No, no; unsparing Time will proudly send Your memories, that cannot keep their own! CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. (1562-1593.) THE ripening of the drama from the rudeness of former ages is the great literary glory of the reigns of Elizabeth and James. We regret that our scanty limits preclude us from an extended series of extracts from the dramatic poets; who, if not for the uniform excellence of their writings, at least for individual passages displaying the highest abilities in their art, deserve to be in some measure rescued from the oblivion which has overshadowed them. Of all the precursors of Shakespeare, Marlow seems to be allowed by universal consent the first rank in merit. Jonson's testimony to "Marlow's mighty line" is familiar. Nothing is known of this poet's family. After graduating at Cambridge, he became "an actor and writer for the stage." He was esteemed licentious in religious opinion, and some of his translations from Ovid were burnt by ecclesiastical authority. Warton, however, thinks that he owed his evil reputation to "the prejudiced and peevish puritans." He met with a tragical death in a low and disgraceful brawl. His surviving works are six or eight tragedies, and other poems. The power of Marlow lies in the terrible. "There is," says Hazlitt, "a lust of power in his writings, a hunger and thirst after unrighteousness, a glow of the imagination, unhallowed by anything but its own energies. His thoughts burn within him like a furnace of bickering flames; or throwing out black smoke and mists, that hide the dawn of genius, or like a poisonous mineral corrode the heart." His language is harsh and rough; and his terrors interspersed with scenes of broad and low buffoonery. Few things in dramatic literature can equal the concluding scenes of Faustus and Edward II. THE DEATH OF FAUSTUS. Faustus-Mephostophilis.1 Meph. Ah, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven. Meph. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice. 'Twas I, that when thou wert the way to heaven Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book 1 The seducing spirit.-See Goethe's Faust. Both the Mephistopheles and the Faust of Marlow are very different from those of Goethe. Marlow's Faust is a low, sensual, selfish, being, the reality and extremity of whose final misery are the sole motives of our pity. [Exit. To view the scriptures, then I turned the leaves What, weep'st thou ?-'tis too late. Despair!-Farewell. Enter the Good and Bad Angels. G. Ang. Oh, Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me, But thou didst love the world: B. Ang. Gave ear to me, And now must taste hell-pains perpetually. G. Ang. Oh, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps, B. Ang. Nothing, but vex thee more; To want in hell that had on earth such store. G. Ang. Oh thou hast lost celestial happiness, [Exit. [Exit. Hell is discovered. B. Ang. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare * * Those, that are fed with sops of flaming fire, And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates. B. Ang. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all; And so I leave thee, Faustus. The clock strikes eleven. Faust. Oh Faustus! Now hast thou but one bare hour to live. Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven, A year, a month, a week, a natural day, * The stars move still,-time runs-the clock will strike. Oh, I'll leap up to heaven !-Who pulls me down? * Yet will I call on HIM!-Oh spare me, Lucifer !— And see a threatening arm-an angry brow! Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Oh! Pythagoras,-Metempsychosis !—were that true, Into some brutish beast. All beasts are happy, for when they die, Now, Faustus, curse thy self-curse Lucifer, Oh, soul, be changed into small water drops, THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. COME live with me, and be my love, Where we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy silver dishes, for thy meat, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing ANSWER TO THE ABOVE BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.2 IF all the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 1 Parts of the second and third stanzas of this song are quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii. Sc. 1. 2 The authenticity of the poetry of Raleigh is obscured by his disguised signature. Ellis hardly relies on the genuineness of any of the specimens he has quoted. The pieces ascribed to Raleigh are all excellent. The "minor poetry" of the reigns of Elizabeth and James, indeed, abounds in beauty. We could have wished that our limits would have allowed the introduction of Sydney, Wotton, King, Sandys, &c. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, What should we talk of dainties, then, But, could youth last, and love still breed, JOSHUA SYLVESTER. (1563-1618.) SYLVESTER was a "laborious but unequal writer." He styles himself a merchant adventurer. Little is known of his life. His works consist principally of translations. The character and writings of "the silver-tongued Sylvester" were greatly esteemed by his cotemporaries. The following piece of Sylvester has been often ascribed to Raleigh, and alleged to have been written by him on the evening preceding his execution. It is ascertained, however, to have been published ten years before that event. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, soul, the body's guest, Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, Go, tell the Court,—it glows And shines like rotten wood; If Church and Court reply, Tell Potentates-they live Acting by others' actions, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by their factions. |