1 And heap'd snow burdned him so sore, Of cattle, and brouzed, and sorely hurt. [From the Epithalamion.] Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time; And Phœbus 'gins to show his glorious head. Hark! now the cheerful birds do chant their lays, And carol of Love's praise. 1 The merry lark her matins sings aloft; The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays; The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this day's merriment. Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long, The dewy leaves among! For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, My love is now awake out of her dream, And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were Help quickly her to dight: But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot, Do make and still repair; And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, Help to adorn my beautifullest bride : And, as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen; And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, Her modest eyes, abashed to behold Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before? So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded, But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity, The which the base affections do obey, Then would ye wonder and her praises sing, Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. And all the posts adorn as doth behove, And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, For to receive this saint with honour due, 1 That cometh in to you. And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, With trembling steps, and humble reverence, She cometh in, before the Almighty's view: The joyfull'st day that ever sun did see. Her beauty to disgrace. O fairest Phœbus! father of the Muse! If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight, | But let this day, let this one day be mine; Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, | That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Lo! where she comes along with portly pace, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire, And being crowned with a garland green, Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, The choristers the joyous anthem sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring Behold, while she before the altar stands, That even the angels, which continually Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, That suffers not a look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand, Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. A distinguished place among the secondary poetical lights of the reign of Elizabeth is due to ROBERT SOUTHWELL, who is also remarkable as a victim of the religious contentions of the period. He was born in 1560, at St Faiths, Norfolk, of Roman Catholic parents, who sent him, when very young, to be educated at the English college at Douay, in Flanders, and from thence to Rome, where, at sixteen years of age, he entered the society of the Jesuits. In 1584, he returned to his native country, as a missionary, notwithstanding a law which threatened all members of his profession found in England with death. For eight years he appears to have ministered secretly but zealously to the scattered adherents of his creed, without, as far as is known, doing anything to disturb the peace of society, when, in 1592, he was apprehended in a gentleman's house at Uxenden in Middlesex, and committed to a dungeon in the Tower, so noisome and filthy, that, when he was brought out for examination, his clothes were covered with vermin. Upon this his father, a man of good family, presented a petition to Queen Elizabeth, begging, that if his son had committed anything for which, by the laws, he had deserved death, he might suffer death; if not, as he was a gentleman, he hoped her majesty would be pleased to order him to be treated as a gentleman. Southwell was, after this, somewhat better lodged, but an imprisonment of three years, with ten inftictions of the rack, wore out his patience, and he intreated to be brought to trial. Cecil is said to have made the brutal remark, that if he was in so much haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' Being at this trial found guilty, upon his own confession, of being a Romish priest, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn accordingly, with all the horrible circumstances dictated by the old treason laws of Eng land. Throughout all these scenes, he behaved with a mild fortitude which nothing but a highly regulated mind and satisfied conscience could prompted. The life of Southwell, though short, was full of grief. The prevailing tone of his poetry is therefore that of a religious resignation to severe evils. His two longest poems, St Peter's Complaint, and Mary Magdalene's Funeral Tears, were, like many other works of which the world has been proud, written in prison. It is remarkable that, though composed while suffering under persecution, no trace of angry feeling against any human being or any human institution, occurs in these poems. After experiencing great popularity in their own time, insomuch that eleven editions were printed between 1593 and 1600, the poems of Southwell fell, like most of the other productions of that age, into a long-enduring neglect. Their merits having been again acknowledged in our own day, a complete reprint of them appeared in 1818, under the editorial care of Mr W. Joseph Walter. The Image of Death. Before my face the picture hangs, But yet, alas! full little I I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And can I think to 'scape alone? The lopped tree in time may grow again, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. Love's Servile Lot. She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill; She offereth joy, but bringeth grief; A kiss-where she doth kill. A honey shower rains from her lips, She makes thee seek, yet fear to find; She letteth fall some luring baits, Now sweet, now sour, for every taste Her watery eyes have burning force, May never was the month of love, With soothing words enthralled souls Her little sweet hath many sours; Like winter rose and summer ice, Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Seek other mistress for your mindsLove's service is in vain. Scorn not the Least. Where words are weak, and foes encount'ring strong, And silent sees, that speech could not amend: Yet higher powers must think, though they repine, When sun is set the little stars will shine. While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly, These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish; The merlin cannot ever soar on high, Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase; In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, Yet he to heaven-to hell did Dives go. SAMUEL DANIEL. SAMUEL DANTEL was the son of a music-master. He was born in 1562, near Taunton, in Somerset shire, and seems to have been educated under the patronage of the Pembroke family. In 1579, he was entered a commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, where he chiefly devoted himself to the study of poetry and history; at the end of three years, he quitted the university, without taking a degree, and was appointed tutor to Anne Clifford, daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. After the death of Spenser, Daniel became what Mr Campbell calls 'voluntary laureate' to the court, but he was soon superseded by Ben Jonson. In the reign of James (1603), he was appointed Master of the Queen's Revel's, and inspector of the plays to be represented by the juvenile performers. He was also preferred to be a Gentleman-Extraordinary and Groom of the Chamber to Queen Anne. Towards the close of his life, he retired to a farm at Beckington, in Somersetshire, where he died in October 1619. The works of Daniel fill two considerable volumes; but most of them are extremely dull. Of this nature is, in particular, his History of the Civil War (between the houses of York and Lancaster), which occupied him for several years, but is not in the least superior to the most sober of prose narratives. His Complaint of Rosamond is, in like manner, rather a piece of versified history than a poem. His two tragedies, Cleopatra and Philotas, and two pastoral tragi-comedies, Hymen's Triumph and The Queen's Arcadia, are not less deficient in poetical effect. In all of these productions, the historical taste of the author seems to have altogether suppressed the poetical. It is only by virtue of his minor pieces and sonnets, that Daniel continues to maintain his place amongst the English poets. His Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland is a fine effusion of meditative thought. [From the Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland.] He that of such a height hath built his mind, And with how free an eye doth he look down He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars, Where evermore the fortune that prevails Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill. 7 [Richard II., the Morning before his Murder in Whether the soul receives intelligence, With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, However, so it is, the now sad king, Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, The morning of that day which was his last, O happy man, saith he, that lo I see, Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, [Early Love.] Ah, I remember well (and how can I Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: and thus We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness! Yet still would give me flowers, still would show What she would have me, yet not have me know. [Selections from Daniel's Sonnets.] I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes are sunny; Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, MICHAEL DRAYTON. MICHAEL DRAYTON, born, it is supposed, at Atherston, in Warwickshire, about the year 1563, and the son of a butcher, discovered in his earliest years such proofs of a superior mind, that, at the age of ten, he was made page to a person of quality-a situation which was not in that age thought too humble for the sons of gentlemen. He is said, upon dubious authority, to have been for some time a student at Oxford. It is certain that, in early life, he was highly esteemed and strongly patronised by several persons of consequence; particularly by Sir Henry Goodere, Sir Walter Aston, and the Countess of Bedford: to the first he was indebted for great part of his education, and for recommending him to the countess; the second supported him for several years. In 1593, Drayton published a collection of his pastorals, and soon after gave to the world his more elaborate poems of The Baron's Wars and England's Heroical Epistles. In these latter productions, as in the History of the Civil War by Daniel, we see symptoms of that taste for poetised history (as it may be called) which marked the age -which is first seen in Sackville's design of the Mirrour for Magistrates, and was now developing itself strongly in the historical plays of Shakspeare, Marlow, and others. On the accession of James L in 1603. Drayton acted as an esquire to his patron, Sir Walter Aston, in the ceremony of his installation as a Knight of the Bath. The poet expected some patronage from the new sovereign, but was disappointed. He published the first part of his most elaborate work, the Polyolbion, in 1612, and the second in 1622, the whole forming a poetical description of England, in thirty songs, or books. Michael Drayton. The Polyolbion is a work entirely unlike any other in English poetry, both in its subject and the manner in which it is written. It is full of topographical and antiquarian details, with innumerable allusions to remarkable events and persons, as connected with various localities; yet such is the poetical genius of the author, so happily does he idealise almost everything he touches on, and so lively is the flow of his verse, that we do not readily tire in perusing this vast mass of information. seems to have followed the manner of Spenser in his unceasing personifications of natural objects, such as hills, rivers, and woods. The information contained in this work is in general so accurate, that it is quoted as an authority by Hearne and Wood. In 1627, Drayton published a volume containing The Battle of Agincourt, The Court of Faerie, and other poems. Three years later appeared another volume, entitled The Muses' Elysium, from which it appears that he had found a final shelter in the family of the Earl of Dorset. On his death in 1631, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument, containing an inscription in letters of gold, was raised to his memory by the wife of that nobleman, the justly celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke and Montgomery. Drayton, throughout the whole of his writings, voluminous as they are, shows the fancy and feeling of the true poet. According to Mr Headley-He possessed a very considerable fertility of mind, which enabled him to distinguish himself in almost every species of poetry, from a trifling sonnet to a long topographical poem. If he anywhere sinks below himself, it is in his attempts at satire. In a most pedantic era, he was unaffected, and seldom exhibits his learning at the expense of his judgment.' [Morning in Warwickshire-Description of a When Phœbus 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 feath'red sylvans sing: breast, Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east 1 Of all birds, only the blackbird whistleth. Of hunting, or chase. |