Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 66

CUDDY.

Would thy shepherdess were here, Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly!

ROGET.

Not for both your flocks, I swear, And the gain they yield you yearly, Would I so much wrong my dear.

Yet to me, nor to this place, Would she now be long a stranger; She would hold it no disgrace, (If she feared not more my danger,) Where I am to show her face.

w.i.l.l.y.

Shepherd, we would wish no harms, But something that might content thee.

ROGET.

Wish me then within her arms, And that wish will ne'er repent me, If your wishes might prove charms.

w.i.l.l.y.

Be thy prison her embrace, Be thy air her sweetest breathing.

CUDDY.

Be thy prospect her fair face, For each look a kiss bequeathing, And appoint thyself the place.

ROGET.

Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then Come meet you here this afternoon again: But fare you well, since wishes have no power, Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour.

[1] 'Ewes:' hopes.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT,

The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning thus:--

'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, To welcome nature in the early spring, Your numerous feet not tread The banks of Avon, for each flower (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) Hangs there the pensive head.'

Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little excuse.'

He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the d.u.c.h.ess of Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate --to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel'

and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, of Ham's conduct to Noah.

'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully wrought pa.s.sages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.'

FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II.

THE ARGUMENT.

The hunting which did yearly celebrate The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: The hunters praised; how true to love they are, How calm in peace and tempest-like in war.

The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, And straight his hunters are as hard pursued.

1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow Of slight beginnings to important ends; Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends.

2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, A day grown black in Lombard histories, Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes.

3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, The Duke, with many lovers in his train, Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made.

4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came To celebrate this day with annual sport, On which by battle here he earned his fame,

5 And many of these n.o.ble hunters bore Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, When in this forest they interred the foe.

6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, Was listed here, and in the story great; He followed honour, when towards death it went; Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat.

7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, He blushing hid, and now no more would own (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) Than an old wreath when newly overthrown.

8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, That in these vicious times would make it known.

9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; And now Love's power so willingly did bear, That even his arbitrary reign he praised.

10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, Who was in court the public morning gla.s.s, Where those, who would reduce nature to art, Practised by dress the conquests of the face.

11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; Of stature small, but was all over heart, And, though unhappy, all that heart was love.

12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing.

13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, As loyal subjects quietly bemoan Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne.

14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, And was no less the joy of public sight.

15 If love's just power he did not early see, Some small excuse we may his error give; Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be That secret vital heat by which we live:

16 But such it is; and though we may be thought To have in childhood life, ere love we know, Yet life is useless till by reason taught, And love and reason up together grow.

17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give Of life, because we see them pained and move, Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live.

18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, We then to souls, G.o.d's coin, vain reverence pay; Since reason, which is love, and his best known And current image, age has worn away.

19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, May, if I old philosophers control, Confirm the new by some new poet's light, Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul.

20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, And he alike from either's wounds had bled.

21 Public his valour was, but not his love, One filled the world, the other he contained; Yet quietly alike in both did move, Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained.

22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, Many to this recorded hunting came; Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame.