CONTENTS
CONTENTS
SECOND PERIOD—FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)
WILLIAM HABINGTON
Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E.
To his Noblest Friend, J. C., Esq.
A Description of Castara
JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH
Satire I.
Satire VII.
RICHARD LOVELACE
Song—To Althea, from Prison
Song
A Loose Saraband
ROBERT HERRICK
Song
Cherry-Ripe
The Kiss: A Dialogue
To Daffodils
To Primroses
To Blossoms
Oberon's Palace
Oberon's Feast
The Mad Maid's Song
Corinna's going a-Maying
Jephthah's Daughter
The Country Life
SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE
The Spring, a Sonnet—From the Spanish
ABRAHAM COWLEY
The Chronicle, a Ballad
The Complaint
The Despair
Of Wit
Of Solitude
The Wish
Upon the Shortness of Man's Life
On the Praise of Poetry
The Motto—'Tentanda via est,' &c
Davideis-Book II
Life
The Plagues of Egypt
GEORGE WITHER
From 'The Shepherd's Hunting'
The Shepherd's Resolution
The Steadfast Shepherd
From 'The Shepherd's Hunting'
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT
From 'Gondibert'—Canto II
From 'Gondibert'—Canto IV
DR HENRY KING
Sic Vita
Song
Life
JOHN CHALKHILL
Arcadia
Thealma, a Deserted Shepherdess
Priestess of Diana
Thealma in Full Dress
Dwelling of the Witch Orandra
CATHARINE PHILLIPS
The Inquiry
A Friend
MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE
Melancholy described by Mirth
Melancholy describing herself
THOMAS STANLEY
Celia Singing
Speaking and Kissing
La Belle Confidante
The Loss
Note on Anacreon
ANDREW MARVELL
The Emigrants
The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn
On 'Paradise Lost'
Thoughts in a Garden
Satire on Holland
IZAAK WALTON
The Angler's Wish
JOHN WILMOT, EARL or ROCHESTER
Song
Song
THE EARL OP ROSCOMMON
From 'An Essay on Translated Verse'
CHARLES COTTON
Invitation to Izaak Walton
A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque
DR HENRY MORE
Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia'
Exordium of Third Part
Destruction and Renovation of all things
A Distempered Fancy
Soul compared to a Lantern
WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE
Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks
HENRY VAUGHAN
On a Charnel-house
On Gombauld's 'Endymion'
Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist
Picture of the Town
The Golden Age
Regeneration
Resurrection and Immortality
The Search
Isaac's Marriage
Man's Fall and Recovery
The Shower
Burial
Cheerfulness
The Passion
Rules and Lessons
Repentance
The Dawning
The Tempest
The World
The Constellation
Misery
Mount of Olives
Ascension-day
Cock-crowing
The Palm-tree
The Garland
Love-sick
Psalm civ
The Timber
The Jews
Palm-Sunday
Providence
St Mary Magdalene
The Rainbow
The Seed Growing Secretly (Mark iv. 26)
Childhood
Abel's Blood
Righteousness
Jacob's Pillow and Pillar
The Feast
The Waterfall
DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT
Hell
Joseph's Dream
Paradise
Eve
To the Memory of his Wife
Imperial Borne Personified
End
FROM ROBERT HEATH—
What is Love?
Protest of Love
To Clarastella
BY VARIOUS AUTHORS—
My Mind to me a Kingdom is
The Old and Young Courtier
There is a Garden in her Face
Hallo, my Fancy
The Fairy Queen
* * * * *
SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.
SECOND PERIOD—FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)
* * * * *
WILLIAM HABINGTON.
This poet might have been expected to have belonged to the 'Spasmodic school,' judging by his parental antecedents. His father was accused of having a share in Babington's conspiracy, but was released because he was godson to Queen Elizabeth. Soon after, however, he was imprisoned a second time, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the Gunpowder-plot conspirators; but was pardoned through the interest of Lord Morley. His uncle, however, was less fortunate, suffering death for his complicity with Babington. The poet's mother, the daughter of Lord Morley, was more loyal than her husband or his brother, and is said to have written the celebrated letter to Lord Monteagle, in consequence of which the execution of the Gunpowder-plot was arrested.
Our poet was born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, on the very day of the discovery of the plot, 5th November 1605. The family were Papists, and William was sent to St Omers to be educated. He was pressed to become a Jesuit, but declined. On his return to England, his father became preceptor to the poet. As he grew up, instead of displaying any taste for 'treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' he chose the better part, and lived a private and happy life. He fell in love with Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis, and celebrated her in his long and curious poem entitled 'Castara.' This lady he afterwards married, and from her society appears to have derived much happiness. In 1634, he published 'Castara.' He also, at different times, produced 'The Queen of Arragon,' a tragedy; a History of Edward IV.; and 'Observations upon History.' He died in 1654, (not as Southey, by a strange oversight, says, 'when he had just completed his fortieth year,') forty-nine years of age, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip.
'Castara' is not a consecutive poem, but consists of a great variety of small pieces, in all sorts of style and rhythm, and of all varieties of merit; many of them addressed to his mistress under the name of Castara, and many to his friends; with reflective poems, elegies, and panegyrics, intermingled with verses sacred to love. Habington is distinguished by purity of tone if not of taste. He has many conceits, but no obscenities. His love is as holy as it is ardent. He has, besides, a vein of sentiment which sometimes approaches the moral sublime. To prove this, in addition to the 'Selections' below, we copy some verses entitled—
'NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.'—David.
When I survey the bright
Celestial sphere,
So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear,
My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies,
The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volume of the skies;
For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator's name.
No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small a character,
Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast look,
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the conqueror
That far-stretch'd power,
Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour;
That, from the furthest North,
Some nation may,
Yet undiscover'd, issue forth,
And o'er his new-got conquest sway,—
Some nation, yet shut in
With hills of ice,
May be let out to scourge his sin
Till they shall equal him in vice;
And then they likewise shall
Their ruin brave;
For, as yourselves, your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,
The fallacy of our desires,
And all the pride of life, confute;
For they have watch'd since first
The world had birth,
And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on earth.
There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,—the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion.
EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE W.E.
He who is good is happy. Let the loud
Artillery of heaven break through a cloud,
And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain
Unmoved, and nobler comfort entertain,
In welcoming the approach of death, than Vice
E'er found in her fictitious paradise.
Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appetite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age,
Where we are left to satisfy the rage
Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral.
The thought of this begets that brave disdain
With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain
Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court,
And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? Why interpose
A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose
Man's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth
Of her own vanity, we're left so poor,
The creature merely sensual knows more.
The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenced by a calm, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage; while the sensitive
Part of the world in its first strength doth live.
Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain
Deserves our study? Merchants plough the main
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the possession poor.
And yet that idol wealth we all admit
Into the soul's great temple; busy wit
Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites
To show its superstition; anxious nights
Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast
Content with nature's courtesy doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soul, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee,
Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd
Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd
Far higher than thy birth, I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition paid
With safe content, while a pure virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name;
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for virtuous love;
Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars,
To purchase unsafe honour in the wars,
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge the highest place.
Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread
To greatness, you must sleep among the dead.
TO HIS NOBLEST FRIEND, J.C., ESQ.
I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity, and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold
(After a due oath minister'd) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell.
The cross or prosperous fate of princes they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Machiavel.
O busy folly! why do I my brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,
Or quick designs of France? Why not repair
To the pure innocence o' the country air,
And neighbour thee, dear friend? Who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;
And, by the aid of leisure, so control
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?
Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when
We study mysteries of other men,
And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shad
(Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid,
Kind Nature's housewifery,) contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthrall
The world to his great master, and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory. Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night;
And, juggler-like, works o' the deluded sight.
The unbusied only wise: for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold,
Or tall in little; so much him they weigh
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bend us toward death, let's in our mind
Create new youth, and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
O' the country dead our thoughts, nor busy care
O' the town make us to think, where now we are,
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we number'd not.
A DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.
1 Like the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser's eye betray'd,
For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' the public view.
2 Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest, being good.
3 Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;
In her silence eloquent:
Of herself survey she takes,
But 'tween men no difference makes.
4 She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands:
Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.
5 She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft Honour splits her mast:
And retiredness thinks the port
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit,
Where vice is enthroned for wit.
6 She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:
O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
7 She her throne makes reason climb;
While wild passions captive lie:
And, each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.