vour of a lover. He had an extravagant admiration of the mystic writings of St Theresa, founder of the Carmelites, which seems to have had a bad effect on his own taste, naturally prone, from his enthusiastic temperament, to carry any favourite object, feeling, or passion, to excess. In these flights into the third heavens, 'with all his garlands and singing robes about him,' Crashaw luxuriates among
An hundred thousand loves and graces, And many a mystic thing Which the divine embraces
All his leaves so fresh and sweet, And lay them trembling at his feet. I've seen the morning's lovely ray Hover o'er the new-born day, With rosy wings, so richly bright, As if he scorn'd to think of night, When a ruddy storm, whose scowl Made Heaven's radiant face look foul, Call'd for an untimely night To blot the newly-blossom'd light.
The felicity and copiousness of Crashaw's language
Of the dear Spouse of Spirits with them will bring; are, however, best seen from his translations; and
For which it is no shame
That dull mortality must not know a name.
Such seem to have been his daily contemplations, the heavenly manna on which his young spirit fed with delight. This mystical style of thought and fancy naturally led to exaggeration and to conceits. The latter pervaded all the poetry of the time, and Crashaw could hardly escape the infection, even if there had not been in his peculiar case strong pre- disposing causes. But, amidst all his abstractions, metaphors, and apostrophes, Crashaw is seldom tedious. His imagination was copious and various. He had, as Coleridge has remarked, a 'power and opulence of invention,' and his versification is some- times highly musical. With more taste and judg- ment (which riper years might have produced), Crashaw would have outstripped most of his con- temporaries, even Cowley. No poet of his day is so rich in 'barbaric pearl and gold,' the genuine ore of poetry. It is deeply to be regretted that his life had not been longer, more calm and fortunate-realising his own exquisite lines-
A happy soul, that all the way To heaven, hath a summer's day.
Amidst his visions of angels ascending and des- cending, Crashaw had little time or relish for earthly love. He has, however, left a copy of verses en- titled, Wishes to a Supposed Mistress, in which are
we subjoin, entire, his version of Music's Duel, from the Latin of Strada. It is seldom that so sweet and luxurious a strain of pure description and sentiment greets us in our poetical pilgrimage:
Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, Under protection of an oak, there sat A sweet lute's-master; in whose gentle airs He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood (The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she): There stood she list'ning, and did entertain The music's soft report: and mould the same In her own murmurs; that whatever mood His curious fingers lent, her voice made good: The man perceiv'd his rival, and her art, Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport, Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come Informs it in a sweet præludium
Of closer strains, and e'er the war begin, He lightly skirmishes on every string Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she Carves out her dainty voice as readily, Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones, And reckons up in soft divisions
some fine thoughts. He desires his fair one to pos- Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know,
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By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing To their own dance; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together; then distinctly trips From this to that, then quick returning, skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleek passage of her open throat, A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being rear'd In controverting warbles, evenly shar'd, With her sweet self she wrangles; he amaz'd, That from so small a channel should be rais'd The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety,
Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, The tattling strings, each breathing in his part, Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace; The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides, Until his finger (moderator) hides
And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson too
She gives them back: her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, And folds in wav'd notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song; Then starts she suddenly into a throng
Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys
And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, still'd out of her breast; That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody; Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airs A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire, Sounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon, and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,
To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing (Most divine service): whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice, In the close murmur of a sparkling noise; And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song, Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out) Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast, Till the fledg'd notes at length forsake their nest, Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Wing'd with their own wild echoes, prattling fly. She opes the flood-gate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the wav'd back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train, And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird; Her little soul is ravish'd, and so pour'd Into loose ecstacies, that she is plac'd Above herself, music's enthusiast.
Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain In the musician's face: 'yet, once again, Mistress, I come: now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be for ever mute. Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy.'
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings : The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted, Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted: Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,
Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self look
From this to that, from that to this he flies, Feels music's pulse in all her arteries; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, Following those little rills, he sinks into
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he invoke Sweetness by all her names: thus, bravely thus (Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, Heav'd on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies; Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air With flash of high-born fancies, here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs, Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares; Because those precious mysteries that dwell In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell, But whisper to the world thus do they vary, Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears By a strong ecstacy) through all the spheres Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high, In th' empyreum of pure harmony.
At length (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety, attending on
His fingers' fairest revolution,
In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.
This done, he lists what she would say to this; And she, although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone; She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies: She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize, Falling upon his lute: Oh fit to have
(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!
Temperance, or the Cheap Physician.
Go, now, and with some daring drug Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tug, Thou, to maintain their precious strife, Spend the dear treasures of thy life. Go, take physic, dote upon Some big-named composition, The oraculous doctors' mystic bills- Certain hard words made into pills; And what at last shalt gain by these! Only a costlier disease.
That which makes us have no need Of physic, that's physic indeed. Hark, hither, reader! wilt thou see Nature her own physician be? Wilt see a man, all his own wealth, His own music, his own health; A man whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well; Her garments, that upon her sit, As garments should do, close and fit; A well-cloth'd soul that's not oppress'd Nor chok'd with what she should be dress'd; A soul sheath'd in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine; As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aërial veil, is drawn
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,
A sea of Helicon; his hand does go
More sweetly shows the blushing bride;
Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup: The humorous strings expound his learned touch
A soul, whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steams- A happy soul, that all the way
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;
To heaven, hath a summer's day? Would'st see a man, whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood ?
A man whose tuned humours be
A seat of rarest harmony?
Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile Age? Wouldst see December smile? Wouldst see nests of new roses grow In a bed of reverend snow ?
Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering Winter's self into a spring? In sum, wouldst see a man that can Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; And when life's sweet fable ends, Soul and body part like friends; No quarrels, murmurs, no delay; A kiss, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see? Hark, hither? and thyself be he.
Hymn to the Name of Jesus.
I sing the Name which none can say, But touch'd with an interior ray; The name of our new peace; our good; Our bliss, and supernatural blood; The name of all our lives and loves: Hearken and help, ye holy doves! The high-born brood of day; you bright Candidates of blissful light,
The heirs elect of love; whose names belong Unto the everlasting life of song;
All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest. Awake, my glory! soul (if such thou be,
And that fair word at all refer to thee),
Awake and sing,
And be all wing!
Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see
What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee.
O thou art poor
Of noble powers, I see,
And full of nothing else but empty me;
Narrow and low, and infinitely less
Than this great morning's mighty business.
One little world or two, Alas! will never do;
We must have store;
Then rouse the nest
Of nimble art, and traverse round
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound :
And beat a summons in the same
All-sovereign name,
To warn each several kind
And shape of sweetness-be they such
As sigh with supple wind Or answer artful touch-
That they convene and come away
Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted! Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers,
Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us
In balmy showers!
Oh, fill our senses, and take from us
All force of so profane a fallacy,
To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.
Fair flow'ry name! in none but thee,
And thy nectareal fragrancy,
Hourly there meets
An universal synod of all sweets;
By whom it is defined thus
That no perfume
For ever shall presume
To pass for odoriferous,
But such alone whose sacred pedigree
Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee.
Sweet name! in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Arabias dwell; A thousand hills of frankincense; Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices, And ten thousand paradises,
The soul that tastes thee takes from thence. How many unknown worlds there are Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping! How many thousand mercies there In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping ! Happy he who has the art
To awake them, And to take them
Home, and lodge them in his heart. Oh, that it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee,
To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase
To persecutions; and against the face
Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave And sober pace march on to meet a grave.
On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee; In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Where racks and torments striv'd in vain to reach
Little, alas! thought they
Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
Their fury but made way
For thee, and serv'd them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers, More freely to transpire That impatient fire
The heart that hides thee hardly covers ! What did their weapons, but set wide the doors For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising; The ruby windows which enrich'd the east
Of thy so oft-repeated rising.
Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,
And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest,
With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning: It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds
Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds.
Welcome, dear, all-adored name!
For sure there is no knee
That knows not thee;
| Or if there be such sons of shame,
Alas! what will they do,
When stubborn rocks shall bow,
And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
To seek for humble beds
Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,
And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread
They that by love's mild dictate now
Will not adore thee,
Shall then, with just confusion, bow And break before thee.
SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE, knight, brother of Thomas Lord Fanshawe, was born in 1607. He joined the royalists, and was secretary at war to Prince Rupert. After the Restoration, he was appointed ambassador to Spain and Portugal, in which character he died at Madrid in 1666. Fanshawe translated the Lusiad of Camoens, and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. With the latter production, published in 1648, he gave to the world some miscellaneous poems, from which the following are selected :
Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon : What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon: And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain.
Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn: And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born; Nay, force thy bud to blow; their tyrant breath
Anticipating life, to hasten death.
Thee, senseless stock, because thou'rt richly gilt, The blinded people without cause admire, And superstition impiously hath built
Altars to that which should have been the fire.
Where shall my tongue consent to worship thee, Since all's not gold that glisters and is fair; Carving but makes an image of a tree : But gods of images are made by prayer.
Sabean incense in a fragrant cloud
Illustriously suspended d'er thy crown
Like a king's canopy, makes thee allow'd
For more than man. But let them take thee down,
And thy true value be once understood,
Thy dull idolaters will find thou'rt wood.
SONG. The Saint's Encouragement. [Written in 1643.]
Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause;
Fear not the cavaliers;
Their threat'nings are as senseless, as
Our jealousies and fears.
'Tis you must perfect this great work,
And all malignants slay,
You must bring back the king again
The clean contrary way.
'Tis for Religion that you fight,
And for the kingdom's good,
By robbing churches, plundering men, tless blood.
And shedding guiltless
Down with the orthodoxal train,
All loyal subjects slay;
When these are gone, we shall be blest,
The clean contrary way.
When Charles we've bankrupt made like us,
Of crown and power bereft him,
And all his loyal subjects slain, And none but rebels left him. When we've beggar'd all the land, And sent our trunks away, We'll make him then a glorious prince,
The clean contrary way.
'Tis to preserve his majesty,
That we against him fight, Nor are we ever beaten back, Because our cause is right: If any make a scruple on't, Our declarations say, Who fight for us, fight for the king The clean contrary way.
At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York, And divers places more, What victories we saints obtain'd,
The like ne'er seen before! How often we Prince Rupert kill'd, And bravely won the day; The wicked cavaliers did run
The clean contrary way.
The true religion we maintain,
The kingdom's peace and plenty ;
The privilege of parliament
Not known to one of twenty; The ancient fundamental laws; And teach men to obey
Their lawful sovereign; and all these
The clean contrary way.
We subjects' liberties preserve, By prisonments and plunder, And do enrich ourselves and state By keeping the wicked under. We must preserve mechanics now, To lecturise and pray;
By them the Gospel is advanced The clean contrary way.
And though the king be much misled By that malignant crew; He'll find us honest, and at last Give all of us our due.
For we do wisely plot, and plot, Rebellion to destroy,
He sees we stand for peace and truth, The clean contrary way.
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Come, pass about the bowl to me; A health to our distressed king! Though we're in hold, let cups go free, Birds in a cage do freely sing. The ground does tipple healths apace, When storms do fall, and shall not we? A sorrow dares not show its face,
When we are ships and sack 's the sea. Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing, Shall kill ourselves for fear of death? We'll live by the air which songs doth bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath: Then let us not be discontent,
Nor drink a glass the less of wine; In vain they'll think their plagues are spent When once they see we don't repine.
We do not suffer here alone,
Though we are beggar'd, so's the king; 'Tis sin t' have wealth, when he has none;
Tush! poverty's a royal thing! When we are larded well with drink,
Our heads shall turn as round as theirs, Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink Clean down the wind, like cavaliers.
Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline, Ourselves will be a zodiac,
And every month shall be a sign. Methinks the travels of the glass Are circular like Plato's year, Where everything is as it was;
Let's tipple round; and so 'tis here.
LADY ELIZABETH CAREW is believed to be the
author of the tragedy of Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry, 1613. Though wanting in dramatic interest and spirit, there is a vein of fine sentiment and feeling in this forgotten drama. The following chorus, in Act the Fourth, possesses a generous and noble simplicity :
[Revenge of Injuries.]
The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury; For who forgives without a further strife, His adversary's heart to him doth tie.
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head.
If we a worthy enemy do find,
To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind,
In base revenge there is no honour won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow, And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?
We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor: Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.
A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn.
To scorn to owe a duty overlong; To scorn to be for benefits forborne;
To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong.
To scorn to bear an injury in mind;
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.
But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind; Do we his body from our fury save,
And let our hate prevail against our mind ? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he?
Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, She would to Herod then have paid her love, And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. To fix her thoughts all injury above Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, Long famous life to her had been allow'd.
While Sidney, Spenser, Marlow, and other poets, were illustrating the reign of Elizabeth, the muses were not wholly neglected in Scotland. There was, however, so little intercourse between the two nations, that the works of the English bards seem to have been comparatively unknown in the north, and to have had no Scottish imitators. The country was then in a rude and barbarous state, tyrannised over by the nobles, and torn by feuds and dissensions. In England, the Reformation had proceeded from the throne, and was accomplished with little violence or disorder. In Scotland, it uprooted the whole form of society, and was marked by fierce contentions and lawless turbulence. The absorbing influence of this ecclesiastical struggle was unfavourable to the cultivation of poetry. It shed a gloomy spirit over the nation, and almost proscribed the study of romantic literature. The drama, which in England was the nurse of so many fine thoughts, so much stirring passion, and beautiful imagery, was shunned as a leprosy, fatal to religion and morality. The very songs in Scotland partook of this religious character; and so widely was the polemical spirit diffused, that ALEXANDER SCOT, in his New Year Gift to the Queen, in 1562, says
That limmer lads and little lasses, lo,
Will argue baith with bishop, priest, and friar.
Scot wrote several short satires, and some miscellaneous poems, the prevailing amatory character of which has caused him to be called the Scottish Anacreon, though there are many points wanting to complete his resemblance to the Teian bard. As specimens of his talents, the two following pieces are presented :
Lo what it is to luve, Learn ye that list to pruve, By me, I say, that no ways may, The grund of greif remuve.
But still decay, both nicht and day; Lo what it is to luve!
Luve is ane fervent fire, Kendillit without desire, Short plesour, lang displesour; Repentance is the hire;
Ane pure tressour, without messour; Luve is ane fervent fire.
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