Page images
PDF
EPUB

Anne. Well, Mr. Frankford, well; but shall be

better,

I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe (Out of your grace and your humanity)

To take a spotted strumpet by the hand?

Fran. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds

Than now 'tis griped by me. God pardon them That made us first break hold!

Anne. Amen, amen.

Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, I was so impudent to wish you here;

And once more beg your pardon. Oh! good man,
And father to my children, pardon me.

Pardon, O pardon me ! my fault so heinous is,
That if you in this world forgive it not,
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come.
Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees,
That kneel I cannot : But on my heart's knees
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet
To beg your gracious pardon: Pardon, O pardon
me!

Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul
As my Redeemer bath for us given his death,
I pardon thee; I will shed tears for thee;
Pray with thee; and in mere pity of thy weak
I'll wish to die with thee.

All. So do we all.

[estate,

Acton. O, Mr. Frankford, all the near alliance I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee; You are my brother by the nearest way, Her kindred hath fallen off, but yours doth stay. Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears Unite our souls.

Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford;
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall;
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting
Sus. How is it with you?

Acton. How d'ye feel yourself?
Anne. Not of this world.

[soul.

Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it.

My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ;
Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again :
Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name,
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest,
Honest in heart, upon my soul thou diest.

Anne. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free

Once more! thy wife dies thus embracing thee. Acton. Peace with thee, Nan. Brothers and

gentlemen,

(All we that can plead interest in her grief)
Bestow upon her body funeral tears.
Brother, had you with threats and usage bad
Panish'd her sin, the grief of her offence
Had not with such true sorrow touch'd her heart.

SONG OF NYMPHS TO DIANA.

FROM THE GOLDEN AGE."

HAIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades,
That dwells beneath these shadowy glades,
Mistress of all these beauteous maids

That are by her allow'd;
Virginity we all profess,
Abjure the worldly vain excess,
And will to Dian yield no less

Than we to her have vow'd.
The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fauns,
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns.

Come, to the forest let us go,
And trip it like the barren doe,
The fauns and satyrs will do so,

And freely thus they may do.
The fairies dance, and satyrs sing,
And on the grass tread many a ring,
And to their caves their ven'son bring,
And we will do as they do.
The shepherds, satyrs, &c.

Our food is honey from the bees,
And mellow fruits that drop from trees;
In chase we climb the high degrees

Of every steepy mountain;
And when the weary day is past
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this our field repast,

We drink the pleasant fountain. The shepherds, satyrs, &c.

A WITLING SET UP BY A POET'S LEGACY. FROM "THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE."

Cripple. WHY, think'st thou that I cannot write Ditty, or sonnet, with judicial phrase, [a letter, As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, As any Ovid-imitating dunce

In all the town?

Frank. I think thou canst not.
Crip. Yea, I'll swear I cannot :

Yet, sirrah, I could cony-catch the world,
Make myself famous for a sudden wit,
And be admired for my dexterity,
Were I disposed.

Frank. I prithee how?

Crip. Why thus: there lived a poet in this town (If we may term our modern writers poets), Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued, his pen of steel, His ink was temper'd with the biting juice, And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew: He never wrote but when the elements Of fire and water tilted in his brain. This fellow, ready to give up his ghost To Luciae's bosom, did bequeath to me His library, which was just nothing

But rolls and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit,
Such as durst never visit Paul's Churchyard:
Amongst them all I happen'd on a quire
Or two of paper fill'd with songs and ditties,
And here and there an hungry epigram :
These I reserve to my own proper use,
And, paternoster-like, have conn'd them all.
I could now, when I am in company

At alehouse, tavern, or an ordinary,
Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty,
(Or one at least should seem extemporal),
Out of the abundance of this legacy,
That all would judge it, and report it too,
To be the infant of a sudden wit;
And then were I an admirable fellow.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

[Born, 1585. Died, 1649.]

THIS poet was born at Hawthornden, his father's estate in Mid-Lothian, took a degree at the university of Edinburgh, studied the civil law in France, and, returning home, entered into possession of his paternal estate, and devoted himself to literature. During his residence at Hawthornden he courted, and was on the eve of marrying, a lady of the name of Cunningham. Her sudden death inspired him with a melancholy which he sought to dissipate by travelling. He accordingly visited France, Italy, and Germany, and, during a stay of eight years on the Continent, conversed with the most polished society, and studied the objects most interesting to curiosity and taste. He collected at the same time a number of books and manuscripts, some of which are still in the library of his native university.

On his second return to Scotland he found the kingdom distracted by political and religious ferment, and on the eve of a civil war. What connexion this aspect of public affairs had with his quitting Hawthornden, his biographers have not informed us, but so it was, that he retired to the seat of his brother-in-law, Sir John Scot of Scotstarvet, a manaof letters, and probably of political sentiments congenial with his own. At his abode he wrote his History of the Five James's, Kings of Scotland, a work abounding in false eloquence and slavish principles. Having returned at length to settle himself at his own seat, he married a lady of the name of Logan, of the house of Restalrig, in whom he fancied a resemblance to his former mistress, and repaired the family mansion of Hawthornden, with an inscription importing his hopes of resting there in honourable ease. But the times were little suited to promote his wishes; and on the civil war breaking out he involved himself with the covenanters, by writing in support of the opposite side, for which his enemies not only called him to a severe account, but compelled him to furnish his quota of men and arms to support the cause which he detested. His estate lying in different counties, he contributed halves and quarters of men to the forces that were raised; and on this occasion he wrote an epigram, bitterly wishing that the imaginary

division of his recruits might be realised on their bodies. His grief for the death of Charles is said to have shortened his days. Such stories of political sensibility may be believed on proper evidence.

[ocr errors]

The elegance of Drummond's sonnets, and the humour of his Scotch and Latin macaronics, have been at least sufficiently praised: but when Milton has been described as essentially obliged to him, the compliment to his genius is stretched too far. A modern writer, who edited the works of Drummond, has affirmed, that, " perhaps," if we had had no Drummond, we should not have seen the finer delicacies of Milton's Comus, Lycidas, L'Allegro, and Il Penseroso. "Perhaps is an excellent leading-string for weak assertions. One or two epithets of Drummond may be recognised in Milton, though not in the minor poems already mentioned*. It is difficult to apply any precise idea to the tautology of "fine delicacies;" but whatever the editor of Drummond meant by it, he may be assured that there is no debt on the part of Milton to the poet of Hawthornden, which the former could be the least impoverished by returning. Philips, the nephew of Milton, edited and extolled Drummond, and pronounced him equal to Tasso himself. It has been inferred from some passages of the Theatrum Poetarum that Milton had dictated several critical opinions in that performance; and it has been taken for granted that Philips's high opinion of Drummond was imbibed from the author of Paradise Lost. But the parallel between Drummond and Tasso surely could not have been drawn by Milton. Philips had a turn for poetry, and in many of his critical opinions in the Theatrum Poetarum, showed a taste that could not be well attributed to his uncle-in none more than in this exagge| rated comparison of a smooth sonneteer to a mighty poet. It is equally improbable that he imbibed this absurdity from Milton, as that he caught from him his admiration of Drummond's prose compositions and arbitrary principles.

[* The only passage in Milton that looks like borrowing from Drummond is in Lycidas: Gray, who borrowed always and ably, adopted one of his lines into his Elegy too exact and uncommon to be called a resemblance : Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.]

[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.

Ay 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.

IP 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 jus. tice, 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 forbear. By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade; So crushed falls the lily's tender blade.

« PreviousContinue »