Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub
[ocr errors][merged small]

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time's great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays,
With toil of spirit, which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought,
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords,
That love a jarring is of minds' accords,
Where sense and will envassal Reason's power;
Know what I list, all this cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both must write and love.

II.

Ar me! and I am now the man whose muse
In happier times was wont to laugh at love,
And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse
The noble gifts were given them from above.
What metamorphose strange is this I prove?
Myself now scarce I find myself to be,
And think no fable Circe's tyranny,
And all the tales are told of changed Jove;
Virtue hath taught with her philosophy
My mind into a better course to move :
Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove
Affection's power, but what is that to me?
Who ever think, and never think on ought
But that bright cherubim which thralls my
thought.

III.

How that vast heaven entitled first is roll'd,
If any glancing towers beyond it be,
And people living in eternity,

Or essence pure that doth this all uphold :
What motion have those fixed sparks of gold,
The wandering carbuncles which shine from high,
By sp❜rits, or bodies cross-ways in the sky,
If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold.
How sun posts heaven about, how night's pale queen
With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round,
What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen
In air's large fields of light, and seas profound,
Did hold my wandering thoughts, when thy
sweet eye

Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.

IV.

IF cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
If my sp’rit with itself holds lasting strife,
If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth;
If this vain world be but a mournful stage,
Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars,
If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age;
If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars,

If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, And make what's long since past, like that's to be; If virtue only be an idle name,

If being born I was but born to die ;

Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days? The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

V.

DEAR Chorister, who from those shadows sends
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
(Become all ear) stars stay to hear thy plight,
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite.
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky
Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sigh'd forth, I love, I love.

VI.

SWEET Soul, which in the April of thy years,
For to enrich the heaven madest poor this round,
And now with flaming rays of glory crown'd,
Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres ;
If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound
From looking to this globe that all up-bears,
If ruth and pity there above be found,
O deign to lend a look unto these tears,
Do not disdain (dear ghost) this sacrifice,
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,
My offerings take, let this for me suffice,
My heart a living pyramid I raise :

[green,

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.

SPIRITUAL POEMS.

I.

LOOK, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night
By darkness wonld imprison on his way,
Think on thy home (my soul) and think aright,
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

[ocr errors]

THE weary mariner so fast not flies
A howling tempest, harbour to attain ;
Nor shepherd hastes (when frays of wolves arise)
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,
As I (wing'd with contempt and just disdain)
Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize,
And sanctuary seek, free to remain

From wounds of abject times, and envy's eyes.
To me this world did once seem sweet and fair,
While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind;
Now, like imagined landscape in the air,
And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find :
Or if ought here is had that praise should have,
It is a life obscure, and silent grave.

[ocr errors]

THE last and greatest herald of heaven's king,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he more harmless found than man,and mild;
His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd,
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing,
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled,
There burst he forth; all ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent, repent!

IV.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well-pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons,budding sprays,sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

V.

As when it happeneth that some lovely town
Unto a barbarous besieger falls,

Who both by sword and flame himself instals,
And (shameless) it in tears and blood doth drown,
Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls,
His spite yet cannot so her all throw down,
But that some statue, pillar of renown,
Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls:
So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck,
That time, the world, and death, could bring com-
Amidst that mass of ruins they did make, [bined,
Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind:
From this so high transcending rapture springs,
That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

THOMAS MAY.

[Born, 1595. Died, 1650.]

THOMAS MAY, whom Dr. Johnson has pronounced the best Latin poet of England, was the son of Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield in Sussex. During the earlier part of his public life he was encouraged at the court of Charles the First, inscribed several poems to his majesty, as well as wrote them at his injunction, and received from Charles the appellation of "his poet." During this connexion with royalty he wrote his five dramas*, translated the Georgics and Pharsalia, continued the latter in English as well as Latin, and by his imitation of Lucan acquired the reputation of a modern classic in foreign countries. It were much to be wished, that on siding with the parliament in the civil wars, he had left a valedictory testimony of regret for the necessity of opposing, on public grounds, a monarch who had been personally kind to him. The change was stigmatised as ungrateful; and it was both sordid and ungrateful, if the account given by his enemies can be relied on, that it was

The Heir, C.; Antigone, T.; Julia Agrippina, T.; Cleopatra, T.; Old Couple, C.; to which may be added Julius Cæsar, a tragedy, still in manuscript.

owing to the king's refusal of the laureateship, or of a pension-for the story is told in different ways. All that can be suggested in May's behalf is, that no complimentary dedications could pledge his principles on a great question of public justice, and that the motives of an action are seldom traced with scrupulous truth, where it is the bias of the narrator to degrade the action itself. Clarendon, the most respectable of his accusers, is exactly in this situation. He begins by praising his epic poetry as among the best in our language, and inconsistently concludes by pronouncing that May deserves to be forgotten.

The parliament, from whatever motive he embraced their cause, appointed him their secretary and historiographer. In this capacity he wrote his Breviary, which Warburton pronounces "a just composition according to the rules of history." It breaks off, much to the loss of the history of that time, just at the period of the Self-denying Ordinance. Soon after this publication he went to bed one night in apparent health, having drank freely, and was found dead in the morning. His death was ascribed to his nightcap being tied too tightly

under his chin. Andrew Marvel imputes it to the cheerful bottle. Taken together, they were no bad receipt for suffocation. The vampire revenge of his enemies in digging him up from his grave, is an event too notorious in the history of the Restoration. They gave him honourable company in this sacrilege, namely, that of Blake.

He has ventured in narrative poetry on a similar difficulty to that Shakspeare encountered in the historical drama, but it is unnecessary to show with how much less success. Even in that department, he has scarcely equalled Daniel or Drayton.

THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND.

FAIR Rosamond within her bower of late
(While these sad storms had shaken Henry's state,
And he from England last had absent been)
Retired herself; nor had that star been seen
To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace
The woods or walks adjoining to the place.
About those places, while the times were free,
Oft with a train of her attendants she
For pleasure walk'd; and like the huntress queen,
With her light nymphs, was by the people seen.
Thither the country lads and swains, that near
To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her.
Their jolly May-games there would they present,
Their harmless sports and rustic merriment,
To give this beauteous paragon delight.
Nor that officious service would she slight;
But their rude pastimes gently entertain.

Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see The eclipse of beauty, and for ever be Accursed by woeful lovers,-all alone Into her chamber Rosamond was gone;

While thus she sadly mused, a ruthful cry
Had pierced her tender ear, and in the sound
Was named (she thought) unhappy Rosamond.
(The cry was utter'd by her grieved maid,
From whom that clew was taken, that betray'd
Her lady's life), and while she doubting fear'd,
Too soon the fatal certainty appear'd:

For with her train the wrathful queen was there :
Oh! who can tell what cold and killing fear
Through every part of Rosamond was struck?
The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook,
And like an ivory statue did she show

Of life and motion reft. Had she been so
Transform'd in deed, how kind the Fates had been,
How pitiful to her! nay to the queen!
Even she herself did seem to entertain
Some ruth; but straight revenge return'd again,
And fill'd her furious breast. "Strumpet (quoth she),
I need not speak at all; my sight may be
Enough expression of my wrongs, and what
The consequence must prove of such a hate.
Here, take this poison'd cup" (for in her hand
A poison'd cup she had), "and do not stand
To parley now: but drink it presently,
Or else by tortures be resolved to die!
Thy doom is set." Pale trembling Rosamond
Receives the cup, and kneeling on the ground,

When dull amazement somewhat had forsook
Her breast, thus humbly to the queen she spoke :
"I dare not hope you should so far relent,
Great queen, as to forgive the punishment
That to my foul offence is justly due.
Nor will I vainly plead excuse, to show
By what strong arts I was at first betray'd,
Or tell how many subtle snares were laid
To catch mine honour. These though ne'er so true,
Can bring no recompense at all to you,
Nor just excuse to my abhorred crime.
Instead of sudden death, I crave but time,

"No more (replied the furious queen); have done; Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone, And that a sterner death for thee remain." No more did Rosamond entreat in vain; But, forced to hard necessity to yield, Drank of the fatal potion that she held. And with it enter'd the grim tyrant Death: Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne, And pardon those that her destruction Had doubly wrought. “Forgive,oh Lord,(said she,) Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry queen ! If you had spared my life, I might have been In time to come the example of your glory; Not of your shame, as now; for when the story Of hapless Rosamond is read, the best And holiest people, as they will detest My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor, And call unjust, the rage of Eleanor. And in this act of yours it will be thought King Henry's sorrow, not his love, you sought." And now so far the venom's force assail'd Her vital parts, that life with language fail'd. That well-built palace where the Graces made Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids play'd And couch'd their shafts, whose structure did delight Even nature's self, is now demolish'd quite, Ne'er to be raised again; the untimely stroke Of death that precious cabinet has broke, That Henry's pleased heart so long had held. With sudden mourning now the house is fill'd; Nor can the queen's attendants, though they fear Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbea r. By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade; So crushed falls the lily's tender blade.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

[Born, 1615? Died, 1652.]

He

THIS poet fell into neglect in his own age. was, however, one of the first of our old minor poets that was rescued from oblivion in the following century. Pope borrowed from him, but acknowledged his obligations. Crashaw formed his style on the most quaint and conceited school of Italian poetry, that of Marino; and there is a prevalent harshness and strained expression in his verses; but there are also many touches of beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his thoughts sometimes appears even in their distortion. If it were not grown into a tedious and impertinent fashion to discover the sources of Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice some similarity between the speech of Satan in the Sospetto di Herode of Marino (which Crashaw has translated) and Satan's address to the Sun in Milton. The little that is known of Crashaw's life exhibits enthusiasm, but it is not that of a weak or selfish mind. His private character was amiable; and we are told by the earliest editor of his "Steps to the Temple," that he was skilled in music, drawing, and engraving. His father, of whose writings an account is given in the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a preacher at the Temple church, London. His son, the poet, was born in London, but at what time is uncertain. He was educated at the Charterhouse through the bounty of two friends, Sir Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From

thence he removed to Cambridge, where he became a fellow, and took a degree of master of arts. There he published his Latin poems, in one of which is the epigram from a scripture passage, ending with the line, so well known,

Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit,

"The modest water saw its God, and blush'd:"

and also his pious effusions, called "Steps to the Temple." The title of the latter work was in allusion to the church at Cambridge, near his residence, where he almost constantly spent his time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered to the universities, he preferred ejection and poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. He soon after embraced the Catholic religion, and repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he had no great transition to make to catholicism ; and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he had witnessed, together with his admiration of the works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still more easily account for his conversion. Cowley found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recommendation to Italy, where he became a secretary to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. Soon after the latter appointment he died, about the year 1652.

SOSPETTO D' HERODE. LIB. I.

BELOW the bottom of the great abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things;
The world's profound heart pants; there placed is
Mischief's old master, close about him clings
A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks; these loathsome strings
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark

Set the contending sons of heaven on fire :
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark
Sybils' divining leaves; he does inquire
Into the old prophecies, trembling to mark
How many present prodigies conspire

To crown their past predictions, both he lays
Together, in his ponderous mind both weighs.

Heaven's golden-winged herald, late he saw

How low the bright youth bow'd, and with what

awe

From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing air, To a poor Galilean virgin sent :
This mortal enemy to mankind's good,
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair
The fields of Palestine with so pure a flood;
There does he fix his eyes, and there detect
New matter to make good his great suspect.

Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.
He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth by his devotion, who began
Betimes to be a saint, before a man.

He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour
Of the icy north, from frost-bound Atlas' hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour
Gladding the Scythian rocks, and Libyan sands.
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure
Winter's sad face, and through the flowery lands
Of fair Engaddi's honey-sweating fountains,
With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the
mountains.

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night,
The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light,
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spite,
He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay

Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heaven and earth.

He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase,
Make proud the ruby portals of the east.
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace,
Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast.
He saw the falling idols all confess
A coming Deity. He saw the nest

Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst,
Touch'd with the world's true antidote to burst.

He saw Heaven blossom with a new-born light,
On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed
The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright
The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed
(Nor ask'd leave of the sun), by day as night.
By whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) raised
Three kings (or what is more) three wise men went
Westward, to find the world's true orient.

That the great angel-blinding light should shrink
His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye.
That the unmeasured God so low should sink,
As pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie.
That from his mother's breast he milk should drink,
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family,

That a vile manger his low bed should prove,
Who in a throne of stars thunders above.

That he whom the sun serves, should faintly peep
Through clouds of infant flesh: that he the old
Eternal Word should be a child and weep:
That he who made the fire should fear the cold:
That Heaven's high Majesty his court should keep
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd:

That glory's self should serve our griefs and fears,
And free eternity submit to years.

And further, that the law's eternal Giver
Should bleed in his own law's obedience;
And to the circumcising knife deliver
Himself, the forfeit of his slave's offence.
That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed for ever,
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense.
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt
Entangles his lost thoughts past getting out:

While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged breast,
His gloomy bosom's darkest character
Was in his shady forehead seen express'd.
The forehead's shade in grief's expression there,
Is what in sign of joy among the blest,
The face's lightning, or a smile is here.
Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest,
A desperate Oh me! drew from his deep breast.
Oh me! (thus bellow'd he); oh me! what great
Portents before mine eyes their powers advance?
And serve my purer sight, only to beat
Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance?
Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat?
And the gay stars lead on their golden dance;
Can his attempts above still prosperous be,
Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me?

He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose bright

And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear.
And for the never-fading fields of light,
My fair inheritance, he confines me here
To this dark house of shades, horror, and night,
To draw a long-lived death, where all my cheer
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears,

That mankind's torment waits upon my tears.

Dark dusky man, he needs would single forth,
To make the partner of his own pure ray:
And should we powers of Heaven, spirits of worth,
Bow our bright heads before a king of clay?
It shall not be, said I; and clomb the north,
Where never wing of angel yet made way.

What though I miss'd my blow? yet I struck
And to dare something, is some victory*. [high,
Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest
Hell from me too, and sack my territories?
Vile human nature, means he not t' invest
(O my despite !) with his divinest glories?
And rising with rich spoils upon his breast,
With his fair triumphs fill all future stories?
Must the bright arms of heaven rebuke these eyes?
Mock me, and dazzle my dark mysteries?

Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves
Of stars that gild the morn in charge were given?
The nimblest of the lightning-winged loves?
The fairest, and the first born smile of Heaven?
Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves,
Rev'rently circled by the lesser seven ;

Such and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes
Oppress'd the common people of the skies.

Ah, wretch! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes
Where dawning hope no beam of comfort shows?
While the reflection of thy forepast joys
Renders thee double to thy present woes.
Rather make up to thy new miseries,
And meet the mischief that upon thee grows.
If hell must mourn, heaven sure shall sympathise.
What force cannot effect, fraud shall devise.
* Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. MILTON.

« НазадПродовжити »