Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

Thus perished Sir Walter Raleigh. There has been ever one opinion as to the breadth and brilliance of his genius. His powers were almost universal in their range. He commented on Scripture with the ingenuity of a Talmudist, and wrote love verses (see the lines in Campbell's 'Specimens,' entitled 'Dulcina') with the animus and graceful levity of a Thomas Moore. He was deep at once in 'all the learning of the Egyptians,' and in that of the Greeks and Romans. In his large mind lay dreams of golden lands, which even Australia has not yet fully verified, alongside of maxims of the most practical wisdom. He was learned in all that had been; well-informed as to all that was; and speculative and hopeful as to all that might be and was yet to be. Disgust at the scholastic methods, blended with the adventurous character of his mind, and perhaps also with some looseness of moral principle, led him at one time to the brink of universal scepticism; but disappointment, sorrow, and the solitude of the Tower, made him a sadder and wiser man, and he returned to the verities of the Christian religion. The stains on his character seem to have arisen chiefly from his position. He was, like some greater and some smaller men of eminence, undoubtedly, to a certain extent, a brilliant adventurer--a class to whom justice is seldom done, and against whom every calumny is believed. He was a _novus homo_, in an age of more than common aristocratic pretence; sprang, indeed, from an ancient family, but possessing nothing himself, save his cloak, his sword, his tact, and his genius. We all know how, in later times, such spirits, kindred in many points to Raleigh, in some superior, and in others inferior--as Burke, Sheridan, and Canning--were used, less for their errors of temper or of life, than because they had gained immense influence, not by birth or favour, but by the force of extraordinary talent and no less remarkable address. Raleigh, however, was undoubtedly imprudent in a high degree. He had once or twice outraged common morality; his enemies were constantly accusing him of gasconading and of 'pride.' His success at first was too early and too easy, and hence a reverse might have been anticipated as certain and as remarkable as his rise had been. His fall ultimately is understood to have been precipitated by the base complicity of James with the Spaniards, who were informed by the King of Raleigh's motions in America, and prepared to counteract them, as well as by the loud-sounding invectives and legal lies of the unscrupulous instruments of his tyrannical power. With all his faults and follies, (of 'crimes,' it has been justly said, Raleigh can hardly be accused,) he stood high in that crowd of giants who illustrated the reign of the Amazonian Queen. What an age it was! Bacon, with still brighter powers, and far darker and meaner faults than Raleigh, was sitting on the woolsack in body, while his spirit was presiding over the half-born philosophies of the future, and beholding the cold rod of Induction blossom in an after-day into the Aaronic flowers and fruits of a magnificent science; Cecil was nodding out wisdom or transcendental craft in the Cabinet; Sir Philip Sidney was carrying the spirit of 'Arcadia' into the field of battle; Spenser was dreaming his one beautiful lifelong Dream; and Shakspeare was holding up his calm mirror to the heart of man and the universe of nature; while, on the prow of the British vessel, carrying on those lofty spirits and enterprises, there appeared a daring mariner, the Poet and 'Shepherd of the Ocean,' with bright eye, sanguine countenance, step treading the deck like a throne, and look contemplating the sunset, as if it were the dawning, and the Evening, as if it were the Morning Star. It was the hopeful and the brilliant Raleigh, who, while he 'opened up to Europe the New World, was the historian of the Old.' Alas that this illustrious 'Marinere' was doomed to a life so troubled and a death so dreadful, and that the glory of one of England's prodigies is for ever bound up with the disgrace of one of England's and Scotland's princes!

THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.

1 Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldling's sports; Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be.

2 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find.

3 Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake, But blustering care could never tempest make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us.

* * * * *

4 Blest silent groves! oh, may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery! May pure contents, For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Find when we come a-fishing here.

THE SILENT LOVER.

1 Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come; They that are rich in words must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

2 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion.

3 Since if my plaints were not t' approve The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But fear t' exceed my duty.

4 For not knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection As all desire, but none deserve A place in her affection,

5 I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; Where glory recommends the grief, Despair disdains the healing.

6 Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

7 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love for secret passion; He smarteth most who hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

A VISION UPON 'THE FAIRY QUEEN.'

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn: and passing by that way To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen, For they this Queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, And cursed the access of that celestial thief.

LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.

1 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?

2 Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, too; If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be?

3 Were her hand as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake, And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be?

4 No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show; Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be!

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

Joshua Sylvester is the next in the list of our imperfectly-known, but real poets. Very little is known of his history. He was a merchant- adventurer, and died at Middleburg, aged fifty-five, in 1618. He is said to have applied, in 1597, for the office of secretary to a trading company in Stade, and to have been, on this occasion, patronised by the Earl of Essex. He was at one time attached to the English Court as a pensioner of Prince Henry. He is said to have been driven abroad by the severity of his satires. He seems to have had a sweet flow of conversational eloquence, and hence was called 'The Silver-tongued.' He was an eminent linguist, and wrote his dedications in various languages. He published a large volume of poems, very unequal in their value, and inserted in it 'The Soul's Errand,' with interpolations, as we have seen, which prove it not to be his own. His great work is the translation of the 'Divine Weeks and Works' of the French poet, Du Bartas, which is a marvellous medley of flatness and force--of childish weakness and soaring genius--with more _seed poetry_ in it than any poem we remember, except 'Festus,' the chaos of a hundred poetic worlds. There can be little doubt that Milton was familiar with this work in boyhood, and many remarkable coincidences have been pointed out between it and 'Paradise Lost.' Sylvester was a Puritan, and his publisher, Humphrey Lownes, who lived in the same street with Milton's father, belonged to the same sect; and, as Campbell remarks, 'it is easily to be conceived that Milton often repaired to the shop of Lownes, and there met with the pious didactic poem.' The work, therefore, some specimens of which we subjoin, is interesting, both in itself, and as having been the _prima stamina_ of the great masterpiece of English poetry.

TO RELIGION.

1 Religion, O thou life of life, How worldlings, that profane thee rife, Can wrest thee to their appetites! How princes, who thy power deny, Pretend thee for their tyranny, And people for their false delights!

2 Under thy sacred name, all over, The vicious all their vices cover; The insolent their insolence, The proud their pride, the false their fraud, The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, The impudent, their impudence.

3 Ambition under thee aspires, And Avarice under thee desires; Sloth under thee her ease assumes, Lux under thee all overflows, Wrath under thee outrageous grows, All evil under thee presumes.

4 Religion, erst so venerable, What art thou now but made a fable, A holy mask on folly's brow, Where under lies Dissimulation, Lined with all abomination. Sacred Religion, where art thou?

5 Not in the church with Simony, Not on the bench with Bribery, Nor in the court with Machiavel, Nor in the city with deceits, Nor in the country with debates; For what hath Heaven to do with Hell?

ON MAN'S RESEMBLANCE TO GOD. (FROM DU BARTAS.)

O complete creature! who the starry spheres Canst make to move, who 'bove the heavenly bears Extend'st thy power, who guidest with thy hand The day's bright chariot, and the nightly brand: This curious lust to imitate the best And fairest works of the Almightiest, By rare effects bears record of thy lineage And high descent; and that his sacred image Was in thy soul engraven, when first his Spirit, The spring of life, did in thy limbs inspire it. For, as his beauties are past all compare, So is thy soul all beautiful and fair: As he's immortal, and is never idle, Thy soul's immortal, and can brook no bridle Of sloth, to curb her busy intellect: He ponders all; thou peizest[1] each effect: And thy mature and settled sapience Hath some alliance with his providence: He works by reason, thou by rule: he's glory Of the heavenly stages, thou of th' earthly story: He's great High Priest, thou his great vicar here: He's sovereign Prince, and thou his viceroy dear.

For soon as ever he had framed thee, Into thy hands he put this monarchy: Made all the creatures know thee for their lord, And come before thee of their own accord: And gave thee power as master, to impose Fit sense-full names unto the host that rows In watery regions; and the wand'ring herds Of forest people; and the painted birds: Oh, too, too happy! had that fall of thine Not cancell'd so the character divine.

But, since our souls' now sin-obscured light Shines through the lanthorn of our flesh so bright; What sacred splendour will this star send forth, When it shall shine without this vail of earth? The Soul here lodged is like a man that dwells In an ill air, annoy'd with noisome smells; In an old house, open to wind and weather; Never in health not half an hour together: Or, almost, like a spider who, confined In her web's centre, shakes with every wind; Moves in an instant, if the buzzing fly Stir but a string of her lawn canopy.

[1] 'Peizest:' weighest.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Thou radiant coachman, running endless course, Fountain of heat, of light the lively source, Life of the world, lamp of this universe, Heaven's richest gem: oh, teach me where my verse May but begin thy praise: Alas! I fare Much like to one that in the clouds doth stare To count the quails, that with their shadow cover The Italian sea, when soaring hither over, Fain of a milder and more fruitful clime, They come with us to pass the summer time: No sooner he begins one shoal to sum, But, more and more, still greater shoals do come, Swarm upon swarm, that with their countless number Break off his purpose, and his sense encumber.

Day's glorious eye! even as a mighty king About his country stately progressing, Is compass'd round with dukes, earls, lords, and knights, (Orderly marshall'd in their noble rites,) Esquires and gentlemen, in courtly kind, And then his guard before him and behind. And there is nought in all his royal muster, But to his greatness addeth grace and lustre: So, while about the world thou ridest aye, Which only lives through virtue of thy ray, Six heavenly princes, mounted evermore, Wait on thy coach, three behind, three before; Besides the host of th' upper twinklers bright, To whom, for pay, thou givest only light. And, even as man (the little world of cares) Within the middle of the body bears His heart, the spring of life, which with proportion Supplieth spirits to all, and every portion: Even so, O Sun, thy golden chariot marches Amid the six lamps of the six low arches Which seele the world, that equally it might Richly impart them beauty, force, and light.

Praising thy heat, which subtilly doth pierce The solid thickness of our universe: Which in the earth's kidneys mercury doth burn, And pallid sulphur to bright metal turn; I do digress, to praise that light of thine, Which if it should but one day cease to shine, Th' unpurged air to water would resolve, And water would the mountain tops involve.

Scarce I begin to measure thy bright face Whose greatness doth so oft earth's greatness pass, And which still running the celestial ring, Is seen and felt of every living thing; But that fantastic'ly I change my theme To sing the swiftness of thy tireless team, To sing how, rising from the Indian wave, Thou seem'st (O Titan) like a bridegroom brave, Who, from his chamber early issuing out In rich array, with rarest gems about, With pleasant countenance and lovely face, With golden tresses and attractive grace, Cheers at his coming all the youthful throng That for his presence earnestly did long, Blessing the day, and with delightful glee, Singing aloud his epithalamie.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

Of him we only know that he published several poetical volumes between 1594 and 1598. We give one beautiful piece, 'To a Nightingale,' which used to be attributed to Shakspeare.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. 'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; 'Teru, teru,' by and by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend: But, if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call; And with such-like flattering, 'Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown: They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need; If thou sorrow, he will weep, If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus, of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.

ALEXANDER HUME.

This Scottish poet was the second son of Patrick, fifth Baron of Polwarth. He was born about the middle of the sixteenth century, and died in 1609. He resided for some years, in the early part of his life, in France. Returning home, he studied law, and then tried his fortune at Court. Here he was eclipsed by a rival, named Montgomery; and after assailing his rival, who rejoined, in verse, he became a clergyman in disgust, and was settled in the parish of Logie. Here he darkened into a sour and savage Calvinist, and uttered an exhortation to the youth of Scotland to forego the admiration of classical heroes, and to read no love-poetry save the 'Song of Solomon.' In another poetic walk, however, that of natural description, Hume excelled, and we print with pleasure some parts of his 'Summer's Day,' which our readers may compare with Mr Aird's fine poem under the same title, and be convinced that the sky of Scotland was as blue, and the grass as green, and Scottish eyes as quick to perceive their beauty, in the sixteenth century as now.