So now is come our joyful'st feast; Though some churls at our mirth repine, And let us all be merry. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, Now every lad is wond'rous trim, Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Perceive that they are merry. Rank misers now do sparing shun; Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn, Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn Now poor men to the justices With capons make their errants; They plague them with their warrants: The poor, that else were undone ; On lust and pride at London. And therefore let's be merry. For nuts and apples scrambling. The wenches with their wassail bowls And here they will be merry. Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, The honest now may play the knave, To make our mirth the fuller: Bear witness we are merry. WILLIAM BROWNE. WILLIAM BROWNE (1590-1645) was a pastoral and descriptive poet, who, like Phineas and Giles Fletcher, adopted Spenser for his model. He was a native of Tavistock, in Devonshire, and the beautiful scenery of his native county seems to have inspired his early strains. His descriptions are vivid and true to nature. Browne was tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and on the death of the latter at the battle of Newbury in 1643, he received the patronage and lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke. In this situation he realised a competency, and, according to Wood, purchased an estate. He died at Ottery-St-Mary (the birth-place of Coleridge) in 1645. Browne's works consist of Britannia's Pastorals, the first part of which was published in 1613, the second part in 1616. He wrote, also, a pastoral poem of inferior merit, entitled, The Shepherd's Pipe. In 1620, a masque by Browne was produced at court, called The Inner Temple Masque; but it was not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, transcribed from a manuscript in the Bodleian Library. As all the poems of Browne were produced before he was thirty years of age, and the best when he was little more than twenty, we need not be surprised at their containing marks of juvenility, and frequent traces of resemblance to previous poets, especially Spenser, whom he warmly admired. His pastorals obtained the approbation of Selden, Drayton, Wither, and Ben Jonson. Britannia's Pastorals are written in the heroic couplet, and contain much beautiful descriptive poetry. Browne had great facility of expression, and an intimate acquaintance with the phenomena of inanimate nature, and the characteristic features of the English landscape. Why he has failed in maintaining his ground among his contemporaries, must be attributed to the want of vigour and condensation in his works, and the almost total absence of human interest. His shepherds and shepherdesses have nearly as little character as the silly sheep' they tend; whilst pure description, that takes the place of sense,' can never permanently interest any large number of readers. So completely had some of the poems of Browne vanished from the public view and recollection, that, had it not been for a single copy of them possessed by the Rev. Thomas Warton, and which that poetical student and antiquary lent to be transcribed, it is supposed there would have remained little of those works which their author fondly hoped would Keep his name enroll'd past his that shines Warton cites the following lines of Browne, as containing an assemblage of the same images as the morning picture in the L'Allegro of Milton : By this had chanticleer, the village cock, [A Descriptive Sketch.] O what a rapture have I gotten now! That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, Have drawn me from my song! I onward run (Clean from the end to which I first begun), But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West, In whom the virtues and the graces rest, Pardon ! that I have run astray so long, And grow so tedious in so rude a song. If you yourselves should come to add one grace Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge, There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge; Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees, The walks there mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, (As if it were another paradise), So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all In singing well their own set madrigal. This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there. Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant clusters decking each good tree, Invite your hand to crop them from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them : Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense : Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth. [Evening.] As in an evening, when the gentle air Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank, to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear: When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain, That likes me, straight I ask the same again, And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er Browne celebrated the death of a friend under the With some sweet relish was forgot before: ון I would have been content if he would play, [Night.] The sable mantle of the silent night Shut from the world the ever-joysome light. Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung, [Pastoral Employments.] But since her stay was long: for fear the sun FRANCIS QUARLES. The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644) are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex, educated at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused the cause of Charles L., and was so harassed by the opposite party, who injured his property, and plundered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that his death was attributed to the affliction and ill health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have molsist of various pieces-Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, lified the rage of his persecutors. His poems conThe History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The Divine Emblems. The latter were published in 1645, and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium still holds good to some extent, for the Divine Emblems, with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages of our peasants. After the Restoration, when everything sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ribald jests, Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, had he read him, must have relished his lively fancy and poetical expression, notices only his bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant taste of modern times has admitted the divine emblemist into the 'laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at [The Syren's Song.] [From the Inner Temple Masque.'] Steer hither, steer your winged pines, Here lie undiscover'd mines A prey to passengers; Nor any to oppose you save our lips; Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, The compass, love shall hourly sing, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. least sure of his due measure of homage and atten. tion. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and religion, had been tried with success by Peacham and Wither. Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, his model, and from the 'Pia Desideria' of this author, copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting the most outré and ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts. Stanzas. As when a lady, walking Flora's bower, The Shortness of Life. And what's a life?-a weary pilgrimage, Read on this dial, how the shades devour To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile. Mors Tua. Can he be fair, that withers at a blast! The Vanity of the World. : False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st I love (and have some cause to love) the earth; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee? I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh I love the sea she is my fellow-creature, But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, To heaven's high city I direct my journey, But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee! With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, The highest honours that the world can boast, thou ly'st. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her: There's none can want where thou supply'st: Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say! Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coin'd treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in't, Nor wealth, nor pleasure: Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st With man; vain man! that thou rely'st Are subjects far too low for my desire; The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Decay of Life. The day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath made And the descending damp doth now prepare To uncurl bright Titan's hair; Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms. Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The spirits of all flesh; The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts The boxbill ouzle, and the dappled thrush, And now the cold autumnal dews are seen To cobweb every green; And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear The sapless branches doff their summer suits, And wain their winter fruits; And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze. Our wasted taper now hath brought her light To the next door to night; Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn Sad as her neighb'ring urn: Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains, And in a silent language bids her guest Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest. Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful plough And snowy blasts of discontented care Suspicious envy mix'd with jealous spite Disturbs his weary night: He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was. Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last: Those hasty wings that hurried them away The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire Until her works expire: That blast that nipp'd thy youth will ruin thee; the tree. To Chastity. Oh, Chastity !—the flower of the soul, GEORGE HERBERT. GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1632) was of noble birth, though chiefly known as a pious country clergyman-holy George Herbert,' who The lowliest duties on himself did lay. His father was descended from the earls of Pembroke, and lived in Montgomery Castle, Wales, where the poet was born. His elder brother was the celebrated mitted his works to him before publication. The poet was also in favour with King James, who gave him a sinecure office worth £120 per annum, which Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to Sir Philip Sidney. With this,' says Izaak Walton, and his annuity, and the advantages of his college, and of his oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humour for clothes and court-like company, and seldom looked towards Cambridge unless the king were there, but then he never failed.' The death of the king and of two powerful friends, the Duke of Richmond and Marquis of Hamilton, destroyed Herbert's court hopes, and he entered into sacred orders. He was first prebend of Layton Ecclesia (the church of which he rebuilt), and afterwards was made rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, where he passed the remainder of his life." After describing the poet's marriage on the third day after his first interview with the lady, old Izaak Walton relates, with chaIracteristic simplicity and minuteness, a matrimonial scene preparatory to their removal to Bemerton :The third day after he was made rector of Bemerton, and had changed his sword and silk clothes into a canonical habit (he had probably never done duty regularly at Layton Ecclesia), he returned so habited with his friend Mr Woodnot to Bainton; and immediately after he had seen and saluted his wife, he said to her, "You are now a minister's wife, and must now so far forget your father's house as not to claim a precedence of any of your parishioners; for you are to know that a priest's wife can challenge no precedence or place but that which she purchases by her obliging humility; and I am sure places so purchased do best become them. And let me tell you, I am so good a herald as to assure you that this is truth." And she was so meek a wife, as to assure him it was no vexing news to her, and that he should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness.' Herbert discharged his clerical duties with saint*The rectory of Bemerton is now held by another poet, the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles. |