop was an ardent politician as well as a poet, and was driven, by his share in the troubles of the times, to flee from his native land, and take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The King received him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 he died at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy Church. He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to Rome to vindicate himself before the Pope against certain charges brought by his enemies. Besides the translation of the 'Aeneid,' Douglas is the author of a long poem entitled the 'Palace of Honour;' it is an allegory, describing a large company making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bears considerable resemblance to the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and some suppose that Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 'King Hart' is another production of our poet's, of considerable length and merit. It gives, metaphorically, a view of human life. Perhaps his best pieces are his 'Prologues,' affixed to each book of the 'Aeneid.' From them we have selected 'Morning in May' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine.

'Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c.

Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and grandeur of genius. His power is more in expression than in conception, and hence he has shone so much in translation. His version of the 'Aeneid' is the first made of any classic into a British tongue, and is the worthy progenitor of such minor miracles of poetical talent--all somewhat more mechanical than inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinate glory to our literature-as Fairfax's 'Tasso,' Dryden's 'Virgil,' and Pope's, Coper's, and Sotheby's 'Homer.' The fire in Douglas' original verses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning buried in flowery verbiage. Still he was an honour alike to the Episcopal bench and the Muse of Scotland. He was of amiable manners, gentle temperament, and a noble and commanding appearance.

MORNING IN MAY.

As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of[1] her saffron bed and ivor' house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet[2] the windows of her large hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis crystalline Unwarps broad, the world to illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings,[3] with gold and azure ment;[4] Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis forth his head, Of colour sore,[5] and somedeal brown as berry, For to alighten and glad our hemispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,[6] So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * While shortly, with the blazing torch of day, Abulyit[7] in his lemand[8] fresh array, Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz; For whose hue might none behold his face. * * The aureate vanes of his throne soverain With glittering glance o'erspread the oceane; The large floodes, lemand all of light, But with one blink of his supernal sight. For to behold, it was a glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene, The loune[9] illuminate air and firth amene. * * And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart[10] steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth[11] hues, Wood and forest, obumbrate with bews.[12] * * Towers, turrets, kirnals,[13] and pinnacles high, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city, Stood painted, every fane, phiol,[14] and stage,[15] Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage. Of Aeolus' north blasts having no dreid, The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.[16] * * The prai[17] besprent with springing sprouts disperse For caller humours[18] on the dewy night Rendering some place the gerse-piles[19] their light; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, Submit their heads to the young sun's safeguard. Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all; Forth of fresh bourgeons[20] the wine grapes ying[21] Endlong the trellis did on twistis hing; The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees O'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries; Soft grassy verdure after balmy showers, On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * * The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, And every flower unlapped in the dale. * * Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang; Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet, Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; * * Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. * * A paradise it seemed to draw near These galyard gardens and each green herbere. Most amiable wax the emerald meads; Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds, Over the lochis and the floodis gray, Searching by kind a place where they should lay. Phoebus' red fowl,[22] his cural crest can steer, Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear. Amid the wortis and the rootis gent Picking his meat in alleys where he went, His wives Toppa and Partolet him by-- A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. The painted powne[23] pacing with plumes gym, Cast up his tail a proud pleasand wheel-rim, Yshrouded in his feathering bright and sheen, Shaping the print of Argus' hundred een. Among the bowis of the olive twists, Sere[24] small fowls, working crafty nests, Endlong the hedges thick, and on rank aiks[25] Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes. In corners and clear fenestres[26] of glass, Full busily Arachne weaving was, To knit her nettis and her webbis sly, Therewith to catch the little midge or fly. So dusty powder upstours[27] in every street, While corby gasped for the fervent heat. Under the boughis bene[28] in lovely vales, Within fermance and parkis close of pales, The busteous buckis rakis forth on raw, Herdis of hartis through the thick wood-shaw. The young fawns following the dun does, Kids, skipping through, runnis after roes. In leisurs and on leais, little lambs Full tait and trig sought bleating to their dams. On salt streams wolk[29] Dorida and Thetis, By running strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, Such as we clepe wenches and damasels, In gersy[30] groves wandering by spring wells; Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, Platting their lusty chaplets for their head. Some sang ring-songes, dances, leids,[31] and rounds. With voices shrill, while all thel dale resounds. Whereso they walk into their carolling, For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. One sang, 'The ship sails over the salt faem, Will bring the merchants and my leman hame.' Some other sings, 'I will be blithe and light, My heart is lent upon so goodly wight.'[32] And thoughtful lovers rounis[33] to and fro, To leis[34] their pain, and plain their jolly woe; After their guise, now singing, now in sorrow, With heartis pensive the long summer's morrow. Some ballads list indite of his lady; Some lives in hope; and some all utterly Despaired is, and so quite out of grace, His purgatory he finds in every place. * * Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part, Their blissful lay intoning every art, * * And all small fowlis singis on the spray, Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain, Welcome the birdis' bield[35] upon the brier, Welcome master and ruler of the year, Welcome welfare of husbands at the ploughs, Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and boughs, Welcome depainter of the bloomed meads, Welcome the life of every thing that spreads, Welcome storer of all kind bestial, Welcome be thy bright beamis, gladding all. * *

[1] 'Ished of:' issued from. [2] 'Unshet:' opened. [3] 'Spraings:' streaks. [4] 'Ment:' mingled. [5] 'Sore:' yellowish brown. [6] 'Neisthirls:' nostrils. [7] 'Abulyit:' attired. [8] 'Lemand:' glittering. [9] 'Loune:' calm. [10] 'Sulyart:' sultry. [11] 'Selcouth:' uncommon. [12] 'Bews:' boughs. [13] 'Kirnals:' battlements. [14] 'Phiol:' cupola. [15] 'Stage:' storey. [16] 'Yerd:' earth. [17] 'Prai:' meadow. [18] 'Caller humours:' cool vapours. [19] 'Gerse:' grass. [20] 'Bourgeons:' sprouts. [21] 'Ying:' young. [22] 'Red fowl:' the cook. [23] 'Powne:' the peacock. [24] 'Sere:' many. [25] 'Aiks:' oaks. [26] 'Fenestres:' windows. [27] 'Upstours:' rises in clouds. [28] 'Bene:' snug. [29] 'Wolk:' walked. [30] 'Gersy:' grassy. [31] 'Leids:' lays. [32] Songs then popular. [33] 'Rounis:' whisper. [34] 'Leis:' relieve. [35] 'Bield:' shelter.

HAWES, BARCLAY, &c.

Stephen Hawes, a native of Suffolk, wrote about the close of the fifteenth century. He studied at Oxford, and travelled much in France, where he became a master of French and Italian poetry. King Henry VII., struck with his conversation and the readiness with which he repeated old English poets, especially Lydgate, created him groom of the privy chamber. Hawes has written a number of poems, such as 'The Temple of Glasse,' 'The Conversion of Swearers,' 'The Consolation of Lovers,' 'The Pastime of Pleasure,' &c. Those who wish to see specimens of the strange allegories and curious devices of thought in which it abounds, may find them in Warton's 'History of English Poetry.'

In that same valuable work we find an account of Alexander Barclay, author of 'The Ship of Fools.' He was educated at Oriel College in Oxford, and after travelling abroad, was appointed one of the priests or prebendaries of the College of St Mary Ottery, in Devonshire--a parish famous in later days for the birth of Coleridge. Barclay became afterwards a Benedictine monk of Ely monastery; and at length a brother of the Order of St Francis, at Canterbury. He died, a very old man, at Croydon, in Surrey, in the year 1552. His principal work, 'The Ship of Fools,' is a satire upon the vices and absurdities of his age, and shews considerable wit and power of sarcasm.

SKELTON.

John Skelton is the name of the next poet. He flourished in the earlier part of the reign of Henry VIII. Having studied both at Oxford and Cambridge, and been laureated at the former university in 1489, he was promoted to the rectory of Diss or Dysse, in Norfolk. Some say he had acted previously as tutor to Henry VIII. At Dysse he attracted attention by satirical ballads against the mendicants, as well as by licences of buffoonery in the pulpit. For these he was censured, and even, it is said, suspended, by Nykke, Bishop of Norwich. Undaunted by this, he flew at higher game--ventured to ridicule Cardinal Wolsey, then in his power, and had to take refuge from the myrmidons of the prelate in Westminster Abbey. There Abbot Islip kindly entertained and protected him till his dying day. He breathed his last in the year 1529, and was buried in the adjacent church of St Margaret's.

Skelton as well as Barclay enjoyed considerable popularity in his own age. Erasmus calls him 'Britannicarum literarum lumen et decus!' How dark must have been the night in which such a Will-o'-wisp was mistaken for a star! He has wit, indeed, and satirical observation; but his wit is wilder than it is strong, and his satire is dashed with personality and obscenity. His style, Campbell observes, is 'almost a texture of slang phrases, patched with shreds of French and Latin.' His verses on Margaret Hussey, which we have quoted, are in his happiest vein. The following lines, too, on Cardinal Wolsey, are as true as they are terse:--

'Then in the Chamber of Stars All matter there he mars. Clapping his rod on the board, No man dare speak a word. For he hath all the saying, Without any renaying. He rolleth in his records; He sayeth, How say ye, my Lords? Is not my reason good? Good even, good Robin Hood. Some say, Yes; and some Sit still, as they were dumb.'

It is curious that Wolsey's enemies, in one of their charges against him in the Parliament of 1529, have repeated, almost in the words of Skelton, the same accusation.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything, Far, far passing, That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought. Far may be sought, Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower.

SIR DAVID LYNDSAY.

Returning to Scotland, we find a Skelton of a higher order and a brawnier make in Sir David Lyndsay, or, as our forefathers were wont familiarly to denominate him, 'Davie Lyndsay.' Lyndsay was descended from a noble family, a younger branch of Lyndsay of the Byres, and born in 1490, probably at the Mount, the family-seat, near Cupar-Fife. He entered the University of St Andrews in the year 1505, and four years later left it to travel in Italy. He must, however, have returned to Scotland before the 12th of October 1511, since we learn from the records of the Lord Treasurer that he was presented with a quantity of 'blue and yellow taffety to be a playcoat for the play performed in the King and Queen's presence in the Abbey of Holyrood.' On the 12th of April 1512, Lyndsay, then twenty-two years of age, was appointed gentleman-usher to James V., who had been born that very day. In his poem called 'The Dream,' he reminds the King of his having borne him in his arms ere he could walk; of having wrapped him up warmly in his little bed; of having sung to him with his lute, danced before him to make him laugh, and having carried him on his shoulders like a 'pedlar his pack.' He continued to be page and companion to the King till 1524, when, in consequence of the unprincipled machinations of the Queen- mother--who was acting as Regent--he, as well as Bellenden, the learned translator of Livy and Boece, was ejected from his office. When, however, in 1528, the young King, by a noble effort, emancipated himself from the thraldom of his mother and the Douglasses, Lyndsay wrote his 'Dream,' in which, amidst much poetic or fantastic matter, he congratulates James on his deliverance; reminds him, as aforesaid, of his early services; and takes occasion to paint the evils the country had endured during his minority, and to give him some bold and salutary advice as to his future conduct. The next year (1529) he produced 'The Complaint,' a poem in which he recurs to former themes, and remonstrates with great freedom and severity against the treatment he had undergone. Here, too, the religious reformer peeps out. He exhorts the King to compel the clergy to attend to the duties of their office; to preach more earnestly; to administer the sacraments according to the institution of Christ; and not to deceive their people with superstitious pilgrimages, vain traditions, and prayers to graven images, contrary to the written command of God. He with quaint iron says, that if his Grace will lend him

'Of gold ane thousand pound or tway,'

he will give him a sealed bond, obliging himself to repay the loan when the Bass and the Isle of May are set upon Mount Sinai; or the Lomond hills, near Falkland, are removed to Northumberland; or

'When kirkmen yairnis [desire] na dignity, Nor wives na soveranitie.'

Still finer the last lines of the poem. 'If not,' he says, 'my God

'Shall cause me stand content With quiet life and sober rent, And take me, in my latter age, Unto my simple hermitage, To spend the gear my elders won, As did Diogenes in his tun.'

This 'Complaint' proved successful, and in the next year (1530) Lyndsay was appointed Lion King-at-Arms--an office of great dignity in these days. The Lion was the chief judge of all matters connected with heraldry in the realm; was also the official ambassador from his sovereign to foreign countries; and was inaugurated in his office with a pomp and circumstance little inferior to those of a royal coronation, the King crowning him with his own hands, anointing him with wine instead of oil, and putting on his head the Royal Crown of Scotland, which he continued to wear till the close of the feast. It is of Lyndsay in the full accoutrements of this office that Sir Walter Scott speaks in his 'Marmion,' although he antedates by sixteen years the time when he assumed it:--