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, Pardon, O pardon me ! my fault so heinous is, Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul 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; Acton. How d'ye feel yourself? [soul. Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; 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) SONG OF NYMPHS TO DIANA. FROM THE GOLDEN AGE." HAIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades, That are by her allow'd; Than we to her have vow'd. Come, to the forest let us go, And freely thus they may do. Our food is honey from the bees, Of every steepy mountain; 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. Yet, sirrah, I could cony-catch the world, 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, At alehouse, tavern, or an ordinary, 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. 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.] I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays, II. Ay me! and I am now the man whose muse III. How that vast heaven entitled first is roll'd, Or essence pure that doth this all uphold : sweet eye Bade me leave all, and only think on thee. IV. IP cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life, 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 VI. SWEET Soul, which in the April of thy years, [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, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, THE weary mariner so fast not flies From wounds of abject times, and envy's eyes. THE last and greatest herald of heaven's king, IV. SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours V. As when it happeneth that some lovely town Who both by sword and flame himself instals, From this so high transcending rapture springs, 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 About those places, while the times were free, 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 For with her train the wrathful queen was there : Of life and motion reft. Had she been so When dull amazement somewhat had forsook "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. |