Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 44

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat; Thy tables h.o.a.rd not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here.

There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

This found King James, when hunting late this way With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires s.h.i.+ne bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here.

What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but drest As if it had expected such a guest!

These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; Thy lady's n.o.ble, fruitful, chaste withal.

His children * * *

* * have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.

Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Head, in their virtuous parents' n.o.ble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.

Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much, 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these would light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.

But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.

I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!

My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses: For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outs.h.i.+ne, Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line, And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not of an age, but for all time!

And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm!

Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature's family, Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part, For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fas.h.i.+on; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made as well as born, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly s.h.i.+nes In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there!

s.h.i.+ne forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

(UNDER THE FRONTISPIECE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS WORKS: 1623.)

This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to outdo the life: Oh, could he but have drawn his wit, As well in bra.s.s, as he hath hit His face; the print would then surpa.s.s All that was ever writ in 'bra.s.s: But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture but his book.

VERE, STORRER, &c.

In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flourished some minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle: such as Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled in Italy in his youth, and returned the 'most accomplished c.o.xcomb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 'Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, ent.i.tled, 'Fancy and Desire;'--as Thomas Storrer, a student of Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified 'History of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604;--as William Warner, a native of Oxfords.h.i.+re, born in 1558, who became an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died suddenly in 1609, having made himself famous for a time by a poem, ent.i.tled 'Albion's England,' called by Campbell 'an enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy and prolix as a whole;--as Sir John Harrington, who was the son of a poet and the favourite of Ess.e.x, who was created a Knight of the Bath by James I., and who wrote some pointed epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which heeffectually tamed that wild Pegasus; --as Henry Perrot, who collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, ent.i.tled, 'Springes for Woodc.o.c.ks;'--as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, 'A Wife,' and 'The Choice of a Wife,'

pa.s.sed through sixteen editions before the year 1653, although his prose 'Characters,' such as the exquisite and well-known 'Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far better than his poetry;--as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams;--as Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and published, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies;--as Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of his day;--as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624;--and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable poetical pieces.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This was a true poet, although his power comes forth princ.i.p.ally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptons.h.i.+re, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge.

Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W.

Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.

He is a parricide to his mother's name, And with an impious hand murders her fame, That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite The milk they lent us! Better s.e.x! command To your defence my more religious hand, At sword or pen; yours was the n.o.bler birth, For you of man were made, man but of earth-- The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed His fall, again you raised him in your seed.

Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd, That for one rib a better half regain'd, Who, had he not your blest creation seen In Paradise, an anchorite had been.

Why in this work did the creation rest, But that Eternal Providence thought you best Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do Homage to man, but man shall wait on you; You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such As Parians see in marble; skin more fair, More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses Blush in your cheeks; a milder white composes Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his, Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell, You better us, do then our souls excel?

No. * * * *

Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, You were the first ventured to pluck the tree; And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie, Let him dispute against that dares deny Your least commands; and not persuaded be, With Samson's strength and David's piety, To be your willing captives.

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise Against your s.e.x, dispute but with your eyes, Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent So subtle and so strong an argument, Will teach the stoic his affections too, And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

TO MY PICTURE.

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my gla.s.s; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.

Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLa.s.s.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-gla.s.s; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose l.u.s.tre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even G.o.ds to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon.

Madam, alas! your gla.s.s doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,-- (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face.

Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?'

My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

ROBERT BURTON.

The great, though whimsical author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' was born at Lindley, in Leicesters.h.i.+re, 1576, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Seagrave, in his native s.h.i.+re. He was a man of vast erudition, of integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, although in a less measure, 'was blasted _ab origine_ by an incurable taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to go down to the river-side, where the coa.r.s.e jests of the bargemen threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-valve to his morbid feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. Although

'Melancholy mark'd him for her own,'

she failed to kill him till he had pa.s.sed his grand climacteric. He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, said to have been composed by himself:--