And some delight to me the while, We then shall have a day or two, Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home, Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream. [A Welsh Guide.] [From 'A Voyage to Ireland."] The sun in the morning disclosed his light, His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; Now, such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat; Good God! how sweet are all things here! How cleanly do we feed and lie! What peace, what unanimity! Is all our business, all our recreation! By turns to come and visit ye! Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to intend, With thee I here converse at will, And would be glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read, and meditate, and write, By none offended, and offending none! O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, Upon thy flowery banks to lie, I ever learn'd, industriously to try! Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show; The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine Are both too mean, Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, O my beloved rocks, that rise To awe the earth and brave the skies, How dearly do I love, Giddy with pleasure, to look down; And, from the vales, to view the noble heights above! What safety, privacy, what true delight, Ev'n such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, How oft, when grief has made me fly, The one for a horse, the other an ass. The Retirement. Stanzas Irreguliers, to Mr Izaak Walton. Farewell, thou busy world, and may Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray, Upon the most conspicuous theatres, To hide me from society, E'en of my dearest friends, have I, In your recesses' friendly shade, And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy! Lord! would men let me alone, Should I think myself to be; Might I in this desert place (Which most men in discourse disgrace) 354 Live but undisturb'd and free! In all Charles's days Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays. The EARL OF ROSCOMMON (1633-1684) was the nephew and godson of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. He travelled abroad during the civil war, and returned at the time of the Restoration, when he was made captain of the band of pensioners, and subsequently master of the horse to the Duchess of York. Roscommon, like Denham, was addicted to gambling; but he cultivated his taste for literature, and produced a poetical Essay on Translated Verse, a translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and some other minor pieces. He planned, in conjunction with Dryden, a scheme for refining our language and fixing its standard; but, while meditating on this and similar topics connected with literature, the arbitrary measures of James II. caused public alarm and commotion. Roscommon, dreading the result. prepared to retire to Rome, saying 'It was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked.' An attack of gout prevented the poet's departure, and he died in 1684. At the moment in which he expired,' says Johnson, 'he uttered, with an energy of voice that expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own version of "Dies Iræ" My God, my Father, and my Friend, The only work of Roscommon's which may be said [The Modest Muse.] With how much ease is a young maid betray'd- Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense. What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, Take then a subject proper to expound, Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good; [Caution against False Pride.] On sure foundations let your fabric rise, A pure, an active, an auspicious flame, And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came. The race of gods have reach'd that envied height. By heaping hills on hills, can hither climb: Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault) Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod The Muse instructs my voice, and thou inspire the [An Author must Feel what he Writes.] I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For rich ill poets are without excuse; "Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse; No poet any passion can excite, And panting, Lo, the god, the god! she cries: With words not hers, and more than human sound, She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. But though we must obey when heaven commands, While he with eager force urg'd his impetuous way! On the Day of Judgment. [Version of the 'Dies Iræ.'] That day of wrath, that dreadful day, What horror will invade the mind, The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Nature and Death shall, with surprise, Then shall, with universal dread, Prostrate my contrite heart I rend, My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end! Well may they curse their second breath, Who rise to a reviving death. Thou great Creator of mankind, Let guilty man compassion find! EARL OF ROCHESTER. JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER (1647-1680), is known principally from his having (to use the figurative language of Johnson) 'blazed out his youth and his health in lavish voluptuousness,' and died from physical exhaustion and decay at the age of thirty-three. Like most of the courtiers of the day, Rochester travelled in France and Italy. He was at sea with the Earl of Sandwich and Sir Edward Spragge, and distinguished himself for bravery. In the heat of an engagement, he went to carry a message in an open boat amidst a storm of shot. This manliness of character forsook Rochester in England, for he was accused of betraying cowardice in street quarrels, and he refused to fight with the Duke of Buckingham. In the profligate court of Charles, Rochester was the most profligate; his intrigues, his low amours and disguises, his erecting a stage and playing the mountebank on Tower-hill, and his having been five years in a state of inebriety, are circumstances well-known and partly admitted by himself. It is remarkable, however, that his domestic letters, which were published a few years ago, show him in a totally different light-'tender, playful, and alive to all the affections of a husband, a father, and a son.' His repentance itself says something for the natural character of the unfortunate profligate. To judge from the memoir left by Dr Burnet, who was his lordship's spiritual guide on his deathbed, it was sincere and unreserved. We may, therefore, with some confidence, set down Rochester as one of those whose vices are less the effect of an inborn tendency, than of external corrupting circumstances. It may fairly be said of him, Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.' His poems consist of slight effusions, thrown off without labour. Many of them are so very licentious as to be unfit for publication; but in one of these, he has given in one line a happy character of Charles II. A merry monarch, scandalous, and poor. His songs are sweet and musical. Rochester wrote a poem Upon Nothing, which is merely a string of puns and conceits. It opens, however, with a fine image Nothing! thou elder brother ev'n to shade, Song. While on those lovely looks I gaze, His pleasing happy ruin; Dies wishing and admiring. Your slave from death removing, [Constancy-a Song.] I cannot change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you, No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die. When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall; That welcome hour that ends this smart Will then begin your pain, For such a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain. Song. Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, "Twere madness not to love you. Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story. Song. My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, She's so wild and apt to wander, Melting joys about her move, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, A few specimens of Rochester's letters to his wife and son are subjoined : I am very glad to hear news from you, and I think it very good when I hear you are well; pray be pleased to send me word what you are apt to be pleased with, that I may show you how good a husband I can be; I would not have you so formal as to judge of the kindness of a letter by the length of it, but believe of everything that it is as you would have it. 'Tis not an easy thing to be entirely happy; but to be kind is very easy, and that is the greatest measure of happiness. I say not this to put you in mind of being kind to me; you have practised that so long, that I have a joyful confidence you will never forget it; but to show that I myself have a sense of what the methods of my life seemed so utterly to contradict, I must not be too wise about my own follies, or else this letter had been a book dedicated to you, and published to the world. It will be more pertinent to tell you, that very shortly the king goes to Newmarket, and then I shall wait on you at Adderbury; in the mean time, think of anything you would have me do, and I shall thank you for the occasion of pleasing you. Mr Morgan I have sent in this errand, because he plays the rogue here in town so extremely, that he is not to be endured; pray, if he behaves himself so at Adderbury, send me word, and let him stay till I send for him. Pray, let Ned come up to town; I have a little business with him, and he shall be back in a week. Wonder not that I have not written to you all this while, for it was hard for me to know what to write upon several accounts; but in this I will only desire you not to be too much amazed at the thoughts my mother has of you, since, being mere imaginations, they will as easily vanish, as they were groundlessly erected; for my own part, I will make it my endeavour they may. What you desired of me in your other letter, shall punctually have performed. You must, I think, obey my mother in her commands to wait on her at Aylesbury, as I told you in my last letter. I am very dull at this time, and therefore think it pity in this humour to testify myself to you any farther; only, dear wife, I am your humble servant-ROCHESTER. Run away like a rascal, without taking leave, dear wife; it is an unpolite way of proceeding, which a modest man ought to be ashamed of. I have left you a prey to your own imaginations, amongst my relations -the worst of damnations; but there will come an hour of deliverance, till when, may my mother be merciful to you; so I commit you to what shall ensue, woman to woman, wife to mother, in hopes of a future: appearance in glory. The small share I could spare you out of my pocket, I have sent as a debt to Mrs Rowse. Within a week or ten days I will return you more: pray write as often as you have leisure to your ROCHESTER. Remember me to Nan and my Lord Wilmot. You must present my service to my cousins. I intend to be at the wedding of my niece Ellen, if I hear of it. Excuse my ill paper, and very ill manners to my mother; they are both the best the place and age could afford. MY WIFE-The difficulties of pleasing your ladyship do increase so fast upon me, and are grown so numerous, that, to a man less resolved than myself never to give it over, it would appear a madness ever to attempt it more; but through your frailties mine ought not to multiply; you may, therefore, secure yourself that it will not be easy for you to put me out of my constant resolutions to satisfy you in all I can. I confess there is nothing will so much contribute to my assistance in this as your dealing freely with me; for since you have thought it a wise thing to trust me less and have reserves, it has been out of my power to make the best of my proceedings effectual to what I intended them. At a distance, I am likeliest to learn your mind, for you have not very obliging way of delivering it by word of mouth; if, therefore, you will let me know the particulars in which I may be useful to you, I will show my readiness as to my own part; and if I fail of the success I wish, it shall not be the fault of Your humble servant, ROCHESTER, a I intend to be at Adderbury sometime next week. I hope, Charles, when you receive this, and know that I have sent this gentleman to be your tutor, you will be very glad to see I take such care of you, and be very grateful, which is best shown in being obedient and diligent. You are now grown big enough to be a man, and you can be wise enough; for the way to be truly wise is to serve God, learn your book, and observe the instructions of your parents first, and next your tutor, to whom I have entirely resigned you for this seven years, and according as you employ that time, you are to be happy or unhappy for ever; but I have so good an opinion of you, that I am glad to think you will never deceive me; dear child, learn your book and be obedient, and you shall see what a father I will be to you. You shall want no pleasure while you are good, and that you may be so are my constant prayers. ROCHESTER. SIR CHARLES SEDLEY (1639-1701) was one of the brightest satellites of the court of Charles II.-as witty and gallant as Rochester, as fine a poet, and a better man. He was the son of a Kentish baronet, Sir John Sedley of Aylesford. The Restoration drew him to London, and he became such a favourite for his taste and accomplishments, that Charles is said to have asked him if he had not obtained from Nature a patent to be Apollo's viceroy. His estate, his time, and morals, were squandered away at court; but latterly the poet redeemed himself, became a constant attender of parliament, in which he had a seat, opposed the arbitrary measures of James IL, and assisted to bring about the Revolution. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and created her Countess of Dorchester a circumstance which probably quickened the poet's zeal against the court. I hate ingratitude,' said the witty Sedley; 'and as the king has made my daughter a countess, I will endeavour to make his daughter a queen'-alluding to the Princess Mary, married to the Prince of Orange. Sir Charles wrote plays and poems, which were extravagantly praised by his contemporaries. Buckingham eulogised the witchcraft of Sedley, and Rochester spoke of his 'gentle prevailing art.' His songs are light and graceful, with a more studied and felicitous diction than is seen in most of the court poets. One of the finest, 'Ah! Chloris, could I now but sit,' has been often printed as the composition of the Scottish patriot, Duncan Forbes of Culloden, Lord President of the court of session: the verses occur in Sedley's play, The Mulberry Garden. Sedley's conversation was highly prized, and he lived on, delighting all his friends, till past his sixtieth year. As he says of one of his own heroines, he Bloom'd in the winter of his days, Song. Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit Age from no face takes more away, Song. Love still has something of the sea, One while they seem to touch the port, At first disdain and pride they fear, In a more cruel shape. By such decrees to joy they come, A hundred thousand oaths your fears Song. Phillis, men say that all my vows DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, who died in 1673, was distinguished for her faithful attachment to her lord in his long exile during the time of the commonwealth, and for her indefatigable pursuit of literature. She was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and one of the maids of honour to Henrietta Maria. Having accompanied the queen to France, she met with the Marquis of Newcastle, and was married to him at Paris in 1645. The marquis took up his residence at Antwerp, till the troubles were over, and there his lady wrote and published (1653) a volume, entitled Poems and Fancies. The marquis assisted her in her compositions, a circumstance which Horace Walpole has ridiculed in his 'Royal and Noble Authors; and so indefatigable were the noble pair, that they filled nearly twelve volumes, folio, with plays, poems, orations, philosophical discourses, &c. On the restoration of Charles II., the marquis and his lady returned to England. The picture of domestic happiness and devoted loyalty presented by the life of these personages, creates a strong prepossession in favour of the poetry of the duchess. She had invention, knowledge, and imagination, but wanted energy and taste. The Pastime and Recreation of the Queen of Fairies in Fairy Land is her |