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subject, and by men of far greater attainments, and which shade and shelter from the hill derives, far higher powers. To improve, indeed, either upon While the kind river wealth and beauty gives ; the versification or the diction of our great writers And in the mixture of all these appears was impossible; it was impossible to exceed them in Variety, which all the rest endears. the knowledge or in the practice of their art, but it This scene had some bold Greek or British bard was easy to avoid the more obvious faults of inferior Beheld of old, what stories had we heard authors: and in this way he succeeded, just so far Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs their dames, as not to be included in

Their feasts, their revels, and their amorous flames ! The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease ;

'Tis still the same, although their airy shape

All but a quick poetic sight escape. nor consigned to oblivion with the “persons of qua. lity” who contributed their vapid effusions to the The four lines printed in Italics have been praised miscellanies of those days. His proper place is by every critic from Dryden to the present day. among those of his contemporaries and successors who called themselves wits, and have since been en- [The ReformationMonks and Puritans.] titled poets by the courtesy of England.'* Denham, nevertheless, deserves a place in English literature, Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise, though not that high one which has heretofore been But my fix'd thoughts my wandering eye betrays. assigned to him. The traveller who crosses the Viewing a neighbouring hill, whose top of late Alps or Pyrenees finds pleasure in the contrast af- A chapel crown'd, till in the common fate forded by level plains and calm streams, and so Den. Th’adjoining abbey fell. May do such storm ham’s correctness pleases, after the wild imaginations Fall on our times, where ruin must reform! and irregular harmony of the greater masters of the Tell me, my muse, what monstrous dire offence, lyre who preceded him. In reading him, we feel that What crime could

any Christian king incense we are descending into a different scene the ro- To such a rage? Was't luxury or lust! mance is over, and

we must be content with smooth- Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just ? ness, regularity, and order.

Were these their crimes? They were his own much

more ;

But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor, [The Thames and Windsor Forest.]

Who having spent the treasures of his crown, [From Cooper's Hill.]

Condemns their luxury to feed his own.

And yet this act, to varnish o'er the shame
My eye, descending from the hill, surveys

Of sacrilege, must bear devotion's name.
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays ; No crime so bold, but would be understood
Thames, the most lov'd of all the ocean's sons A real, or at least a seeming good.
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. Like mortal life to meet eternity.

Thus he the church at once protects, and spoils : Though with those streams he no remembrance hold, But princes' swords are sharper than their styles. Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold,

And thus to th' ages past he makes amends,
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, Their charity destroys, their faith defends.
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,

Then did religion in a lazy cell,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, In empty, airy contemplation dwell;
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring,

And like the block uninoved lay; but ours,
And then destroys it with too fond a stay,

As much too active, like the stork devours. Like mothers which their infants overlay ;

Is there no temperate region can be known,
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,

Betwixt their frigid and our torrid zone?
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. Could we not wake from that lethargic dream,
No unexpected inundations spoil

But to be restless in a worse extreme !
The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil, And for that lethargy was there no cure,
But Godlike his unwearied bounty flows ;

But to be cast into a calenture ? First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance Nor are his blessings to his banks confin'd,

So far, to make us wish for ignorance ! But free and common, as the sea or wind.

And rather in the dark to grope our way,
When he to boast or to disperse his stores,

Than, led by a false guide, to err by day.
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying towers

Denham had just and enlightened notions of the Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours : duty of a translator. • It is not his business alone,' Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, he says, 'to translate language into language, but Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ;

poesy into poesy; and poesy is so subtle a spirit, So that to us no thing, no place is strange,

that, in pouring out of one language into another, While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit be not 0, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

added in the translation, there will remain noMy great example, as it is my theme!

thing but a caput mortuum; there being certain Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull, graces and happinesses peculiar to every language, Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.

which give life and energy to the words. Hence, in

his poetical address to Sir Richard Fanshawe, on his But his proud head the airy mountain hides translation of Pastor Fido,' our poet saysAmong the clouds ; his shoulders and his sides A shady mantle clothes ; his curled brows

That servile path thou nobly dost decline Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows Of tracing word by word, and line by line. While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat,

Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, The common fate of all that's high or great.

Not the effect of poetry, but pains. Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac'd,

Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords Between the mountain and the stream embrac'd,

No fight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.

A new and nobler way thou dost pursue,
* Southey's Cowper, vol. ii. p. 130.
To make translations and translators too.

322

They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame, True to his sense, but truer to his fame. The two last lines are very happily conceived and expressed. Denham wrote a tragedy, the_Sophy, which is but a tame commonplace plot of Turkish jealousy, treachery, and murder. Occasionally, there is a vigorous thought or line, as when the envious king asks Haly,

Have not I performed actions As great, and with as great a moderation ! The other repliesAy, sir, but that's forgotten ;. Actions of the last age are like almanacs of the last

year. This sentiment was too truly felt by many of the cavaliers in the days of Charles II. We subjoin part of Denham's elegy on the death of Cowley, in which it will be seen that the poet forgot that Shakspeare was buried on the banks of his native Avon, not in Westminster Abbey, and that both he and Fletcher died long ere time had . blasted their bays.'

On Mr Abraham Corley.
His Death and Burial amongst the Ancient Poets

That in the Muses' garden grew,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw.
Time, which made them their fame outlive,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.
Old mother wit and nature gave
Shakspeare and Fletcher all they have:
In Spenser and in Jonson, art
Of slower nature got the start;
But both in him so equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share ;
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own ;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor with Ben Jonson did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores
Of pocts and of orators :
Horace his wit and Virgil's state
He did not steal, but emulate ;
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear :
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jason brought the golden fleece ;
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a stiff gale, as Flaccus sings,
The Theban swan extends his wings,
When through th' ethereal clouds he flies
To the same pitch our swan doth rise ;
Old Pindar's heights by him are reach'd,
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd;
His fancy and his judgment such,
Each to th’ other seem's too much;
His severe judgment giving law,
His modest fancy kept in awe.

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Song to Morpheus.

(From the Sophy,' Act v.] Morpheus, the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoky cells, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And, though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown. Come, I say, thou powerful god, And thy leaden charming rod, Dipt in the Lethean lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake, Lest he should sleep and never wake. Nature, alas ! why art thou so Obliged to thy greatest foe? Sleep, that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last.

Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far. His light those mists and clouds dissolr'd Which our dark nation long involv'd; But he, descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades; Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three with his own fires Phæbus, the poet's god, inspires : By Shakspeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines. These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave their mansion keep. They lived to see so many days, Till time had blasted all their bays; But cursed be the fatal hour That pluck'd the fairest sweetest flower

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE (1619-1689) describes himself in the title-page to his works as of Shaftes. bury, in the county

of Dorset.' The poet practised as a physician at Shaftesbury; but he appears to have wielded the sword as well as the lancet, for he was present among the royalists at the battle of Newbury. His circumstances must have been far from flourishing, as, like Vaughan, he complains keenly of the poverty of poets, and states that he was debarred from the society of the wits of his day. The works of Chamberlayne consist of two poems—Love's Victory, a tragi-comedy published in 1658 ; and Pharonnida, a Heroic Poem, published in 1659. The scene of the first is laid in Sicily, and that of Pharonnida' is also partly in Sicily, but chiefly in Greece. With no court connexion, no light or witty copies of verses to float him into popularity, relying solely on his two long and comparatively unattractive works—to appreciate which,

through all the windings of romantic love, plots, The spangled curtains of the sky, within escapes, and adventures, more time is required than Whose boundless orbs the circling planets spin the author's busy age could afford—we need hardly Those threads of time upon whose strength rely wonder that Chamberlayne was an unsuccessful The pond'rous burdens of mortality. poet. His works were almost totally forgotten, till, An adamantine world she sees, more pure, in our own day, an author no less remarkable for More glorious far than this—fram'd to endure the beauty of his original compositions than for his The shock of dooms-day's darts. literary research and sound criticism, Mr Campbell,

Chamberlayne, like Milton, was fond of describing in his Specimens of the Poets,' in 1819, by quoting the charms of morning. We have copied one paslargely from ‘Pharonnida,’and pointing out the rich sage in the previous notice of Denham, and numebreadth and variety of its scenes,' and the power and

rous brief sketches, pathos of its characters and situations, drew attention to the passion, imagery, purity of sentiment,

Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round, and tenderness of description, which lay, 'like are interspersed throughout his works. For exmetals in the mine,' in the neglected volume of ampleChamberlayne. We cannot, however, suppose that the works of this poet can ever be popular; his

Where every bough

Maintain'd a feather'd chorister to sing beauties are marred by infelicity of execution : though not deficient in the genius of a poet, he had

Soft panegyrics, and the rude wings bring little of the skill of the artist. The heroic couplet

Into a murmuring slumber, whilst the calm

Morn on each leaf did hang her liquid balm, then wandered at will, sometimes into a wilderness

With an intent, before the next sun's birth, of sweets,' but at other times into tediousness, mannerism, and absurdity. The sense was not com

To drop it in those wounds, which the cleft earth

Receiv'd from last day's beams. pressed by the form of the verse, or by any correct rules of 'metrical harmony. Chamberlayne also of virgin purity he says, with singular beauty of laboured under the disadvantage of his story being expressionlong and intricate, and his style such—from the prolonged tenderness and pathos of his scenes—as

The moming pearls,

Dropt in the lily's spotless bosom, are could not be appreciated except on a careful and

Less chastely cool, ere the meridian sun attentive perusal. Denham was patent to all-short,

Hath kiss'd them into heat. sententious, and perspicuous.

The dissatisfaction of the poet with his obscure In a grave narrative passage of Pharonnida,' he and neglected situation, depressed by poverty, stops to note the beauties of the morningbreaks out in the following passage descriptive of a

The glad birds had sung, rich simpleton :

A lullaby to-night, the lark was fled, How purblind is the world, that such a monster,

On dropping wings, up from his dewy bed, In a few dirty acres swaddled, must

To fan them in the rising sunbeams.
Be mounted, in opinion's empty scale,
Above the noblest virtues that adorn

Unhappy Love.
Souls that make worth their centre, and to that
Draw all the lines of action ? Worn with age,

[From. Pharonnida ] The noble soldier sits, whilst, in his cell,

Is't a sin to be
The scholar stews his catholic brains for food. Born high, that robs me of my liberty?
The traveller return'd, and poor may go

Or is't the curse of greatness to behold
A second pilgrimage to farmers' doors, or end Virtue through such false optics as unfold
His journey in a hospital ; few being

No splendour, 'less from equal orbs they shine?
So generous to relieve, where virtue doth

What heaven made free, ambitious men confine Necessitate to crave. Harsh poverty,

In regular degrees. Poor Love must dwell That moth, which frets the sacred robe of wit, Within no climate but what's parallel Thousands of noble spirits blunts, that else

Unto our honour'd births; the envied fate Had spun rich threads of fancy from the brain : Of princes oft these burdens find from state, But they are souls too much sublim'd to thrive. When lowly swains, knowing no parent's voice The following description of a dream is finely And here she sighed; then with some drops, distill’d

A negative, make a free happy choice.' executed, and seems to have suggested, or at least From Love's most sovereign elixir, fillid bears a close resemblance to, the splendid opening The crystal fountains of her eyes, which,

ere lines of Dryden's . Religio Laici :'

Dropp'd down, she thus recalls again : .But ne'er, A strong prophetic dream,

Ne'er, my Argalia, shall these fears destroy Diverting by enigmas nature's stream,

My hopes of thee: Heaven ! let me but enjoy Long hovering through the portals of her mind So much of all those blessings, which their birth On vain fantastic wings, at length did find

Can take from frail mortality; and Earth, The glimmerings of obstructed reason, by

Contracting all her curses, cannot make A brighter beam of pure divinity

A storm of danger loud enough to shake
Led into supernatural light, whose rays

Me to a trembling penitence; a curse,
As much transcended reason's, as the day's To make the horror of my suffering worse,
Dull mortal fires, faith apprehends to be

Sent in a father's name, like vengeance fell
Beneath the glimmerings of divinity.

From angry Hear'n, upon my head may dwell Her unimprison'd soul, disrob’d of all

In an eternal stain-my honour'd name Terrestrial thoughts (like its original

With pale disgrace may languish—busy fame In heaven, pure and immaculate), a fit

My reputation spot-affection be Companion for those bright angels' wit

Term'd uncommanded lust-sharp poverty, Which the gods made their messengers, to bear That weed that kills the gentle flow'r of love, This sacred truth, seeming transported where, As the result of all these ills, may prove Fix'd in the flaming centre of the world,

My greatest misery-unless to find The heart o'th' microcosm, about which is hurld Myself unpitied. Yet not so unkind

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Would I esteem this mercenary band,

inexorable, and bestowed her hand on the Earl of As those far more malignant powers that stand, Sunderland. It is said that, meeting her long afterArm'd with dissuasions, to obstruct the way

wards, when she was far advanced in years, the lady Fancy directs; but let those souls obey

asked him when he would again write such verses Their harsh commands, that stand in fear to shed upon her. When you are as young, madam, and Repentant tears: I am resolyed to tread

as handsome, as you were then,' replied the ungalThose doubtful paths, through all the shades of fear lant poet. The incident affords a key to Waller's That now benights them. Love, with pity hear character. He was easy, witty, and accomplished, Thy suppliant's prayer, and when my clouded eyes but cold and selfish ; destitute alike of high prinShall cease to weep, in smiles I'll sacrifice

ciple and deep feeling. As a member of parliament, To thee such offerings, that the utmost date

Waller distinguished himself on the popular side, Of death's rough hands shall never violate.'

and was chosen to conduct the prosecution against

Judge Crawley for his opinion in favour of levying
EDMUND WALLER.

ship-money. His speech, on delivering the impeach

ment, was printed, and 20,000 copies of it sold in one Edmund WALLER (1605–1687) was a courtly and day. Shortly afterwards, however, Waller joined amatory poet, inferior to Herrick or Suckling in in a plot to surprise the city militia, and let in the natural feeling and poetic fancy, but superior to king's forces, for which he was tried and sentenced them in correctness and in general powers of versi- to one year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of fication. The poems of Waller have all the smooth £10,000. His conduct on this occasion was mean

and abject. At the expiration of his imprisonment,
the poet went abroad, and resided, amidst much
splendour and hospitality, in France. He returned
during the protectorate, and when Cromwell died,
Waller celebrated the event in one of his most
vigorous and impressive poems. The image of the
commonwealth, though reared by no common hands,
soon fell to pieces under Richard Cromwell, and
Waller was ready with a congratulatory address to
Charles II. The royal offering was considered in-
ferior to the panegyric on Cromwell, and the king
himself (who admitted the poet to terms of courtly
intimacy) is said to have told him of the disparity.
•Poets, sire,' replied the witty, self-possessed Waller,
succeed better in fiction than in truth.' In the
first parliament summoned by Charles, Waller sat
for the town of Hastings, and he served for different
places in all the parliaments of that reign. Bishop
Burnet says he was the delight of the house of
commons. At the accession of James II. in 1685,
the venerable poet, then eighty years of age, was
elected representative for a borough in Cornwall

.
The mad career of James in seeking to subvert the
national church and constitution was foreseen by

this wary and sagacious observer: ‘he will be left, Edmund Waller.

said he, like a whale upon the strand.' Feeling

his long-protracted life drawing to a close, Waller
ness and polish of modern verse, and hence a high, purchased a small property at Coleshill, saying, 'he
perhaps too high, rank has been claimed for him would be glad to die like the stag, where he was
as one of the first refiners and improvers of poetical roused.' The wish was not fulfilled; he died at
diction. One cause of Waller's refinement was Beaconsfield on the 21st of October 1687, and in the
doubtless his early and familiar intercourse with the churchyard of that place (where also rest the ashes
court and nobility, and the light conversational na- of Edmund Burke) a monument has been erected to
ture of most of his productions. He wrote for the his memory.
world of fashion and of taste-consigning

The first collection of Waller's poems was made
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade.

by himself, and published in the year 1664. It

went through numerous editions in his lifetime; and And he wrote in the same strain till he was upwards in 1690 a second collection was made of such pieces of fourscore! His life has more romance than his as he had produced in his latter years. In a poetical petry. Waller was born at Coleshill, in Hertford- dedication to Lady Harley, prefixed to this edition, shire, and in his infancy was left heir to an estate and written by Elijah Fenton, Waller is styled the of £3000 per annum. His mother was a sister of the celebrated John Hampden, but was a royalist in

Maker and model of melodious verse. feeling, and used to lecture Cromwell for his share This eulogium seems to embody the opinion of in the death of Charles I. Her son, the poet, was Waller's contemporaries, and it was afterwards coneither a roundhead or a royalist, as the time served.firmed by Dryden and Pope, who had not sufficiently He entered parliament and wrote his first poem studied the excellent models of versification furwhen he was eighteen. At twenty-five, he married nished by the old poets, and their rich poetical diction. a rich heiress of London, who died the same year, The smoothness of his versification, his good sense, and the poet immediately became a suitor of Lady and uniform elegance, rendered him popular with Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the Earl of critics as with the multitude; while his prominence Leicester. To this proud and peerless fair one as a public man, for so many years, would increase Waller dedicated the better portion of his poetry, curiosity as to his works. Waller is now seldom and the groves of Penshurst echoed to the praises read. The playfulness of his fancy, and the absence of his Sacharissa. Lady Dorothea, however, was of any striking defects, are but poor substitutes for

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genuine feeling and the language of nature. His poems are chiefly short and incidental, but he wrote a poem on Divine Love, in six cantos. Cowley had written his .Davideis,' and recommended sacred subjects as adapted for poetry; but neither he nor Waller succeeded in this new and higher walk of

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Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
Behold as many gallants bere,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu’ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care ;
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

"On a Girdle.
That which her slender waist confin'd
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
It was my heav'n's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer;
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle more!
A narrow compass ! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

On the Marriage of the Dwarfs.
Design or chance makes others wive,
But Nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she denied her little bed
To him, for whom Heav'n seem'd to frame
And measure out this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care !
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme,
As if the world held none but them.
To him the fairest nymphs do show
Like moving mountains topp'd with snow;
And ev'ry man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem.
Ah ! Chloris, that kind Nature thus
From all the world had sever'd us;
Creating for ourselves us two,
As Love has me for only you !

A Panegyric to the Lord Protector.
While with a strong and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;
Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty, but where they may
Without control upon their fellows prey.
Above the waves, as Neptune show'd his face,
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
Storms of ambition tossing us repress’d.

326

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Waller's Tomb. the muse. Such an employment of their talents was graceful and becoming in advanced life, but their fame must ever rest on their light, airy, and occasional poems, dictated by that gallantry, adulation, and play of fancy, which characterised the cavalier poets.

On Love.
Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes ;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief :
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes hím lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep ;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz’d.
For women (born to be controll's)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast ;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill;
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.

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