England's Antiphon Part 8

Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader, Unblotted Lawyer, true Proceeder!

Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,-- Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.

And this is my eternal plea To him that made heaven, earth, and sea, That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon,-- Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head: Then am I ready, like a palmer fit, To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

Of death and judgment, heaven and h.e.l.l Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

This poem is a somewhat strange medley, with a confusion of figure, and a repeated failure in dignity, which is very far indeed from being worthy of Raleigh's prose. But it is very remarkable how wretchedly some men will show, who, doing their own work well, attempt that for which practice has not--to use a word of the time--_enabled_ them. There is real power in the poem, however, and the confusion is far more indicative of the pleased success of an unaccustomed hand than of incapacity for harmonious work. Some of the imagery, especially the "crystal buckets,"

will suggest those grotesque drawings called _Emblems_, which were much in use before and after this period, and, indeed, were only a putting into visible shape of such metaphors and similes as some of the most popular poets of the time, especially Doctor Donne, indulged in; while the profusion of earthly riches attributed to the heavenly paths and the places of repose on the journey, may well recall Raleigh's own descriptions of South American glories. Englishmen of that era believed in an earthly Paradise beyond the Atlantic, the wonderful reports of whose magnificence had no doubt a share in lifting the imaginations and hopes of the people to the height at which they now stood.

There may be an appearance of irreverence in the way in which he contrasts the bribeless Hall of Heaven with the proceedings at his own trial, where he was browbeaten, abused, and, from the very commencement, treated as a guilty man by Sir Edward c.o.ke, the king's attorney. He even puns with the words _angels_ and _fees_. Burning from a sense of injustice, however, and with the solemnity of death before him, he could not be guilty of _conscious_ irreverence, at least. But there is another remark I have to make with regard to the matter, which will bear upon much of the literature of the time: even the great writers of that period had such a delight in words, and such a command over them, that like their skilful hors.e.m.e.n, who enjoyed making their steeds show off the fantastic paces they had taught them, they played with the words as they pa.s.sed through their hands, tossing them about as a juggler might his b.a.l.l.s. But even herein the true master of speech showed his masterdom: his play must not be by-play; it must contribute to the truth of the idea which was taking form in those words. We shall see this more plainly when we come to transcribe some of Sir Philip Sidney's work. There is no irreverence in it. Nor can I take it as any sign of hardness that Raleigh should treat the visual image of his own antic.i.p.ated death with so much coolness, if the writer of a little elegy on his execution, when Raleigh was fourteen years older than at the presumed date of the foregoing verses, describes him truly when he says:

I saw in every stander-by Pale death, life only in thy eye.

The following hymn is also attributed to Raleigh. If it has less brilliance of fancy, it has none of the faults of the preceding, and is far more artistic in construction and finish, notwithstanding a degree of irregularity.

Rise, oh my soul, with thy desires to heaven; And with divinest contemplation use Thy time, where time's eternity is given; And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse, But down in darkness let them lie: So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die!

And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame, View and review, with most regardful eye, That holy cross, whence thy salvation came, On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die!

For in that sacred object is much pleasure, And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure.

To thee, O Jesus, I direct my eyes; To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees, To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice; To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees-- To thee myself,--myself and all I give; To thee I die; to thee I only live!

See what an effect of stately composure quiet artistic care produces, and how it leaves the ear of the mind in a satisfied peace!

There are a few fine lines in the poem. The last two lines of the first stanza are admirable; the last two of the second very weak. The last stanza is good throughout.

But it would be very unfair to judge Sir Walter by his verse. His prose is infinitely better, and equally displays the devout tendency of his mind--a tendency common to all the great men of that age. The worst I know of him is the selfishly prudent advice he left behind for his son.

No doubt he had his faults, but we must not judge a man even by what he says in an over-anxiety for the prosperity of his child.

Another remarkable fact in the history of those great men is that they were all men of affairs. Raleigh was a soldier, a sailor, a discoverer, a politician, as well as an author. His friend Spenser was first secretary to Lord Grey when he was Governor of Ireland, and afterwards Sheriff of Cork. He has written a large treatise on the state of Ireland. But of all the men of the age no one was more variously gifted, or exercised those gifts in more differing directions, than the man who of them all was most in favour with queen, court, and people--Philip Sidney. I could write much to set forth the greatness, culture, balance, and scope of this wonderful man. Renowned over Europe for his person, for his dress, for his carriage, for his speech, for his skill in arms, for his horsemanship, for his soldiership, for his statesmanship, for his learning, he was beloved for his friendship, his generosity, his steadfastness, his simplicity, his conscientiousness, his religion.

Amongst the lamentations over his death printed in Spenser's works, there is one poem by Matthew Roydon, a few verses of which I shall quote, being no vain eulogy. Describing his personal appearance, he says:

A sweet, attractive kind of grace, A full a.s.surance given by looks, Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books!-- I trow, that countenance cannot lie Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.

Was ever eye did see that face, Was ever ear did hear that tongue, Was ever mind did mind his grace That ever thought the travel long?

But eyes and ears, and every thought, Were with his sweet perfections caught.

His _Arcadia_ is a book full of wisdom and beauty. None of his writings were printed in his lifetime; but the _Arcadia_ was for many years after his death one of the most popular books in the country. His prose, as prose, is not equal to his friend Raleigh's, being less condensed and stately. It is too full of fancy in thought and freak in rhetoric to find now-a-days more than a very limited number of readers; and a good deal of the verse that is set in it, is obscure and uninteresting, partly from some false notions of poetic composition which he and his friend Spenser entertained when young; but there is often an exquisite art in his other poems.

The first I shall transcribe is a sonnet, to which the Latin words printed below it might be prefixed as a t.i.tle: _Splendidis longum valedico nugis._

A LONG FAREWELL TO GLITTERING TRIFLES.

Leave me, O love, which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust: What ever fades but fading pleasure brings.

Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light That doth both shine and give us sight to see.

Oh take fast hold; let that light be thy guide, In this small course which birth draws out to death; And think how evil[63] becometh him to slide Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.

Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see: Eternal love, maintain thy life in me.

Before turning to the treasury of his n.o.blest verse, I shall give six lines from a poem in the _Arcadia_--chiefly for the sake of instancing what great questions those mighty men delighted in:

What essence destiny hath; if fortune be or no; Whence our immortal souls to mortal earth do stow[64]:

What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather, With outward maker's force, or like an inward father.

Such thoughts, me thought, I thought, and strained my single mind, Then void of nearer cares, the depth of things to find.

Lord Bacon was not the only one, in such an age, to think upon the mighty relations of physics and metaphysics, or, as Sidney would say, "of naturall and supernaturall philosophic." For a man to do his best, he must be upheld, even in his speculations, by those around him.

In the specimen just given, we find that our religious poetry has gone down into the deeps. There are indications of such a tendency in the older times, but neither then were the questions so articulate, nor were the questioners so troubled for an answer. The alternative expressed in the middle couplet seems to me the most imperative of all questions--both for the individual and for the church: Is man fashioned by the hands of G.o.d, as a potter fashioneth his vessel; or do we indeed come forth from his heart? Is power or love the making might of the universe? He who answers this question aright possesses the key to all righteous questions.

Sir Philip and his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke, made between them a metrical translation of the Psalms of David. It cannot be determined which are hers and which are his; but if I may conclude anything from a poem by the sister, to which I shall by and by refer, I take those I now give for the brother's work.

The souls of the following psalms have, in the version I present, transmigrated into fairer forms than I have found them occupy elsewhere.

Here is a grand hymn for the whole world: _Sing unto the Lord._

PSALM XCVI.

Sing, and let your song be new, Unto him that never endeth; Sing all earth, and all in you-- Sing to G.o.d, and bless his name.

Of the help, the health he sendeth, Day by day new ditties frame.

Make each country know his worth: Of his acts the wondered story Paint unto each people forth.

For Jehovah great alone, All the G.o.ds, for awe and glory, Far above doth hold his throne.

For but idols, what are they Whom besides mad earth adoreth?

He the skies in frame did lay.

Grace and honour are his guides; Majesty his temple storeth; Might in guard about him bides.

Kindreds come! Jehovah give-- O give Jehovah all together, Force and fame whereso you live.

Give his name the glory fit: Take your off'rings, get you thither, Where he doth enshrined sit.

Go, adore him in the place Where his pomp is most displayed.

Earth, O go with quaking pace, Go proclaim Jehovah king: Stayless world shall now be stayed; Righteous doom his rule shall bring.

Starry roof and earthy floor, Sea, and all thy wideness yieldeth, Now rejoice, and leap, and roar.

Leafy infants of the wood, Fields, and all that on you feedeth, Dance, O dance, at such a good!

For Jehovah cometh, lo!

Lo to reign Jehovah cometh!

Under whom you all shall go.

He the world shall rightly guide-- Truly, as a king becometh, For the people's weal provide.

Attempting to give an ascending scale of excellence--I do not mean in subject but in execution--I now turn to the national hymn, _G.o.d is our Refuge._

PSALM XLIV.

G.o.d gives us strength, and keeps us sound-- A present help when dangers call; Then fear not we, let quake the ground, And into seas let mountains fall; Yea so let seas withal In watery hills arise, As may the earthly hills appal With dread and dashing cries.

For lo, a river, streaming joy, With purling murmur safely slides, That city washing from annoy, In holy shrine where G.o.d resides.

G.o.d in her centre bides: What can this city shake?