Him when the spiteful Briere he espyed, Causeless complained, and loudly cryed Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife: 'O my liege lord! the god of my life, His coloured crime with craft to cloke. 'Ah, my Sovereign! lord of creatures all, That oft the blood springeth from wounds wide, And often crost with the priests' crew, And broughten this Oak to this misery; For nought might they quitten him from decay, The block oft groaned under his blow, And sighed to see his near overthrow. In fine, the steel had pierced his pith, His wondrous weight made the ground to quake, Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake; There lieth the Oak pitied of none. Now stands the Briere like a lord alone, Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance; From the Epithalamium. Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time; The merry lark her matins sings aloft; The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays; Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long, For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. My love is now awake out of her dream, And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot, And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, The which do still adorn her beauty's pride, Help to adorn my beautifullest bride: And, as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen; And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come : Let all the virgins therefore well await; And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight. Set all your things in seemly good array, Fit for so joyful day: The joyfullest day that ever sun did see. O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse! Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, Lo! where she comes along with portly pace, Her long loose yellow locks,1 like golden wire, And being crowned with a garland green, Natheless do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded, Upon her so to gaze, Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, ... Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, That even the angels, which continually Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair, But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.* ROBERT SOUTHWELL. ROBERT SOUTHWELL is remarkable as a victim of the persecuting laws of the period. He was born in 1560, at St Faiths, Norfolk, of Roman Catholic parents, who sent him, when very young, to be educated at the English college at Douay, in Flanders, and from thence to Rome, where, at sixteen years of age, he entered the society of the Jesuits. In 1584, he returned to his native country To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring? as a missionary, notwithstanding a law which But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity, The which the base affections do obey, Then would ye wonder and her praises sing, Open the temple gates unto my love, With trembling steps, and humble reverence, Bring her up to the high altar, that she may 1 It is remarkable, as Warton observes, that all Spenser's females, both in the Faery Queen and in his other poems, are described with yellow hair. This was perhaps in compliment to the queen, or to his fair Elizabeth, the object of this exquisite bridal-song. threatened all members of his profession found in England with death. For eight years he appears to have ministered secretly but zealously to the scattered adherents of his creed; but, in 1592, he was apprehended at Uxenden, in Middlesex, and committed to a dungeon in the Tower. An imprisonment of three years, with ten inflictions of the rack, wore out his patience, and he entreated to be brought to trial. Cecil is said to have made the brutal remark, that 'if he was in so much haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' Being at this trial found guilty, upon his own confession, of being a Romish priest, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn accordingly (February 21, 1595), with all the horrible circumstances dictated by the old treason-laws of England. Southwell's poetical works were edited by W. B. Turnbull, 1856. The prevailing tone of his poetry is that of religious resignation. His short pieces are the best. His two longest productions, St Peter's Complaint and Mary Magdalene's Funeral Tears, were written in prison. After experiencing great popularity in their own time, insomuch that eleven editions were printed between 1593 and 1600, the poems of Southwell fell, like other productions of the minor poets, into neglect. Some of his conceits are poetical in conception-for example: He that high growth on cedars did bestow, It appears from the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts (1874), that there exists in Lancashire an account-book containing interesting notices of Spenser. One Robert Nowell, of Gray's Inn, left certain sums to provide gowns for thirty-two poor scholars of the principal London schools, and at the head of the Merchant Taylors' poor boys is the name of Edmund Spenser. Other entries in Mr Nowell's book shew that, on going to Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, Spenser received 10s., and afterwards 6s. and 2s. 6d. The Merchant Taylors' Company may well be proud of their 'poor scholar.' I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; Do think, indeed, that I must die! Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die! The gown which I am used to wear, Which is my only usual seat; My ancestors are turned to clay, And can I think to 'scape alone? If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart ; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that Í My life may mend, since I must die. Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel justice layeth on, And mercy blows the coals, Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood.' Times go by Turns. The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day : The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; In some things all, in all things none are crossed; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. WILLIAM WARNER. A rhyming history entitled Albion's England, was published in 1586, by WILLIAM WARNER (1558-1609), an attorney of the Common Pleas. It was admired in its own day, and is said to have supplanted in popularity the Mirror for Magistrates. The poem is written in the long fourteensyllable verse, but is tedious and monotonous. A few lines will shew the style of the poem : SAMUEL DANIEL. SAMUEL DANIEL, son of a music-master, was born in 1562, near Taunton, in Somersetshire, and seems to have been educated under the patronage of the Pembroke family. In 1579, he was entered a commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, where he chiefly devoted himself to the study of poetry and history; at the end of three years, he quitted the university, without taking a degree, and was appointed tutor to Anne Clifford, daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. After the death of Spenser, Daniel became what Mr Campbell calls 'voluntary laureate' to the court, but he was soon superseded by Ben Jonson. In the reign of James, he was appointed Master of the Queen's Revels, and inspector of the plays to be represented by the juvenile performers. He was also preferred to be a gentleman-extraordinary and groom of the chamber to Queen Anne. He lived in a gardenhouse in Old Street, St Luke's, where, according to Fuller, he would 'lie hid for some months together, the more retiredly to enjoy the company of the Muses, and then would appear in public to converse with his friends, whereof Dr Cowell and Mr Camden were principal.' Daniel is said also to have shared the friendship of Shakspeare, Marlowe, and Chapman. His character was irreproachable, and his society appears to have been much courted. 'Daniel,' says Coleridge, in a letter to Charles Lamb, 'caught and re-communicated the spirit of the great Countess of Pembroke, the glory of the north; he formed her mind, and her mind inspirited him. Gravely sober on all ordinary affairs, and not easily excited by any, yet there is one on which his blood boils-whenever he speaks of English valour exerted against a foreign enemy.' Coleridge seems to have felt a great admiration for the works and character of Daniel, and to have lost no opportunity of expressing it. Towards the close of his life, the poet retired to a farm he had at Beckington, in Somersetshire, where he died October 14, 1619. The works of Daniel fill two considerable volumes. They include sonnets, epistles, masques, and dramas; but his principal production is a History of the Civil Wars between York and Lancaster, a poem in eight books, published in 1604. Musophilus, containing a General Defence of Learning, is another elaborate and thoughtful work by Daniel. His tragedies and masks fail in dramatic interest, and his epistles are perhaps the most pleasing and popular of his works. His style is remarkably pure, clear, and flowing, but wants animation. He has been called the 'well-languaged Daniel;' and certainly the copiousness, ease, and smoothness of his language distinguish him from his contemporaries. He is quite modern in style. In taste and moral feeling he was also pre-eminent. Mr Hallam thinks Daniel wanted only greater confidence in his own power; but he was deficient in fire and energy. His thoughtful, equable verse flows on unintermittingly, and never offends; but it becomes tedious and uninteresting from its sameness, and the absence of what may be called salient points. His quiet graces and vein of moral reflection are, however, well worthy of study. His Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland is a fine effusion of meditative thought. From the Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland. He that of such a height hath built his mind, And reared the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither hope nor fear can shake the frame Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same: What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! And with how free an eye doth he look down He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars, Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks Richard II. the Morning before his Murder in Whether the soul receives intelligence, However, so it is, the now sad king, The morning of that day which was his last, 'O happy man,' saith he, 'that lo I see, Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. "Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, 'Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free. How much doth your sweet rest make us the more To see our misery, and what we be : Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, Early Love. Ah, I remember well-and how can I Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was We spent our childhood. But when years began Sonnets. I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Ulysses and the Syren. SYREN. Come, worthy Greek, Ulysses, come, Here may we sit and view their toil, Enjoy the day in mirth the while, ULYSSES. Fair nymph, if fame or honour were SYREN. Ulysses, oh, be not deceived Our peace, and to beguile (The best thing of our life) our rest, And give us up to toil! ULYSSES. Delicious nymph, suppose there were No honour, or report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear For toil doth give a better touch And ease finds tediousness, as much SYREN. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore, Which you forego to make it more, ULYSSES. But natures of the noblest frame These toils and dangers please; And they take comfort in the same, As much as you in ease: And with the thought of actions past Are recreated still : When pleasure leaves a touch at last To shew that it was ill. SYREN. That doth opinion only cause, That's out of custom bred; Which makes us many other laws, Than ever nature did. No widows wail for our delights, Our sports are without blood; The world we see by warlike wights Receives more hurt than good. ULYSSES. But yet the state of things require |