Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 42

21 'Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frame That golden bridge to entertain my foe; Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came, To welcome him with joy who brings me woe: Put off thy helm: rejoice me with the flame Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow; Kiss me, embrace me; if you further venture, Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath[4] to enter.'

22 Thus as she woos, she rolls her rueful eyes With piteous look, and changeth oft her chere,[5]

An hundred sighs from her false heart up-flies; She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear: The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies; What stony heart resists a woman's tear?

But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, Drew forth his sword, and from her careless twined:[6]

23 Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start, Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cried-- 'Ah! never do me such a spiteful part, To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride; Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; For through this breast, and through this heart, unkind, To this fair tree thy sword shall pa.s.sage find.'

24 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, Oft in their idle fancies roam and range: Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made; Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange; A giantess before him high she stands, Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands.

25 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried and fought; Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought, But on the myrtle smote with all his might, Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh brought; The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd h.e.l.l, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell:

26 Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below Roared aloud; that thunder'd, and this shook: Bl.u.s.ter'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow; The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took, Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended; en fled the spirits all, the charms all ended.

27 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still, The wood returned to its wonted state, Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, Of horror full, but horror there innate: He further tried, if ought withstood his will To cut those trees, as did the charms of late, And finding nought to stop him, smiled and said-- 'O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!'

28 From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the knight; The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, 'Now of the wood the charms have lost their might; The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat; See where he comes!'--Array'd in glittering white Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high, and great; His eagle's silver wings to shine begun With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun.

29 The camp received him with a joyful cry,-- A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd; Then G.o.dfrey welcomed him with honours high; His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd: 'To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, 'went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, Have driven the sprites away; thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free.'

[1] 'Mo:' more.

[2] 'Stilled:' dropped.

[3] 'Dight:' aparelled.

[4] 'Eath:' easy.

[5] 'Chere:' expression.

[6] 'Twined:' separated.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Ess.e.x, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time.

On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be amba.s.sador to Venice,--a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provost- ship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the t.i.tle of 'Reliquitae Wottonianae,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing pa.s.sages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account of an English amba.s.sador, as 'an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.'

FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.

1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, Honour the darling but of one short day, Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin, State but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood, allied to greatness, is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own.

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men too unkind Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected while the a.s.s goes free; I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; I would be poor, but know the humble gra.s.s Still trampled on by each unworthy a.s.s; Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more.

I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair--poor I'll be rather.

3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir, Would beauty's queen ent.i.tle me 'the fair,'

Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie Angels[1] with India; with a speaking eye Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue To stones by epitaphs; be call'd great master In the loose rhymes of every poetaster; Could I be more than any man that lives, Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives: Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, Than ever fortune would have made them mine; And hold one minute of this holy leisure Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

4 Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves!

These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves.

Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring; A prayer-book now shall be my looking-gla.s.s, In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face; Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares, No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears: Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly, And learn to affect a holy melancholy; And if Contentment be a stranger then, I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.

[1] 'Angels:' a species of coin.

A MEDITATION.

O thou great Power! in whom we move, By whom we live, to whom we die, Behold me through thy beams of love, Whilst on this couch of tears I lie, And cleanse my sordid soul within By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.

No hallow'd oils, no gums I need, No new-born drams of purging fire; One rosy drop from David's seed Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire: O precious ransom! which once paid, That _Consummatum est_ was said.

And said by him, that said no more, But seal'd it with his sacred breath: Thou then, that has dispurged our score, And dying wert the death of death, Be now, whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

RICHARD CORBET.

This witty and good-natured bishop was born in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at Westminster and Oxford; and having received orders, was made successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. He was a most facetious and rather too convivial person; and a collection of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of wit and coa.r.s.eness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scotland, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad-singer in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence and a clear, full, ringing voice.

Occasionally doffing his clerical costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, the one of the pair exclaiming, 'Here's to thee, Lushington,' and the other, 'Here's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in reference to Prior Aymer, in 'Ivanhoe,'--'If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irregularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial --a warm-hearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and sectaries; his attention to his duties was respectable; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, and treat of various subjects. In his 'Journey to France,' you see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people were flocking to be confirmed, cried, 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man; and in his 'Farewell to the Fairies' the fine and fanciful poet.

DR CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

1 I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride nor fence; Nor did I go like one of those That do return with half a nose, They carried from hence.

2 But I to Paris rode along, Much like John Dory in the song, Upon a holy tide; I on an ambling nag did jet, (I trust he is not paid for yet,) And spurr'd him on each side.

3 And to St Denis fast we came, To see the sights of Notre Dame, (The man that shows them snuffles,) Where who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, And eke her old pantofles;

4 Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town, When in the inn she lay; Yet all the world knows that's a fable, For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, Upon a lock of hay.

5 No carpenter could by his trade Gain so much coin as to have made A gown of so rich stuff; Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit, That they believe old Joseph did it, 'Cause he deserved enough.

6 There is one of the cross's nails, Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails, And, if he will, may kneel; Some say 'twas false,'twas never so, Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, It is as true as steel.

7 There is a Ianthorn which the Jews, When Judas led them forth, did use, It weighs my weight downright; But to believe it, you must think The Jews did put a candle in 't, And then 'twas very light.

8 There's one saint there hath lost his nose, Another's head, but not his toes, His elbow and his thumb; But when that we had seen the rags, We went to th' inn and took our nags, And so away did come.

9 We came to Paris, on the Seine, 'Tis wondrous fair,'tis nothing clean, 'Tis Europe's greatest town; How strong it is I need not tell it, For all the world may easily smell it, That walk it up and down.

10 There many strange things are to see, The palace and great gallery, The Place Royal doth excel, The New Bridge, and the statutes there, At Notre Dame St Q. Pater, The steeple bears the bell.

11 For learning the University, And for old clothes the Frippery, The house the queen did build.

St Innocence, whose earth devours Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours, And there the king was kill'd.

12 The Bastille and St Denis Street, The Shafflenist like London Fleet, The a.r.s.enal no toy; But if you'll see the prettiest thing, Go to the court and see the king-- Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy!