Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 41

MICHAEL DRAYTON,

The author of 'Polyolbion,' was born in the parish of Atherston, in Warwicks.h.i.+re, about the year 1563. He was the son of a butcher, but displayed such precocity that several persons of quality, such as Sir Walter Aston and the Countess of Bedford, patronised him. In his childhood he was eager to know what strange kind of beings poets were; and on coming to Oxford, (if, indeed, he did study there,) is said to have importuned his tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. He was supported chiefly, through his life, by the Lady Bedford. He paid court, without success, to King James. In 1593 (having long ere this become that 'strange thing a poet') he published a collection of his Pastorals, and afterwards his 'Barons' Wars' and 'England's Heroical Epistles,'

which are both rhymed histories. In 1612-13 he published the first part of 'Polyolbion,' and in 1622 completed the work. In 1626 we hear of him being styled Poet Laureate, but the t.i.tle then implied neither royal appointment, nor fee, nor, we presume, duty. In 1627 he published 'The Battle of Agincourt,' 'The Court of Faerie,' and other poems; and, three years later, a book called 'The Muses' Elysium.' He had at last found an asylum in the family of the Earl of Dorset; whose n.o.ble lady, Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke, and who had been, we saw, Daniel's pupil, after Drayton's death in 1631, erected him a monument, with a gold-lettered inscription, in Westminster Abbey.

The main pillar of Drayton's fame is 'Polyolbion,' which forms a poetical description of England, in thirty songs or books, to which the learned Camden appended notes. The learning and knowledge of this poem are exten- sive, and many of the descriptions are true and spirited, but the s.p.a.ce of ground traversed is too large, and the form of versification is too heavy, for so long a flight. Campbell justly remarks,--'On a general survey, the ma.s.s of his poetry has no strength or sustaining spirit equal to its bulk. There is a perpetual play of fancy on its surface; but the impulses of pa.s.sion, and the guidance of judgment, give it no strong movements or consistent course.'

Drayton eminently suits a 'Selection' such as ours, since his parts are better than his whole.

DESCRIPTION OF MORNING.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave, At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, But hunts-up to the morn the feather'd sylvans sing: And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll, Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole, Those choristers are perch'd with many a speckled breast.

Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring east Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight: On which the mirthful choirs, with their clear open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere.

The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sung T'awake the l.u.s.tless sun, or chiding, that so long He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill; The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill; As nature him had mark'd of purpose, t'let us see That from all other birds his tunes should different be: For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May; Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play.

When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by, In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply, As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw, And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite, They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night, (The more to use their ears,) their voices sure would spare, That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare, As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her.

To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer; And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then, The red-sparrow, the nope, the redbreast, and the wren.

The yellow-pate; which though she hurt the blooming tree, Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she.

And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.

The tydy for her notes as delicate as they, The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay, The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves, Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.

And near to these our thicks, the wild and frightful herds, Not hearing other noise but this of chattering birds, Feed fairly on the lawns; both sorts of season'd deer: Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there: The bucks and l.u.s.ty stags amongst the rascals strew'd, As sometime gallant spirits amongst the mult.i.tude.

Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, The hart among the rest, the hunter's n.o.blest game: Of which most princely chase since none did e'er report, Or by description touch, to express that wondrous sport, (Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' n.o.bler songs) To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs: Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid; But thee, Diana bright, a G.o.ddess and a maid: In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove, Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to rove) At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce; And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's queen, With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green, About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and near, Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here; Save those the best of chase, the tall and l.u.s.ty red, The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head, Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed, The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives, On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir, He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive, As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.

And through the c.u.mbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes, He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep; When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place: And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase; Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the l.u.s.ty stag his high-palm'd head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.

But when the approaching foes still following he perceives, That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves: And o'er the champain flies: which when the a.s.sembly find, Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind.

But being then imbost, the n.o.ble stately deer When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear) Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refres.h.i.+ng soil: That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of s.h.a.g-wooled sheep, Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep.

But when as all his s.h.i.+fts his safety still denies, Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries.

Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand To a.s.sail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand, The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo: When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow; Until the n.o.ble deer through toil bereaved of strength, His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length, The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way To anything he meets now at his sad decay.

The cruel ravenous hounds and b.l.o.o.d.y hunters near, This n.o.blest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed, He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed.

The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay, And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.

The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately a.s.sails; until oppress'd by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

Edward Fairfax was the second, some say the natural, son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorks.h.i.+re. The dates of his birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in managing his elder brother, Lord Fairfax's property, and partly in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demonology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful translation of Ta.s.so, which stamps him a true poet as well as a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which Collins calls him--

'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'

RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET.

1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined; For in the east appear'd the morning gray, And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace s.h.i.+ned, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's s.h.i.+ne; This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:

2 Thus to himself he thought: 'How many bright And splendent lamps s.h.i.+ne in heaven's temple high!

Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky; So framed all by their Creator's might, That still they live and s.h.i.+ne, and ne'er shall die, Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.'

3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear; His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were-- 'The sins and errors, which I now repent, Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, And purge my faults and my offences all.'

4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew In golden weed the morning's l.u.s.ty queen, Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw, His helm, his harness, and the mountain green: Upon his breast and forehead gently blew The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen; And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies:

5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled, And thence of purest white bright rays outstream: So cheered are the flowers, late withered, With the sweet comfort of the morning beam; And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold.

6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed The prince perceived well and long admired; Toward, the forest march'd he on with speed, Resolved, as such adventures great required: Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired; But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.

7 Forward he pa.s.s'd, and in the grove before He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was; There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pa.s.s; There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, There sung the swan, and singing died, alas!

There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent, Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent; Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went; Nor in his way his pa.s.sage ought withstood, Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:

9 On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound, Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd, Which reaching out his stretched arms around, All the large desert in his bosom held, And through the grove one channel pa.s.sage found; This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd: Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made, And so exchanged their moisture and their shade.

10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pa.s.s, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd; A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty ma.s.s, On arches great of that rich metal rear'd: When through that golden way he enter'd was, Down fell the bridge; swelled the stream, and wear'd The work away, nor sign left, where it stood, And of a river calm became a flood.

11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so, Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow; The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro, The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low; But on he went to search for wonders mo,[1]

Through the thick trees, there high and broad which grow; And in that forest huge, and desert wide, The more he sought, more wonders still he spied:

12 Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful ground Renew'd the verdure of her flowery weed; A fountain here, a well-spring there he found; Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread: The aged wood o'er and about him round Flourish'd with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed; And on the boughs and branches of those treen The bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green.

13 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie; The honey stilled[2] from the tender rind: Again he heard that wonderful harmony Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind; The human voices sung a treble high, To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind; But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear.

14 He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts denied To think that true which he did hear and see: A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, And thither by a beaten path went he; The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree, And far above all other plants was seen That forest's lady, and that desert's queen.

15 Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent, And there a marvel great and strange began; An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran, Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, A nymph, for age able to go to man; An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight.[3]

16 Such as on stages play, such as we see The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love, Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be, With buskins laced on their legs above, And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee, Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove; Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree, She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she;

17 And wantonly they cast them in a ring, And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, Rinaldo round about environing, As does its centre the circ.u.mference; The tree they compa.s.s'd eke, and 'gan to sing, That woods and streams admired their excellence-- 'Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet grove, Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love!

18 'Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd; Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd; See, with thy coming how the branches quick Revived are, and in new blossoms dress'd!'

This was their song; and after from it went First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent.

19 If antique times admired Silenus old, Who oft appear'd set on his lazy a.s.s, How would they wonder, if they had behold Such sights, as from the myrtle high did pa.s.s!

Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, That like in shape, in face, and beauty was To fair Armida; Rinald thinks he spies Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes:

20 On him a sad and smiling look she cast, Which twenty pa.s.sions strange at once bewrays; 'And art thou come,' quoth she, 'return'd at last'

To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways?

Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past, To ease my widow nights, and careful days?

Or comest thou to work me grief and harm?

Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm?