Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 47

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset; The bridegroom eat in spite; For had he left the women to 't It would have cost two hours to do 't, Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle's out, and now All that they had not done, they do!

What that is, who can tell?

But I believe it was no more Than thou and I have done before With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine, For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, To find it were in vain; For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together?

O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our b.r.e.a.s.t.s thou sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Cartwright was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper--once a gentleman--in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems to have weakened his const.i.tution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet.

He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows What are those darts the veil'd G.o.d throws?

Oh, let him tell me ere I die When 'twas he saw or heard them fly; Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, Wing them for various loves; And whether gold or lead, Quicken or dull the head: I will anoint and keep them warm, And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er Did yet see thought? or silence hear?

Safe from the search of human eye These arrows (as their ways are) fly: The flights of angels part Not air with so much art; And snows on streams, we may Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure, And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed To dye white paths with hasty red; A glance's lightning swiftly thrown, Or from a true or seeming frown; A subtle taking smile From pa.s.sion, or from guile; The spirit, life, and grace Of motion, limbs, and face; These misconceit ent.i.tles darts, And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring, And harmless twigs no bloodshed know, Till art doth fit them for the bow; So lights of flowing graces Sparkling in several places, Only adorn the parts, Till that we make them darts; Themselves are only twigs and quills: We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore, We mint, and stamp, and then adore: Like heathen we the image crown, And indiscreetly then fall down: Those graces all were meant Our joy, not discontent; But with untaught desires We turn those lights to fires, Thus Nature's healing herbs we take, And out of cures do poisons make.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, To a compliance with the thriving side; Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, But only to maintain afflicted right; Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, Perversely seeking after voice and name; Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do, And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

When now the incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed and check'd the flood.

Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the b.u.t.t, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell.

But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field.

Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew: And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstasy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love.

You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Shew us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die: And though you thank G.o.d that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a -------- or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers Do make or cherish flowers; Where discontented things in sadness lie, And Nature grieves as I.

When I am parted from those eyes, From which my better day doth rise, Though some propitious power Should plant me in a bower, Where amongst happy lovers I might see How showers and sunbeams bring One everlasting spring, Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me; Nature herself to him is lost, Who loseth her he honours most.

Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day; Whose blessed shapes I'll s.n.a.t.c.h and keep till when I do return and view again: So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that n.o.bleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.

Browne began his poetical career early, and closed it soon. He published the first part of 'Britannia's Pastorals' in 1613, the second in 1616; shortly after, his 'Shepherd's Pipe;' and, in 1620, produced his 'Inner Temple Masque' which was then enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies'

edition of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive poetry.

SONG.

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is Time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one, and keep the other: Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, Beauty gone, you will repent you.

'Twill be said, when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh, then, fly all nice behaviour!

Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour.

SONG.

1 Shall I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me, And if such a woman move As I now shall versify; Be a.s.sured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

2 Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art.

In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

3 Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.