GEORGE GASCOIGNE. THIS poet, who was born in 1540, is very justly placed among the worthies of our earliest poetical literature. He was bred to the law, but quitted it, and served with distinction against the Spaniards. His principal work is The Fruits of War, which relates to the adventures of his voyage. In his youth he was a profligate, but he lived to amend his ways, and became a wise and good man. He died in a religious, calm, and happy frame of mind, in 1577. The writings of Gascoigne are more the result of observation than of creative genius; for the age in which he lived, the verse is uncommonly smooth, flowing, and unaffected. DE PROFUNDIS. FROM depth of dole, wherein my soul doth dwell, My God, my Lord, my lovely Lord alone Wherein I faint; Oh! hear me, then, for thy great mercy's sake. Oh! bend thine ears attentively to hear, Oh! turn thine eyes, behold me how I wail, Behold and see what dolours I endure, Give ear and mark what plaints I put in ure1; Bend willing ears; and pity therewithal My willing voice, Which hath no choice But evermore upon thy name to call. If thou, good Lord, should'st take thy rod in hand, If thou regard what sins are daily done, If thou take hold where we our works begun, If thou decree in judgment for to stand, And be extreme to see our 'scuses2 scanned; If thou take note of every thing amiss, And write in rolls how frail our nature is, O glorious God, O King, O Prince of power! What mortal wight May thus have light To feel thy power, if thou have list to lower? But thou art good, and hast of mercy store, Thou not delight'st to see a sinner fall, Thou hearkenest first, before we come to call, Thine ears are set wide open evermore, Before we knock thou comest to the door; Thou art more prest to hear a sinner cry Than he is quick to climb to thee on high. Thy mighty name be praised then alway, Let faith and fear True witness bear, How fast they stand which on thy mercy stay. I look for thee, my lovely Lord, therefore My soul doth thirst to take of thee a taste, 1 Use. 2 Excuses. And to thy words, which can no man deceive, My love and lust, In confidence continually shall cleave. Before the break or dawning of the day, Before the sun appear in pleasant wise, My soul, my sense, my secret thought, my sprite, Unto the Lord, that sits in heaven on high, From me doth fling, And striveth still unto the Lord to fly. O Israel! O household of the Lord! O Abraham's sons! O brood of blessed seed! For He hath mercy evermore at hand, His fountains flow, his springs do never stand; And plenteously He loveth to redeem Such sinners all As on Him call, And faithfully his mercies most esteem. He will bring home the sheep that go astray, He will appease our discord and debate, He will bring bale3 to joy and perfect bliss; From all that is Or was amiss Since Abraham's heirs did first his laws reject. 3 Misery. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, one of the least known, but one of the most deserving poets of the age of Elizabeth, was born at St. Faith's, in Norfolk, in 1560. He was partially educated at the English College in Douay, after which he was received into the Society of the Jesuits. He was afterwards attached to the household of the Countess of Arundel, and being convicted of seditious practices, suffered death at Tyburn in 1595. Though a Jesuit, the poems of Southwell are deserving the attention of every Protestant Christian. They have few adornments to fancy, but they are peculiarly pleasing for the simplicity of their diction, and the truths they contain. "It is not possible," says Mr. Campbell, "to read his volume without lamenting that its author should have been either the instrument of bigotry, or the object of persecution." VALE OF TEARS. A VALE there is, enwrapped in dismal shades, Which, thick with mournful pine, shrouds from the sun; Where hanging cliffs yield short and narrow glades, And snowy floods with broken streams do run: Where ears of other sounds can have no choice, Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by kind: Where waters wrestle with encountering stones That break their streams and turn them into foams; The hollow clouds, full fraught with thundering groans, With hideous cracks discharge their pregnant wombs. And in the horror of this fearful quire Consists the music of this doleful place; All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire, Where none but heavy notes have any grace. Resort there is of none but pilgrim-wights That pass with trembling foot and panting heart, With terror cast in cold and shuddering frights, And all the place for terror framed by art. Much at the work, more at the Maker's might; Where nothing seemed wrong, yet nothing right. A place for mated1 minds, an only bower Where every thing doth suit a pensive mood; Earth is forlorn, the cloudy sky doth lower, The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud. The struggling flood between the marble groans, Then roaring, beats upon the craggy sides; A little off, amid the pebble stones, With bubbling streams a purling noise it glides. The pines thick set, high grown, and ever green, Still clothe the place with shade and mourning veil; A thousand motives suited to their griefs, To which from worldly toils they may retire, 1 Subdued, dejected. |