Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 25

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.

With s.h.i.+eld of proof s.h.i.+eld me from out the prease[1]

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease!

I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

[1] 'Prease:' press, throng.

SONNETS.

I.

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise.

Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, Which looks too oft in his unflattering gla.s.s; But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpa.s.s, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

II.

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face!

What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries.

Then, even of fellows.h.i.+p, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

III.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Hors.e.m.e.n my skill in horsemans.h.i.+p advance; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make.

How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

IV.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address; While with the people's shouts, I must confess, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride.

When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, 'I would no less.

Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light.

My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries; My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

V.

Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain, And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain: Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so 'fraid, Though strongly hedged of b.l.o.o.d.y Lion's paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid.

Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause-- But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.

VI.

O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear!

I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did s.h.i.+ne.

The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine: And fain those Oeol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display.

She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, With sight thereof, cried out, 'O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

Robert Southwell was born in 1560, at St. Faith's, Norfolk. His parents were Roman Catholics, and sent him when very young to be educated at the English College of Douay, in Flanders. Thence he went to Borne, and when sixteen years of age he joined the Society of the Jesuits--a strange bed for the rearing of a poet. In 1585, he was appointed Prefect of Studies, and was soon after despatched as a missionary of his order to England.

There, notwithstanding a law condemning to death all members of his profession found in this country, he laboured on for eight years, residing chiefly with Anne, Countess of Arundel, who died afterwards in the Tower. In July 1592, Southwell was arrested in a gentleman's house at Uxendon in Middles.e.x. He was thrust into a dungeon so filthy that when he was brought out to be examined his clothes were covered with vermin. This made his father--a man of good family--pet.i.tion Queen Elizabeth that if his son was guilty of anything deserving death he might suffer it, but that, meanwhile, being a gentleman, he should be treated as a gentleman. In consequence of this he was somewhat better lodged, but continued for nearly three years strictly confined to prison; and as the Queen's agents imagined that he was in the secret of some conspiracies against the Government, he was put to the torture ten times. In despair, he entreated to be brought to trial, whereupon Cecil coolly remarked, 'that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' On the 20th of February 1595, he was brought to trial at King's Bench, and having confessed himself a Papist and a Jesuit, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn next day, with all the nameless barbarities enjoined by the treason laws of these unhappy times. He is believed to have borne all his sufferings with unalterable serenity of mind and sweetness of temper. 'It is fitting,'

says Burke, 'that those made to suffer should suffer well.' And suffer well throughout all his short life of sorrow, Southwell did.

He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward Irving's 'Preface to Ben Ezra'--that modern Areopagitica--combining the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode--has forgot the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 'The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving translated from Spanish into his own n.o.ble English prose, and he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the 'good old Jesuit' in a better world. To this probably small cla.s.s of exceptions to a general rule (it surely is no uncharity to say this, since the annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with falsehood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that he had any connexion with the treacherous and b.l.o.o.d.y designs of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with unwearied a.s.siduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits.

His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common in his time --distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and unrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in prison,) rests on the most of his poems.

LOOK HOME.

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.

The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit had equal power of will.

Device of man in working hath no end; What thought can think, another thought can mend.

Man's soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to discern this bliss, a native light, To frame G.o.d's image as his worth required; His might, his skill, his word and will conspired.

All that he had, his image should present; All that it should present, he could afford; To that he could afford his will was bent; His will was follow'd with performing word.

Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, He should, he could, he would, he did the best.

THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.'

But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head A hea.r.s.e 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, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual seat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone?