And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel. But Remembrance, poor relief, That more makes than mends my grief (Whence she would be driven, too, In my former days of bliss, I could some invention draw; By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness, In the very gall of sadness, The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss: The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight: This my chamber of neglect, She hath taught me by her might Though they as a trifle leave thee, Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Than I am in love with thee: Though our wise ones call thee madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them. The poem on Christmas is another fine and graphic sketch, and affords a lively picture of the manners of the times. We have not, however, space to introduce it, and shall, therefore, close our remarks upon this writer with the following witty sonnet : A STOLEN KISS. Now gentle sleep has closed up those eyes Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe; Why then should I this robbery delay? And twenty hundred thousand more for loan, WILLIAM BROWNE was a pastoral and descriptive poet, and adopted Spenser as his model. He was born at Tavistock in Devonshire, in 1590, but where, and under what circumstances he received his education, is unknown. He was for a short time connected with the Inner Temple as a student of law, but seems never to have followed the legal profession. For a number of years he held the place of tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and after the death of that nobleman, who was killed at the battle of Newbury, in 1643, Browne received the patronage, and lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke. In this situation he realized a competency, and purchased an estate, upon which he died in 1645. Browne's works consist of Britannia's Pastorals, The Shepherd's Pipe, and a masque called The Inner Temple Masque. As all these poems were produced before the writer was thirty years of age, and 'Britannia's Pastorals,' which are by far the best, when he was little more than twenty, we should not be surprised that they contain marks of juvenility, and frequent traces of resemblance to the performances of previous poets, especially Spenser, whom he warmly admired. 'Britannia's Pastorals' are written in the heroic couplet, and contain much beautiful descriptive poetry. The author had great facility of expression, and an intimate acquaintance with the phenomena of inanimate nature, and the characteristic features of the English landscape. His own beautiful Devonshire seems to have inspired his strains. The following lines contain an assemblage of the same images that are found in the morning picture of Milton's 'L'Allegro' : By this had chanticleer, the village cock, And the swart ploughman for his breakfast stayed, In one of Browne's pastorals he celebrates the death Milton is supposed to have copied his plan in Lycidas. faint similarity in some of the sentiments and images. following very fine illustration of a rose: Look, as a sweet rose fairly budding forth Make herself betray Some white and curious hand, inviting To pluck her thence away. of a friend, and There is also a Browne has the The following beautiful sketches are from the 'Britannia's Pastorals :' EVENING. As in an evening, when the gentle air I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank, to hear So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well The sable mantle of the silent night Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills, And sleightful otters left the purling rills; Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung And terror frights the lonely passenger; When nought was heard but now and then the howl HENRY KING, better known as a divine than as a poet, was the son of Doctor John King, chaplain to Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards bishop of London. He was born at Wornall in January 1591, and after preparing for the university at Westminster school, was elected student of Christ's Church College, Oxford. Having taken his degrees, and entered into orders, he became chaplain to James the First, soon after which he was made archdeacon of Colchester. In 1625, he received the degree of doctor of divinity, and became chaplain to Charles the First; and though strongly suspected of inclining to the Puritanical party, he remained in that relation to the king for many years. In 1641, doctor King, as a conciliatory step toward the Puritans, was raised to the see of Chichester; but no sooner had the civil war broken out, and the dissolution of Episcopacy taken place, than he was treated by the very party whom he had been elevated to conciliate, with the utmost severity. At the Restoration, however, he was restored to his bishopric, and Wood informs us that, he was esteemed by his diocese and neighborhood, the epitome of all honors, virtues, and generous nobleness, and a person never to be forgotten by his tenants and the poor. He died on the first of October 1669, in his seventy-ninth year. Bishop King was emphatically a religious poet, and besides composing many sacred songs, elegies, and sonnets, in all of which his language and imagery are chaste and refined, he turned the Psalms of David also into metre. His poems afford little variety, however, as literary performances, and the following specimen will, therefore, be sufficient to exhibit his style and manner: A DIRGE. What is the existence of man's life, The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace Till Death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm-where the hot blood Which beats his bark with many a wave, It is a flower-which buds, and grows, It is a dream-whose seeming truth It is a dial-which points out It is a weary interlude Which doth short joys, long woes, include; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, FRANCIS QUARLES was born at Stewards, in Essex, in 1592. His father was clerk of the green-cloth, and purveyor to Queen Elizabeth, and as the son was early designed for a court life, he was educated with reference to that object. He entered Christ's College, Cambridge, but seems to have left the university without a degree, soon after which he became a member of Lincoln's Inn, London. He was afterward cup-bearer to Eliza beth, daughter of James the First, Electress Palatine and Queen of Bohemia; but upon the ruin of the elector's affairs, he quitted the queen's service, and went to Ireland, where he became secretary to Archbishop Usher. In this situation he remained until the breaking out of the Irish rebellion of 1641, when, after having suffered very severe pecuniary losses, he was obliged to fly for safety into England. In England, however, he did not realize the repose he had anticipated, for one of his productions, the Royal Convert, having given offense to the prevailing party, they stripped him of what remained of his possessions, and even seized his books and some valuable manuscripts, which he had prepared for the press. This last blow was more than his mental strength was sufficient to bear, and he died of a broken heart, in September, 1644. |