X.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

This excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the gate house Westminster: to which he was committed by the House of Commons, in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. See Wood's Athenæ. Vol. II. p. 228, and Lyson's Environs of London, Vol. I. p. 109; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer, who after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in 1658.

This song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems intitled, 'Lucasta,' 1649, 12mo. collated with a copy in the Editor's folio MS.1

WHEN love with unconfined wings

Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lye tangled in her haire,

And fetter'd with her eye,

The birds that wanton in the aire,

Know no such libertye.

5

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

10

Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,

When healths and draughts goe free,

Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,

Know no such libertìe.

15

Ver. 10, with woe-allaying themes, MS. Thames is here used for water in general.

1 Lucasta was a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, who, hearing that Lovelace had died at Dunkirk, married another.-ED.

When, linnet-like, confined I

With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voyce aloud how good
He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes that curle the flood,
Know no such libertìe.

Stone walls doe not a prison make,

Nor iron barres a cage,

Mindes innocent and quiet, take

That for an hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soule am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertìe.

25

30

XI.

THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING-CROSS.

Charing-cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I. who built such a one wherever the herse of his beloved Eleanor rested in its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: For, in 1647, it was demolished by order of the House of Commons, as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not-unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 17, was that entered into by Mr Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, Nath. Tomkins and Rich. Chaloner, suffered death July 5, 1643. Vid. Ath. Ox. II. 24.

UNDONE, undone the lawyers are,
They wander about the towne,

Nor can find the way to Westminster,

Now Charing-cross is downe:

At the end of the Strand, they make a stand, 5 Swearing they are at a loss,

And chaffing say, that's not the way,

They must go by Charing-cross.

The parliament to vote it down
Conceived it very fitting,

For fear it should fall, and kill them all,
In the house, as they were sitting.
They were told, god-wot, it had a plot,
Which made them so hard-hearted,
To give command, it should not stand,
But be taken down and carted.

Men talk of plots, this might have been

worse

For any thing I know,

Than that Tomkins and Chaloner,
Were hang'd for long agoe.
Our parliament did that prevent,
And wisely them defended,
For plots they will discover still,
Before they were intended.

But neither man, woman, nor child,
Will say, I'm confident,
They ever heard it speak one word
Against the parliament.
An informer swore, it letters bore,

Or else it had been freed;
I'll take, in troth, my Bible oath,

It could neither write, nor read.

The committee said, that verily

To

popery it was bent;

For ought I know, it might be so,

For to church it never went.

What with excise, and such device,

The kingdom doth begin

35

To think you'll leave them ne'er a cross,
Without doors nor within.

40

Methinks the common-council shou'd

Of it have taken pity,

'Cause, good old cross, it always stood

So firmly to the city.

Since crosses you so much disdain,

Faith, if I were as you,

For fear the king should rule again,

I'd pull down Tiburn too.

45

Witlocke says, 'May 3, 1643, Cheapside cross and other crosses were voted down,' &c.- -But this Vote was not put in execution with regard to Charing Cross till four years after, as appears from Lilly's Observations on the Life, &c. of K. Charles, viz. 'Charing-Cross, we know, was pulled down, 1647, in June, July, and August. Part of the stones were converted to pave before Whitehall. I have seen knife-hafts made of some of the stones, which, being well-polished, looked like marble.' Ed. 1715, p. 18, 12mo. See an Account of the pulling down Cheapside Cross, in the Supplement to Gent. Mag. 1764.

XII.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

This excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's 'Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I.' Lond. 1668, fol. p. 96. He speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. The author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L'Estrange.1-Some mistakes in Lloyd's copy are corrected by two others, one in MS. the other in the 'Westminster Drollery, or a choice Collection of Songs and Poems, 1671,' 12mo.

1 Sir Roger L'Estrange was a kind of pamphlet and squib writer to the Court. He died in 1704, aged 88.-ED.

BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas blow;
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth show,

That innocence is tempest proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5 Then strike, Affliction! for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me:
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burn'd;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynick loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness;
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus:

Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there:

These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my
prove my citadel.