and strongly-allied family; to do all this under the name and wages of a parliament; to trample upon them too as he pleased, and spurn them out of doors when he grew weary of them; to raise up a new and unheard-of monster out of their ashes; to stifle that in the very infancy, and set up himself above all things that ever were called sovereign in England; to oppress all his enemies by arms, and all his friends afterwards by artifice; to serve all parties patiently for awhile, and to command them victoriously at last; to over-run each corner of the three nations, and overcome with equal facility both the riches of the south and the poverty of the north; to be feared and courted by all foreign princes, and adopted a brother to the gods of the earth; to call together parliaments with a word of his pen, and scatter them again with the breath of his mouth; to be humbly and daily petitioned that he would please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be the master of those who had hired him before to be their servant; to have the estates and lives of three kingdoms as much at his disposal as was the little inheritance of his father, and to be as noble and liberal in the spending of them; and lastly (for there is no end of all the particulars of his glory,) to bequeath all this with one word to his posterity; to die with peace at home, and triumph abroad; to be buried among kings, and with more than regal solemnity; and to leave a name behind him, not to be extinguished, but with the whole world; which, as it is now too little for his praises, so might have been too for his conquests, if the short line of his human life could have been stretched out to the extent of his immortal designs? SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, though now read chiefly by the antiquary in English literature, had, in his lifetime, considerable celebrity as a writer. He was born in 1605 at Oxford, where his father kept an inn, and was educated at that university. He early began to write for the stage, and on Ben Jonson's death was made Poet-Laureate. In the civil wars he held a considerable post in the army, and was knighted by the king; but on the decline of the royalists, whose cause he had espoused, he sought refuge in France, where 1 From the Latin laureatus, "crowned with laurel." Under the Roman emperors, poets contended at the public games, and the prize was a crown of oak or olive leaves. From this custom, most of the European sovereigns assumed the privilege of nominating a court poet with various titles. In England, traces of this office are found as early as the reign of Henry III., (1216-1272,) but the express title, poet-laureate, does not occur till the reign of Edward IV., (1461–1483,) when John Kay received the appointment. The office was made patent by Charles I., and the salary fixed at £100 per year, and a tierce of wine. In the reign of George III. the salary was increased, and the wine dispensed with, and also the custom of requiring annual odes. The succession of poets-laureate has been, I beheve, since Davenant's day, John Dryden, Nahum Tate, Nicholas Rowe, Laurence Eusden, Colley Cibber, William Whitehead, Thomas Warton, Henry James Pye, and Robert Southey. he wrote two books of his poem for which he is most known-his "Gondibert"-under the patronage of Henrietta Maria, that "ill-fated, ill-advised queen" of Charles I. By her he was despatched with a colony of artificers for Virginia. He had scarcely cleared the French coast when his vessel was taken by a parliamentary ship, and he was sent prisoner to Cowes Castle. Here, with great composure and manliness of mind, he continued his poem till he had carried through about one-half of what he designed, when he suddenly broke off, expecting immediately to be led to execution. His life, however, was spared, through the intercession of two aldermen of York, (whom Davenant had rescued from great peril in the civil wars,) united to the then all-powerful influence of Milton. After his release he supported himself by writing plays till the Restoration, when, beautiful to relate, it is believed that Milton himself was spared at his intercession, in return for his own preservation. The fame of Sir William Davenant rests principally on his heroic poem, Gondibert; the main story of which, as far as developed, is as follows. Duke Gondibert and Prince Oswald were renowned knights, in the reign of Aribert, king of Lombardy, 653-661. Oswald sought the hand of Rhodalind, the only daughter of Aribert, and heiress to the crown: but the king preferred Gondibert,—a choice in which Rhodalind fully concurred. It happened that "In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, Fresh, as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made." The duke, on his return from the chase, is surprised by an ambush, laid by the jealous Oswald. A parley succeeds, and it is finally agreed that the quar rel shall be decided by the two leaders and three of the chief captains on each side. The combat accordingly takes place. Oswald and two of his friends are slain, and a third wounded and disarmed. Oswald's men are therefore so enraged that they immediately commence a general attack upon Gondibert, who is victorious, though severely wounded. He retires to the house of Astragon, a famous physician, where he is scarcely recovered from his wounds before he receives others of a more gentle kind from the eyes of Birtha, the daughter of Astragon, by whose permission he becomes her professed but secret lover. While the friends of Oswald are forming schemes of revenge for their recent defeat, a messenger arrives from Aribert to signify his intention of honoring Gondibert with the hand of Rhodalind; and he and his daughter follow shortly afterwards. The duke is therefore obliged to accompany them back to the court, and leave behind that which is far more precious to him than a crown or Rhodalind. On parting from Birtha, he gives her an emerald ring, which had been for ages the token of his ancestors to their betrothed brides; and which, by its change of color, would indicate any change in his affection. The arrival of some of the party at the capital concludes this singular and original fragment of a poem,-for a fragment it must be called, and we cannot but deeply regret that the author did not finish it.1 "In the character and love of Birtha," remarks an able critic, "we have a 1 This poem has divided the critics. Bishop Hurd, in his "Letters on Chivalry and Romance," finds fault with Davenant because he rejects all machinery and supernatural agency. On the other hand, Dr. Aikin ably defends him. Read-"Miscellanies in Prose, by John Aikin, M. D., and Letitia Barbauld:" also, the prefatory remarks in the fourth volume of Anderson's "British Poets;" also, some criticisms of Headley in his "Select Beauties," p. xlvi.: also, "Retrospective Review," ii. 304 : and a few good remarks in "Campbell's Specimens," iv. 97. picture of most absolute loveliness and dove-like simplicity. Never was that delightful passion portrayed with a more chaste and exquisite pencil."1 CHARACTER AND LOVE OF BIRTHA. To Astragon, heaven for succession gave One only pledge, and Birtha was her name; She ne'er saw courts, yet courts could have undone She never had in busy cities been, Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er allay'd with fears; And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. But here her father's precepts gave her skill, In Autumn, berries; and in Summer, flowers. Her own free virtue silently employs, Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends, The just historians Birtha thus express, And tell how, by her sire's example taught, Black melancholy mists, that fed despair Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervain clear'd; And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd. He that had served great Love with reverend heart, In these old wounds worse wounds from him endures; For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart, And she kills faster than her father cures. Her heedless innocence as little knew The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took; 1 "The longer we dwell upon this noble but unfinished monument of the genius of Sir William Davenant, the more does our admiration of it increase, and we regret that the unjust attacks which were made against it at the time, (or whatever else was the cause,) prevented its completion. It night then, notwithstanding the prophetical oblivion to which Bishop Hurd has, with some acrimony, condemned it, have been entitled to a patent of nobility, and had its name inscribed upon the roll of epic aristocracy."-Ret. Rev. ii. 324. And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew; So strange disorder, now he pines for health, Makes him conceal this reveller with shame; She not the robber knows, yet feels the stealth, And never but in songs had heard his name. She, full of inward questions, walks alone, With open ears, and ever-waking eyes, And flying feet, Love's fire she from the sight Of all her maids does carry, as from spies; Jealous, that what burns her, might give them light. Beneath a myrtle covert now does spend In maids' weak wishes, her whole stock of thought; Fond maids! who love with mind's fine stuff would mend Which Nature purposely of bodies wrought. She fashions him she loved of angels kind, To the first fathers from th' Eternal Mind. As eagles then, when nearest heaven they fly, Soon her opinion of his hurtless heart, Affection turns to faith; and then love's fire If I do love, (said she,) that love, O Heaven! And you, my alter'd mother, (grown above Great nature, which you read and reverenced here,) When you as mortal as my father were. This said, her soul into her breast retires; With Love's vain diligence of heart she dreams And trusts unanchor'd hope in fleeting streams: She thinks of Eden-life; and no rough wind She thinks, if ever anger in him sway, (The youthful warrior's most excused disease,) Such chance her tears shall calm, as showers allay The accidental rage of winds and seas. Thus to herself in day-dreams Birtha talks: The duke, (whose wounds of war are healthful grown,) To cure Love's wounds, seeks Birtha where she walks: Whose wandering soul seeks him to cure her own. Yet when her solitude he did invade, Shame (which in maids is unexperienced fear) Taught her to wish night's help to make more shade, And she had fled him now, but that he came Of his minor pieces, we have room but for the following beautiful SONG. The lark now leaves his watery nest, And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings; And to implore your light, he sings,- The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. |