Chapter 13

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

[1] 'Prease:' press, throng.

SONNETS.

I.

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise. Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass; But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

II.

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

III.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

IV.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address; While with the people's shouts, I must confess, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, 'I would no less. Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries; My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

V.

Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain, And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain: Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so 'fraid, Though strongly hedged of bloody Lion's paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause-- But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.

VI.

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

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

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

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

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

LOOK HOME.

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

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

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

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

THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

[1] 'Fine:' end.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

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

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

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

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

THOMAS WATSON.

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

THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

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

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

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

SONNET.

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

THOMAS TURBERVILLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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