E'en so the soul, which in this earthly mould At first her mother-earth she holdeth dear, And doth embrace the world, and worldly things; Yet under heav'n she cannot light on aught For who did ever yet, in honour, wealth, Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? Who ever ceas'd to wish, when he had health? Or having wisdom, was not vex'd in mind? Then as a bee which among weeds doth fall, Which seem sweet flow'rs, with lustre fresh and gay; She lights on that and this, and tasteth all; But pleas'd with none, doth rise, and soar away: So, when the soul finds here no true content, And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take, She doth return from whence she first was sent, And flies to him that first her wings did make. Wit, seeking truth, from cause to cause ascends, Now God the truth, and first of causes is; Since then her heav'nly kind she doth display, She cannot be from hence, but from above." The peculiar aptness of Sir John Davies's similies induces us to throw a few of them together. Speaking of the Senses, he says, "This power spreads outward, but the root doth grow In th' inward soul, which only doth perceive; For th' eyes and ears no more their objects know, And of the capacity of the soul to contain such a mass of things. "Doubtless this could not be, but that she turns Bodies to Spirits, by sublimation strange; This is his felicitous description of feeling: And of the transient nature of human life. Which in their passage leave no print behind." In answering an objection against the immortality of the soul, drawn from the apparent decay of its powers, he says, "But they that know that wit can shew no skill, But when she things in Sense's glass doth view, Do know, if accident this glass do spill, It nothing sees, or sees the false for true." And to another objection, that if souls continue to exist, "why do they not return, and bring us news of that strange world," he replies, "But as Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more, This poem does not develope any new or striking principles of philosophy, but the arguments are acute and forcible, and the illustrations novel and surprising. In estimating its merits as a poetical composition, however, great allowance must be made for the disadvantages under which an author who writes a philosophical poem labours, if he treat the subject as a philosopher, from the restraint it imposes upon him, and the difficulty of combining poetical illustration with ratiocinative precision: to be subjected to such a restraint is to have the light and airy pinions of imagination tipped with lead, which must either bring it to the ground, or, at least, render its flight tedious and laborious. This allowance must be extended to Sir John Davies, who has, however, with singular skill, combined close and subtle argumentation with illustrations, always apt, frequently elegant, and sometimes eminently poetical; conveyed, too, in versification the most smooth and flowing, and in language the most idiomatic and appropriate. His mastery over his native tongue, indeed, is particularly remarkable, both in this poem and in that On Dancing. The last mentioned poem, which is unfinished, was published in 1596; but this edition has hitherto, we believe, escaped the keen eyes of modern bibliographers. It consists of a dialogue between Penelope and Antinous, one of her suitors, whose invitation to dance she declines, as a novel invention of which she is totally ignorant. Whereupon Antinous undertakes to prove the antiquity and excellency of dancing, which he makes out to be as old as the world, nay, that time himself "had not one moment of his age outrun" "When out leap'd Dancing from the heap of things, It regulates pomps and solemnities-is found in all learned arts and great affairs-is the civilizer of man-the most persuasive rhetoric-the truest logic and best poetry-the only concord and harmony "The heaven's true figure, and th' earth's ornament." In short, he demonstrates the falsehood of the maxim, ex nihilo nihil fit, and has presented the world with an ingenious mixture of poetry and trifling. The poet ascribes the origin of dancing to Love, who persuades man to learn this nimble-footed recreation, in stanzas, partaking of the flexibility and grace of his subject. "Behold the world, how it is whirl'd around, And for it is so whirl'd, is named so; In whose large volume many rules are found Of this new art, which it doth fairly show: First you see fix'd in this huge mirror blue Of trembling lights, a number numberless; Fix'd they are nam'd, but with a name untrue, For they all move, and in a dance express That great long year, that doth contain no less Than threescore hundreds of those years in all, Which the sun makes with his course natural. Under that spangled sky, five wand'ring flames, But see the earth, when he approacheth near, When, changing places, he retires a while: Who doth not see the measures of the moon, That half her cheek is scarce sometimes descry'd. And now behold your tender nurse the air, And common neighbour, that aye runs around, How many pictures and impressions fair For what are breath, speech, echoes, music, winds, For when Hence is her prattling daughter, Echo, born, And thou, sweet Music, dancing's only life, The ear's sole happiness, the air's best speech, Loadstone of fellowship, charming rod of strife, The soft mind's paradise, the sick mind's leech, With thine own tongue thou trees and stones can teach, That when the air doth dance her finest measure, Then art thou born the gods' and men's sweet pleasure. Lastly, where keep the Winds their revelry, Their violent turnings, and wild whirling hays, But in the air's translucent gallery? Where she herself is turn'd a hundred ways, For lo, the sea, that fleets about the land, And as she danceth in her pallid sphere, Sometimes his proud green waves, in order set, |