Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 64

The swift approach of endless night Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; They awake the rest with dying cries, And darkness doubles the affright.

The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear.

Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice Pierces this chaos of confused noise; As brighter lightning cuts a way, Clear and distinguished through the day: With less complaints the Zoan temples sound When the adored heifer's drowned, And no true marked successor to be found: While health, and strength, and gladness does possess The festal Hebrew cottages; The bless'd destroyer comes not there, To interrupt the sacred cheer, That new begins their well-reformed year.

Upon their doors he read and understood G.o.d's protection writ in blood; Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, And though he pa.s.sed by it in haste, He bowed, and wors.h.i.+pped as he pa.s.sed The mighty mystery through its humble sign.

XVII.

The sword strikes now too deep and near, Longer with its edge to play, No diligence or cost they spare To haste the Hebrews now away, Pharaoh himself chides their delay; So kind and bountiful is fear!

But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, Is but like fire struck out of stone, So hardly got, and quickly gone, That it scarce outlives the blow.

Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, Rage and revenge their place possess'd: With a vast host of chariots and of horse, And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, The travelling nation he pursues, Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews.

Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, 'The Egyptian G.o.ds, from Syrian magic free, Will now revenge themselves and me; Behold what pa.s.sless rocks on either hand, Like prison walls, about them stand!

Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, And in our injured justice they must find A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; Which shall with crimson gore New paint the water's name, and double dye the sh.o.r.e.'

XVIII.

He spoke; and all his host Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; A bidden wind bore his vain words away, And drowned them in the neighbouring sea.

No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, And with degenerous fear to die, Curse their new-gotten liberty: But the great Guide well knew he led them right, And saw a path hid yet from human sight: He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side Unloose their close embraces, and divide, And backwards press, as in some solemn show The crowding people do, (Though just before no s.p.a.ce was seen,) To let the admired triumph pa.s.s between.

The wondering army saw, on either hand, The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand.

They marched betwixt, and boldly trod The secret paths of G.o.d: And here and there, all scattered in their way, The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay Deserted on the sandy plain: The sun did with astonishment behold The inmost chambers of the opened main, For whatsoe'er of old By his own priests, the poets, has been said, He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed.

XIX.

Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, To the other sh.o.r.e at morning-dawn they came, And saw behind the unguided foe March disorderly and slow: The prophet straight from the Idumean strand Shakes his imperious wand; The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, The beckoning wand espy; Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, And with a murmuring wind Give the word march to all behind; The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, But with a joyful, louder noise, Answer their distant fellows' voice, And haste to meet them make, As several troops do all at once a common signal take.

What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, Which on the Chamian army fell, When on both sides they saw the roaring main Broke loose from his invisible chain?

They saw the monstrous death and watery war Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; In vain some backward and some forwards fly With helpless haste, in vain they cry To their celestial beasts for aid; In vain their guilty king they upbraid, In vain on Moses he, and Moses' G.o.d, does call, With a repentance true too late: They're compa.s.sed round with a devouring fate That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all.

GEORGE WITHER

This remarkable man was born in Hamps.h.i.+re, at Bentworth, near Alton, in 1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his 'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed translation.

In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch.

When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In 1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand.

Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some pa.s.sages in 'The Shepherd's Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is refres.h.i.+ng to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy.

FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.'

See'st thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs could heavens raise?

And the vapours that do breathe From the earth's gross womb beneath, Seem they not with their black steams To pollute the sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it unblemished, fair?

So, my w.i.l.l.y, shall it be With Detraction's breath and thee: It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy.

As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale; Poesy so sometimes drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 'Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do That she can dissolve them too.

If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power!

Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more: Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with Fame at last.

Let nought therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight: For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity.

But, alas! my Muse is slow; For thy pace she flags too low.

Yes, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipped of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a-muing.

But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did.

And though for her sake I'm cross'd, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more than ten times double; I would love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do.

For though banished from my flocks, And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light, And consume the sullen night; She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away.

Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the springtide yields; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the la.s.ses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance, poor relief, That more makes than mends my grief: She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envy's evil will: Whence she should be driven too, Were 't in mortals' power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments.

In my former days of bliss, His divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw, I could some invention draw; And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight: By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling; By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when t.i.tan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can, In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness: The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves, This black den, which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals, that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect, From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this!

Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee!

Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of gladness If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits!

And though some, too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them!

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

1 Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May; If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?

2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind?

Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature?

Be she meeker, kinder, than The turtle-dove or pelican; If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be?

3 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love?

Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget mine own?

Be she with that goodness blest, Which may merit name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a n.o.ble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do, That without them dare to woo; And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?

5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe-- I will die ere she shall grieve.

If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go: If she be not fit for me, What care I for whom she be?

THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD.

1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, Pis.h.!.+ unclasp these wanton arms; Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, Though thou prove a thousand charms.

Fie, fie, forbear; No common snare Can ever my affection chain: Thy painted baits, And poor deceits, Are all bestowed on me in vain.

2 I'm no slave to such as you be; Neither shall that snowy breast, Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest: Go, go, display Thy beauty's ray To some more soon enamoured swain: Those common wiles Of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain.

3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; Turn away thy tempting eye: Show not me a painted beauty: These impostures I defy: My spirit loathes Where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain: I love her so, Whose look swears No, That all your labours will be vain.

4 Can he prize the tainted posies Which on every breast are worn, That may pluck the virgin roses From their never-touched thorn?

I can go rest On her sweet breast That is the pride of Cynthia's train: Then stay thy tongue, Thy mermaid song Is all bestowed on me in vain.

5 He's a fool that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him: Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's n.o.ble hills to climb?

No, no, though clowns Are scared with frowns, I know the best can but disdain; And those I'll prove: So will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vain.