SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, the son of Francis Beaumont, one of the judges of the common pleas, under Elizabeth, was born at Grace-dieu, in Leicestershire, in 1582. At the age of fourteen, he was admitted a gentleman-commoner in Broadgate's Hall, (since Pembroke College,) in Oxford; and, having spent three years, chiefly in the study of classic poetry, he removed to one of the Inns of Court: but, probably, detesting a pursuit, for which he was poorly fitted, both by nature and education, he soon returned to Leicestershire, and married Elizabeth, daughter of John Fortescue, Esq. In 1626, he was made a baronet by king Charles; and, two years afterwards, we hear of his death.
Sir John Beaumont's reputation as a poet must chiefly depend upon his Bosworth Field; which is a close imitation of Homer, and is such an epic as one of the Iliads would make. It is written with considerable richness of language, and harmony of numbers; but almost the only thing, which entitles it to be called an imitation of Homer, is, that the author often introduces a formal similie by 'as when,' or so when.'
THE winter's storme of ciuill warre I sing,
Whose end is crown'd with our eternall spring,
Where roses ioin'd, their colours mixe in one,
And armies fight no more for England's throne.
Thou, gracious Lord, direct my feeble pen,
Who (from the actions of ambitious men)
Hast by thy goodnesse drawne our ioyfull good,
And made sweet flowres and oliues grow from blood,
While we, delighted with this faire release,
May clime Parnassus, in the dayes of peace.
The king (whose eyes were neuer fully clos'd, Whose minde opprest with feareful dreams, suppos'd,
That he in blood had wallow'd all the night)
Leapes from his restlesse bed, before the light:
Accursed Tirell is the first he spies,
Whom threatning with his dagger, thus he cries.
"How darst thou, villaine, so disturbe my sleepe?
Were not the smother'd children buried deepe?
And hath the ground again been ript by thee,
That I their rotten carkases might see?"
The wretch, astonisht, hastes away to slide,
(As damned ghosts themselues in darknesse hide)
And calls vp three, whose counsels could asswage
The sudden swellings of the prince's rage:
Ambitious Louell, who, to gaine his grace,
Had stain'd the honour of his noble race:
Perfidious Catesby, by whose curious skill,
The law was taught to speake his master's will :
And Ratcliffe, deepely learn'd in courtly art,
Who best could search into his souʼraigne's hart :
Affrighted, Richard labours to relate
His hideous dreames, as signes of haplesse fate :
"Alas!" said they, "such fictions children feare,
These are not terrours, shewing danger neare,
But motiues sent by some propitions power,
To make you watchfull at this early hower:
These proue that your victorious care preuents
Your slouthfull foes, that slumber in their tents.
This precious time must not in vaine be spent,
Which God (your helpe) by heau'nly meanes hath
lent."
He (by these false coniectures) much appeas'd,
Contemning fancies, which his minde diseas'd,
Replies: "I should haue been asham'd to tell
Fond dreames to wise men: whether Heau'n or
Hell,
Or troubled nature, these effects hath wrought:
I know, this day requires another thought,
If some resistlesse strength my cause should crosse,
Feare will increase, and not redeeme the losse;
All dangers, clouded with the mist of feare,
Seeme great farre off, but lessen comming neare.
Away, ye black illusions of the night,
If ye combin'd with Fortune; haue the might
To hinder my designes: ye shall not barre
My courage seeking glorious death in warre.”
Thus being chear'd, he calls aloud for armes,
And bids that all should rise, whom Morpheus
charmes.
"Bring me," saith he, "the harnesse that I wore
At Teuxbury, which from that day no more
Hath felt the battries of a ciuill strife,
Nor stood betweene destruction and my life."
Vpon his brest-plate he beholds a dint,
Which in that field young Edward's sword did print:
This stirres remembrance of his heinous guilt,
When he that prince's blood so foulely spilt.
Now fully arm'd, he takes his helmet bright,
Which, like a twinkling starre, with trembling light
Sends radiant lustre through the darksome aire;
This maske will make his wrinkled visage faire.
But when his head is couer'd with the steele,
He tells his seruants, that his temples feele
Deepe-piercing stings, which breed vnusuall paines,
And of the heauy burden much complaines.
Some marke his words, as tokens fram'd t' expresse
The sharpe conclusion of a sad successe.
Then going forth, and finding in his way
A souldier of the watch, who sleeping lay,
Enrag'd to see the wretch neglect his part,
He strikes a sword into his trembling heart;
The hand of death, and iron dulnesse, takes
Those leaden eyes, which natʼrall ease forsakes:
The king this morning sacrifice commends,
And, for example, thus the fact defends:
"I leaue him, as I found him, fit to keepe
The silent doores of euerlasting sleepe."
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