Chapter 20

Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblest game: Of which most princely chase since none did e'er report, Or by description touch, to express that wondrous sport, (Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' nobler songs) To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs: Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid; But thee, Diana bright, a goddess and a maid: In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove, Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to rove) At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce; And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's queen, With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green, About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and near, Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here; Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red, The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head, Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed, The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives, On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir, He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive, As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive. And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes, He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep; When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place: And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase; Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. But when the approaching foes still following he perceives, That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves: And o'er the champain flies: which when the assembly find, Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind. But being then imbost, the noble stately deer When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear) Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil: That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wooled sheep, Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep. But when as all his shifts his safety still denies, Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries. Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand To assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand, The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo: When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow; Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength, His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length, The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way To anything he meets now at his sad decay. The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near, This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed, He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed. The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay, And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.

The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately assails; until oppress'd by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

Edward Fairfax was the second, some say the natural, son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire. The dates of his birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in managing his elder brother, Lord Fairfax's property, and partly in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demonology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful translation of Tasso, which stamps him a true poet as well as a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which Collins calls him--

'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'

RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET.

1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined; For in the east appear'd the morning gray, And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine; This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:

2 Thus to himself he thought: 'How many bright And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high! Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky; So framed all by their Creator's might, That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die, Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.'

3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear; His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were-- 'The sins and errors, which I now repent, Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, And purge my faults and my offences all.'

4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw, His helm, his harness, and the mountain green: Upon his breast and forehead gently blew The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen; And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies:

5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled, And thence of purest white bright rays outstream: So cheered are the flowers, late withered, With the sweet comfort of the morning beam; And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold.

6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed The prince perceived well and long admired; Toward, the forest march'd he on with speed, Resolved, as such adventures great required: Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired; But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.

7 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was; There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass; There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, There sung the swan, and singing died, alas! There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent, Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent; Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went; Nor in his way his passage ought withstood, Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:

9 On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound, Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd, Which reaching out his stretched arms around, All the large desert in his bosom held, And through the grove one channel passage found; This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd: Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made, And so exchanged their moisture and their shade.

10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pass, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd; A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty mass, On arches great of that rich metal rear'd: When through that golden way he enter'd was, Down fell the bridge; swelled the stream, and wear'd The work away, nor sign left, where it stood, And of a river calm became a flood.

11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so, Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow; The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro, The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low; But on he went to search for wonders mo,[1] Through the thick trees, there high and broad which grow; And in that forest huge, and desert wide, The more he sought, more wonders still he spied:

12 Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful ground Renew'd the verdure of her flowery weed; A fountain here, a well-spring there he found; Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread: The aged wood o'er and about him round Flourish'd with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed; And on the boughs and branches of those treen The bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green.

13 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie; The honey stilled[2] from the tender rind: Again he heard that wonderful harmony Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind; The human voices sung a treble high, To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind; But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear.

14 He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts denied To think that true which he did hear and see: A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, And thither by a beaten path went he; The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree, And far above all other plants was seen That forest's lady, and that desert's queen.

15 Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent, And there a marvel great and strange began; An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran, Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, A nymph, for age able to go to man; An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight.[3]

16 Such as on stages play, such as we see The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love, Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be, With buskins laced on their legs above, And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee, Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove; Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree, She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she;

17 And wantonly they cast them in a ring, And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, Rinaldo round about environing, As does its centre the circumference; The tree they compass'd eke, and 'gan to sing, That woods and streams admired their excellence-- 'Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet grove, Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love!

18 'Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd; Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd; See, with thy coming how the branches quick Revived are, and in new blossoms dress'd!' This was their song; and after from it went First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent.

19 If antique times admired Silenus old, Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass, How would they wonder, if they had behold Such sights, as from the myrtle high did pass! Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, That like in shape, in face, and beauty was To fair Armida; Rinald thinks he spies Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes:

20 On him a sad and smiling look she cast, Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays; 'And art thou come,' quoth she, 'return'd at last' To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways? Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past, To ease my widow nights, and careful days? Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm?

21 'Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frame That golden bridge to entertain my foe; Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came, To welcome him with joy who brings me woe: Put off thy helm: rejoice me with the flame Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow; Kiss me, embrace me; if you further venture, Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath[4] to enter.'

22 Thus as she woos, she rolls her rueful eyes With piteous look, and changeth oft her chere,[5] An hundred sighs from her false heart up-flies; She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear: The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies; What stony heart resists a woman's tear? But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, Drew forth his sword, and from her careless twined:[6]

23 Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start, Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cried-- 'Ah! never do me such a spiteful part, To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride; Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; For through this breast, and through this heart, unkind, To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.'

24 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, Oft in their idle fancies roam and range: Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made; Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange; A giantess before him high she stands, Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands.

25 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried and fought; Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought, But on the myrtle smote with all his might, Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh brought; The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell:

26 Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below Roared aloud; that thunder'd, and this shook: Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow; The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took, Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended; en fled the spirits all, the charms all ended.

27 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still, The wood returned to its wonted state, Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, Of horror full, but horror there innate: He further tried, if ought withstood his will To cut those trees, as did the charms of late, And finding nought to stop him, smiled and said-- 'O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!'

28 From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the knight; The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, 'Now of the wood the charms have lost their might; The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat; See where he comes!'--Array'd in glittering white Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high, and great; His eagle's silver wings to shine begun With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun.

29 The camp received him with a joyful cry,-- A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd; Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high; His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd: 'To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, 'went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, Have driven the sprites away; thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free.'

[1] 'Mo:' more. [2] 'Stilled:' dropped. [3] 'Dight:' aparelled. [4] 'Eath:' easy. [5] 'Chere:' expression. [6] 'Twined:' separated.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be ambassador to Venice,--a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provost- ship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of 'Reliquitae Wottonianae,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account of an English ambassador, as 'an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.'

FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.

1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, Honour the darling but of one short day, Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin, State but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood, allied to greatness, is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men too unkind Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected while the ass goes free; I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; I would be poor, but know the humble grass Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more. I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair--poor I'll be rather.

3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir, Would beauty's queen entitle me 'the fair,' Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie Angels[1] with India; with a speaking eye Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue To stones by epitaphs; be call'd great master In the loose rhymes of every poetaster; Could I be more than any man that lives, Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives: Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, Than ever fortune would have made them mine; And hold one minute of this holy leisure Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

4 Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves! These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring; A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass, In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face; Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares, No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears: Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly, And learn to affect a holy melancholy; And if Contentment be a stranger then, I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.

[1] 'Angels:' a species of coin.

A MEDITATION.

O thou great Power! in whom we move, By whom we live, to whom we die, Behold me through thy beams of love, Whilst on this couch of tears I lie, And cleanse my sordid soul within By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.

No hallow'd oils, no gums I need, No new-born drams of purging fire; One rosy drop from David's seed Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire: O precious ransom! which once paid, That _Consummatum est_ was said.

And said by him, that said no more, But seal'd it with his sacred breath: Thou then, that has dispurged our score, And dying wert the death of death, Be now, whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

RICHARD CORBET.

This witty and good-natured bishop was born in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at Westminster and Oxford; and having received orders, was made successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. He was a most facetious and rather too convivial person; and a collection of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of wit and coarseness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scotland, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad-singer in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally doffing his clerical costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, the one of the pair exclaiming, 'Here's to thee, Lushington,' and the other, 'Here's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in reference to Prior Aymer, in 'Ivanhoe,'--'If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irregularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial --a warm-hearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and sectaries; his attention to his duties was respectable; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, and treat of various subjects. In his 'Journey to France,' you see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people were flocking to be confirmed, cried, 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man; and in his 'Farewell to the Fairies' the fine and fanciful poet.

DR CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

1 I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride nor fence; Nor did I go like one of those That do return with half a nose, They carried from hence.

2 But I to Paris rode along, Much like John Dory in the song, Upon a holy tide; I on an ambling nag did jet, (I trust he is not paid for yet,) And spurr'd him on each side.

3 And to St Denis fast we came, To see the sights of Notre Dame, (The man that shows them snuffles,) Where who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, And eke her old pantofles;

4 Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town, When in the inn she lay; Yet all the world knows that's a fable, For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, Upon a lock of hay.

5 No carpenter could by his trade Gain so much coin as to have made A gown of so rich stuff; Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit, That they believe old Joseph did it, 'Cause he deserved enough.

6 There is one of the cross's nails, Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails, And, if he will, may kneel; Some say 'twas false,'twas never so, Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, It is as true as steel.