Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 24

And fast by him pale Malady was placed: Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see!

We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of Famine might we see: With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; Her body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas! was gnawen everywhere, All full of holes; that I ne might refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade Than any substance of a creature made:

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: Her tearing nails s.n.a.t.c.hing at all she saw; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas! her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise As made h.e.l.l-gates to shiver with the might; Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death Enthirling[2] it, to rieve her of her breath:

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight; No peers, nor princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower, But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:

His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took, And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook, That most of all my fears affrayed me; His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued: In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all:

Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd: His face forhew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

[1] 'Piled:' bare.

[2] 'Enthirling:' piercing.

HENRY DUKE OP BUCKINGHAM IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS.

Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled,[1] and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, Oft spread his arms, stretch'd hands he joins as fast With rueful cheer, and vapour'd eyes upcast.

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat; His hair all torn, about the place it lain: My heart so molt to see his grief so great, As feelingly, methought, it dropp'd away: His eyes they whirl'd about withouten stay: With stormy sighs the place did so complain, As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale, And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice; At each of which he shrieked so withal, As though the heavens rived with the noise; Till at the last, recovering of his voice, Supping the tears that all his breast berain'd, On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plain'd.

[1] 'Piled:' bare.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

Of Harrington we know only that he was born in 1534 and died in 1582; that he was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth; and after the accession of the latter to the throne, was favoured and promoted by her; and that he has written some pretty verses of an amatory kind.

SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM,

WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS IN THE COURT-YARD.

Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, ''Tis Cupid's fire;'

Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek Yet not a heart to save my pain; O Venus, take thy gifts again; Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own.

VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY BEGUILE THE n.o.bLE KNIGHT, MY TRUE FRIEND.

I.

Why didst thou raise such woeful wail, And waste in briny tears thy days?

'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, At last gave proof of woman's ways; She did, in sooth, display the heart That might have wrought thee greater smart.

II.

Why, thank her then, not weep or moan; Let others guard their careless heart, And praise the day that thus made known The faithless hold on woman's art; Their lips can gloze and gain such root, That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.

III.

But, ere the blossom fair doth rise, To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, Creepeth disdain in canker-wise, And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast: There is no hope of all our toil; There is no fruit from such a soil.

IV.

Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er; She might have poison'd all thy life; Such wayward mind had bred thee more Of sorrow, had she proved thy wife: Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, And bless thyself that so art freed.

V.

No youth shall sue such one to win.

Unmark'd by all the shining fair, Save for her pride and scorn, such sin As heart of love can never bear; Like leafless plant in blasted shade, So liveth she--a barren maid.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

All hail to Sidney!--the pink of chivalry--the hero of Zutphen--the author of the 'Arcadia,'--the gifted, courteous, genial and n.o.ble-minded man! He was born November 29, 1554, at Penshurst, Kent. His father's name was Henry. He studied at Shrewsbury, at Trinity College, Cambridge, and at Christ Church, Oxford. At the age of eighteen he set out on his travels, and, in the course of three years, visited France, Flanders, Germany, Hungary, and Italy. On his return he was introduced at Court, and became a favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who sent him on an emba.s.sy to Germany. He returned home, and shortly after had a quarrel at a tournament with Lord Oxford. But for the interference of the Queen, a duel would have taken place. Sidney was displeased at the issue of the affair, and retired, in 1580, to Wilton, in Wiltshire, where he wrote his famous 'Arcadia,'--that true prose-poem, and a work which, with all its faults, no mere sulky and spoiled child (as some have called him in the matter of this retreat) could ever have produced. This production, written as an outflow of his mind in its self-sought solitude, was never meant for publication, and did not appear till after its author's death. As it was written partly for his sister's amus.e.m.e.nt, he ent.i.tled it 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.'

In 1581, Sidney reappeared in Court, and distinguished himself in the jousts and tournaments celebrated in honour of the Duke of Anjou; and on the return of that prince to the Continent, he accompanied him to Antwerp.

In 1583 he received the honour of knighthood. He published about this time a tract ent.i.tled 'The Defence of Poesy,' which abounds in the element the praise of which it celebrates, and which is, besides, distinguished by acuteness of argument and felicity of expression. In 1585 he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland; but Queen Elizabeth, afraid of 'losing the jewel of her times,' prevented him from accepting this honour, and prevented him also from accompanying Sir Francis Drake on an expedition against the Spanish settlements in America. In the same year, however, she made him Governor of Flushing, and subsequently General of the Cavalry, under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, who commanded the troops sent to a.s.sist the oppressed Dutch Protestants against the Spaniards. Here our hero greatly distinguished himself, particularly when capturing, in 1586, the town of Axel. His career, however, was destined to be short. On the 22d of September of the same year he accidentally encountered a convoy of the enemy marching toward Zutphen. In the engagement which followed, his party triumphed; but their brave commander received a shot in the thigh, which shattered the bone. As he was carried from the field, overcome with thirst, he called for water, but while about to apply it to his lips, he saw a wounded soldier carried by who was eagerly eyeing the cup. Sidney, perceiving this, instantly delivered to him the water, saying, in words which would have made an ordinary man immortal, but which give Sir Philip a twofold immortality, 'Thy necessity is greater than mine.' He was carried to Arnheim, and lingered on till October 17, when he died. He was only thirty-two years of age. His death was an earthquake at home. All England wore mourning for him. Queen Elizabeth ordered his remains to be carried to London, and to receive a public funeral in St Paul's. He was identified with the land's Poetry, Politeness, and Protestantism; and all who admired any of the three, sorrowed for Sidney.

Sidney's 'Sonnets and other Poems' contain much that is quaint, but also much that is beautiful and true; yet they are the least poetical of his works. His 'Arcadia' is a glorious unfinished and unpolished wilderness of fancy. It is a vineyard, the scattered cl.u.s.ters of which are so heavy, that, like the grapes of Eshcol of old, they must be carried on a staff.

Here is one of those rich cl.u.s.ters:--

'There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; _here a shepherd's boy, piping as though he should never be old;_ there a young shepherdess, knitting and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'

From 'The Defence of Poesy' we could cull, did s.p.a.ce permit, a hundred pa.s.sages even superior to the above, full of dexterous reasoning, splendid rhetoric, and subtle fancy, and substantiating all that has been said in favour of Sir Philip Sidney's accomplishments, chivalric earnestness, and richly-endowed genius.

TO SLEEP.

FROM THE 'ARCADIA.'