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 Or two of paper, filled with Songs and Ditties ; 
 
 These I reserve to my own proper use, 
 
 And, Paternoster-like, have conn'd them o'er;* 
 
 And, smit with feelings of the olden days, 
 
 Revive the music of neglected lays.f 
 
 For shall not some buds of the poesy 
 
 V)f that old stock, begin to shoot again? 
 
 Will not men's ears receive the melody. 
 
 And thank their fathers for the good old strain ?t 
 
 * Haywood. 
 
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 VRK SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, 
 
 ^ lEHIEiFi AIS 
 
 II © 41 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 1 840. 
 
N^H 
 
 ExTEiiED according to act of Congress, in the year 
 1839, by Carey and Hart, in the clerk's office for 
 the eastern district of Pennsylvania. 
 
 Printed by 
 Haswell, Barrington, and Haswell. 
 
TO 
 
 NICHOLAS. BIDDLE, ESQ. 
 
 PROM THE EARLY POETS OF ENGLAND 
 
 IS 
 
 VERY RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The good old school of English Poetry, is rich in 
 materials, calculated alike to please the imagination 
 and touch the heart. There is a beauty and freshness 
 jibout the compositions of the age of Elizabeth and 
 the Stuarts, arising not so much from any novelty in 
 the thoughts, — though this is one of their distinguishing 
 excellencies, as from that nuivele of expression, which 
 throws around them an indescribable charm, and from 
 then- faithful adherence to nature and truth. From 
 this rich mass of poetry several valuable selections 
 have been made, which are favorably known to the 
 public. Still it appeared to the selector of the mate- 
 rials here offered to the reader, that the field was not 
 entirely gleaned ; that enough was still left to repay 
 the trouble of research. Under another point of view, 
 also, it seemed that a new selection might be made, 
 surpassing, perhaps, in interest many that had preceded 
 it. Works of this kind have generally been formed of 
 heterogeneous materials. The reader is rapidly hurried 
 from scene to scene ; his attention is fatigued, his 
 expectation disappointed, and he is soon disposed 
 to close the volume, distracted by a succession of 
 subjects that present no moral connexion. It was 
 thought that these defects might be avoided, by 
 weaving together such portions of these varied mate- 
 rials as were calculated to form one connected whole. 
 "For," to use the striking illustration of Aristotle, "the 
 
8 PREFA.CE. 
 
 mere chalk outline of a simple figure, is more interest- 
 ing than a multitude of brilliant colours thrown care- 
 lessly together, without regard to significant design." 
 The old Poets abound in almost infinite modifications 
 of passion, sentiment, and description, capable of being 
 woven, without any very harsh or abrupt transitions, 
 into a narrative of sufticient consistency. The task 
 was, perhaps, no very easy one; but the trial has been 
 made, and the result is now before the reader. 
 
 In the Programme of my story,* it will be seen 
 what kind of a canvas I have prepared to receive 
 the colouring of these poetical materials. Nothing 
 can be more inartificial than the grouping ; but whether 
 there be sufficient harmony in the whole design it is 
 for the reader to judge. It is but fair to add, that, if 
 novelty has any claim to attention, this piece of poetical 
 mosaic- work possesses, at least, that recommendation. 
 
 But, in the compilation of this little volume, some- 
 thing more was kept in view than the mere pleasure 
 its perusal might aiford. It was imagined that a 
 familiar acquaintance with these models of our elder 
 literature might not be without its usefulness. The 
 epoch which produced these materials was fertile in 
 master-minds, who bore the broad impress of their age 
 and country. They had that about them which be- 
 spoke the richness and vigour of the soil from which 
 they sprang. They copied from no models conven- 
 tionally received. They did not, as it has been justly 
 observed, look out of themselves to see what they 
 should be, but sought for truth and nature, and found 
 
 * See page 13. 
 
PREFACE. 9 
 
 it in themselves. There was no tinsel, and but little 
 art about them. They were not the spoiled children of 
 refinement, and of that affectation which follows in its 
 train : they were a bold, vigorous, independent race of 
 thinkers, uniting- great strength and energy with native 
 grace and simplicity. 
 
 Let the honest truth be spoken. One of the beset' 
 ting sins of modern literaiure is an artificial diction, a 
 glitter of language, a continual effort to be grand, an 
 affectation of translating the commonest circumstances 
 of life into the language of metaphor and passion, ac- 
 companied by an overweening fondness for misplaced 
 embellishment. The consequence is a tendency to 
 exaggeration, a fault detrimental to natural grandeur 
 and elevation of thought, whose place it is made to 
 supply. To all this we have become habituated, and 
 our minds have necessarily, more or less, taken the 
 " hue and tone of the time." Now, it is thought 
 that a familiarity with the simpler models of our early 
 literature — some wholesome draughts from " the well 
 of English undefiled," may act as a corrective, and 
 have a tendency to revive a taste for the manly graces 
 and vigorous simplicity of a better age. " Simplicity 
 without elegance," says a distinguished critic of our 
 day, " is preferable to an excess of refinement ; as the 
 plain manners of a (Quaker are less repulsive than the 
 affectation of a coxcomb." 
 
 It is a received principle in physics, that the less 
 the power employed to produce a given result, the 
 more valuable the power. Now, if this principle be 
 applied to language, it will be gratifying to see by 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 what simple means the writers of the period in ques- 
 tion were enabled to attain the end proposed. In them 
 the native vigour and simplicity of our mother tongue 
 are seen in all the united attributes of gracefulness and 
 energy, of expansive beauty and concentrated power. 
 There is a continual tendency in language, as in other 
 things, to depart from the standard of purity, and it 
 may be well, from time to time, to use our endeavours 
 to bring it back to this test. Will it be too presump- 
 tuous to hope, that the present selection, light and 
 unpretending as the subject is, may not be without its 
 effect, as viewed in reference to this object? Models 
 will here be found, of vigour of thought united to ease 
 of expression, of a language which flows without an 
 appearance of effort, and which seems to be the very 
 garb in which nature would choose to clothe her play- 
 ful fancies, as well as her more sober truths. 
 
 To the shame of slow-endeavouring art 
 Thy easy numbers flow, 
 
 is the well-bestowed eulogium of Milton, in his epitaph 
 on Shakspeare. 
 
 When the most graceful, as well as the most power- 
 ful of the painters of the Italian school, was compli- 
 mented by a friend on the ease by which all his 
 productions were marked, he exclaimed, Questo facile 
 quanta e difficile (how difficult is this facility) ! In 
 reading the works of the English writers of the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth centuries, we may be disposed 
 to make the same remark as Raffaele's friend : but 
 were we to attempt an imitation, we should at once 
 feel the truth of the artist's reply. 
 
PREFACE. 11 
 
 As for the rest, the compiler lays claim to no other 
 merit than that of having carefully, and, as he trusts, 
 not injudiciously, strung together these pearls of song. 
 Several among them will have the charm of novelty, 
 having been copied from the Harleian, Lansdowne, 
 and Heber MSS., and collected from other rare sources. 
 He has, sometimes, ventured on a new reading, and 
 has occasionally, though reverently, retouched the 
 text, in order to adapt it to the delicacy of a modern 
 ear. These emendations are not, however, particu- 
 larized ; under the impression that, in a volume of so 
 little pretension, any parade of scholarship would have 
 been misplaced. It would surely have been preposter- 
 ous to clog the airy march of a few love sonnets by a 
 cumbersome commentary: besides, who has forgotten 
 the sly satire of Addison in his notes to the Ballad of 
 Chevy Chase? The materials of which this little 
 volume is composed, are things " from the heart to the 
 heart:" such eiFusions can need the aid of no glossary. 
 
 It remains to be seen whether this attempt at re- 
 viving the neglected beauties of the poets of the 
 olden time, will be received with indulgence. To use 
 the language of an industrious scholar, — " We live 
 in times of transition, when old feelings are passing 
 away, and ancient institutions crumbling into dust. 
 The age of romance has vanished ; the age of utility 
 has arisen in its place. Few amongst us have now 
 the privilege of contemplating the face of Poetry in 
 the still air of uninterrupted studies. On every side 
 we are saluted with the lo triumphe ! of some new 
 achievement of science and utility. Far be it from 
 
1 2 PREFACE. 
 
 me to affirm that the change is not a beneficial one,or 
 to object that the philosopher should occupy tlie poet's 
 seat in our commonwealth. But it may be pardoned 
 in one, who has drunk, though a scanty draught, of 
 the " milk of a better time," if he survey this revolu- 
 tion with some sensations of sorrow, and would gladly 
 recall the days, gone by for ever, when poets were the 
 objects of general admiration, and when the presence 
 of the Muse was revealed in the common paths of 
 human life by the tranquillity and joy that were diffused 
 around her."* 
 
 In conclusion, I am tempted to hope, that the reader 
 will, on the perusal of this little volume, feel not 
 uninclined to exclaim with the Duke in the Twelfth 
 Night : 
 
 Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song. 
 That old and antique song we heard last night, 
 Methought it did relieve my passion much : 
 More than light airs, and recollected terms, 
 Of these most brisk and giddy- paced times! 
 
 W. J. WALTER. 
 
 PHiLA.DELrHiA, Ausfust, ]839. 
 
 * Lives of Sacred Poets, by Robert A. Willmott, Esq., of 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. London, 1836.— I cannot allow so 
 tempting an opportunity to pass without acknowledging the very 
 handsome manner in which this fellow-labourer iji the field of 
 our elder poetry, has been pleased to notice my humble essays in 
 the same department, in the reprint of the works of Southwell 
 and Herrick. It is pleasant, when in distant lands, to interchange 
 feelings of literary uri)anity with a fellow-countryman, even 
 though personally unknown to him. 
 
P R O G R A iM ]\I E . 
 
 A Poet, in the Bachelor-state, is found revelling in 
 the luxury of single-blessedness, railing at every thing 
 matrimonial, and exercising his wit at the expense of 
 the votaries of the tender passion. In love, how- 
 ever, as in politics, your noisy declaimers are ever to 
 be suspected : and, accordingly, we find ere long that 
 our inveterate railer against the sex falls an easy con- 
 quest to Julia, a lady of great beauty and sensibility, 
 by whom his addresses are received. The Poet runs 
 riot in his joy; but the very enthusiasm of his cha- 
 racter betrays him into indiscretion. An interesting 
 pale young Beauty attracts more of his attention than, 
 under existing circumstances, is meet; he is even 
 tempted to address her in a Copy of sentimental 
 verses; these unluckily fall into Julia's hands, and are 
 the cause of no little jealousy, and a good deal of 
 pouting and coolness. The Poet has, however, the 
 address to atone for his fault in a very prettily-turned 
 Palinode, and is forgiven. — All goes on well for a 
 season ; till the unhappy propensity for rhyming 
 seduces the Poet into a second indiscretion, the re- 
 sults of which are likely to prove serious. A Coquet, 
 
14 PROGRAMME. 
 
 " of a certain age," had whispered to the Poet, in a tone 
 loud enough to be heard by a numerous company, that 
 " She wished herself younger for his sake." This 
 appeal to his vanity was too tempting to be resisted, 
 and, once again, a Copy of sentimental verses was the 
 result. Determined to enjoy her triumph, the aged 
 flirt maliciously contrives to have the Verses con- 
 veyed to Julia, not unaccompanied with certain mys- 
 terious innuendoes. The consequences v/ill readily 
 be anticipated — former jealousy confirmed, recrimi- 
 nation, and rupture outright. The Poet makes some 
 awkward attempts at an explanation ; but unable to 
 pardon a relapse, which tends but to confirm his former 
 infidelity, Julia remains inexorable. Mortified at 
 her indifference, the lover thinks to steal a march 
 upon her feelings by throwing out a hint about parting. 
 But he has mistaken Julia's character; the ruse does 
 not succeed. Having prepared her mind for the worst 
 that might befall, she takes the threat in good earnest. 
 Baffled in this attempt, the Poet after various en- 
 deavours, at a reconciliation, makes a last and earnest 
 appeal to the insulted pride of his mistress ; it is met 
 with resolute silence, and the disconsolate lover flies 
 to bury his sorrows in solitude. He has the good 
 fortune to possess a faithful Friend, who, having 
 learned all that has passed, uses every effort to arouse 
 
PROGRAMME. 15 
 
 him to a sense of his folly, and when arguments are 
 ineffectual, has recourse to well-directed ridicule. For 
 a moment, the dispirited lover seems disposed to listen 
 to the voice of reason and of friendship ; but he soon 
 relapses into more than his former weakness. 
 
 It was the depth of winter, when the Poet 
 abandoned the gaieties of the city for the dreariness 
 and seclusion of the country. He sinks into melan- 
 choly : and his sole consolation is to embody in verse 
 the gloom and desolation of his heart. In the mean- 
 time, however, it is satisfactory to learn that Julia 
 has shown symptoms of a disposition to relent. A 
 calm review of her conduct has convinced her that 
 she has been unmeritedly severe; her heart is open to 
 regrets for the past and to generous intimations for the 
 future. At length, Spring returns with all its re- 
 viving influences, and, after a long struggle with his 
 feelings, our Poet finds a secret solace for his sorrows 
 in the new-born beauties and tranquillizing scenes of 
 nature. Flis rural walks, and quiet musings amidst 
 the woods and glens of a romantic retreat, tend to re- 
 store peace to his heart. He strives to forget the ob- 
 ject of his former fondness, but a dream restores her to 
 his view, arrayed in all her former charms, and with 
 more than her former kindness. The vision of his 
 fancy is destined to be realized. Julia accompanies 
 
1 6 PROGRAMME. 
 
 one of her old schoolmates to the part of the country, 
 where, unknown to her, her lover resides. She meets 
 him in one of his solitary rambles; the result is readily 
 anticipated, — surprise, explanation, tears, reconcilia- 
 tion. It is the merry month of May ; they join in the 
 country revels, and participate in all the pastimes and 
 characteristic observances with which our simple 
 forefathers celebrated the return of this season of 
 mirthfulness. Oar happy pair wisely determine to 
 arrest in its flight the joy of moments so propitious, 
 and to render the blessing permanent. They are mar- 
 ried, and their Friend composes verses to be sung at 
 the wedding. — Example is contagious: the Friend in 
 question having witnessed the pure, domestic bliss that 
 brightens the fireside of the Poet and his Julia, 
 affords another example of conversion from a redoubted 
 champion of celibacy to an humble worshipper at the 
 shrine of beauty. This leads to an Episode, which, 
 unfortunately, forms a sad contrast to the scene of 
 domestic happiness which cheers the abode of his 
 Poet friend. Of that happiness we are presented 
 with numerous traits, composing a family picture of 
 touching interest. 
 
CHAPTER FIRST 
 
Nay, trust me, friend, the shape of marriage, which 
 
 I see in others, seems to me so rude, 
 
 I dare not put my youngling hberty 
 
 Under tlie awe of such instruction. 
 
 . . . . To my summer-thoughts 
 
 'Twill be too harsh, I fear. Oh! it would nip 
 
 My pleasure-aiming mind; I should be sad, 
 
 And swear when I did marry, I was mad. 
 
 Henry Porter (1599). 
 
CHAPTER FIRST. 
 
 THE POET m THE BACHELOR'S STATE, 
 
 Reveling in the luxury of single blessedness, the poet 
 exercises his fancy in a variety of rhapsodies: — "What 
 is love?" — " Love will find out the way." The tender 
 passion and its votaries are treated by him with very little 
 ceremony : — " The outside and tlie in :" — He is proud 
 of boasting that he is " proof against love;" and rallies 
 his neighbours without mercy : — " Fie upon love." He 
 is but little scrupulous at showing off his wit at the 
 expense of his gallantry: — " Badinage:" and affects to 
 give advice to the young ladies of his acquaintance: — 
 " To the virgins, to make much of time." It is, however, 
 shrewdly hinted, that possibly, ere long, he may stand in 
 need of the same kind office himself In the meantime 
 he rails without mercy at everything matrimonial, and 
 extols a bachelor's life to the skies. — The Poet's friend 
 is introduced, and a grave lectin-e is read to him against 
 abandoning the good cause of freedom and celibacy. 
 
 THE POET'S OPENING RHAPSODY. 
 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 " How wayward is this foolish love !" 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Love is a pretty phrensy, 
 
 Sets all the heart on fire; 
 'Tis bred by looks, 'tis nurs'd by hopes, 
 
 And train'd up by desire. 
 
20 THE POET. 
 
 Love is a pretty tyrant, 
 
 Whom our affections arm ; 
 Take them away, and from that day, 
 
 The knave can do no harm. 
 
 Love is a pretty idol ; 
 
 Opinion did devise him, 
 And fond illusions are the robes 
 
 That daintily disguise him. 
 
 Love is a pretty painter, 
 
 x^nd counterfeiteth passion ; 
 His shadow'd lies bid fancies rise, 
 
 To set belief in fashion. 
 
 Love is a pretty pedlar. 
 
 Whose pack is fraught with sorrows. 
 With doubts, with fears, with sighs, with tears ; 
 
 With joys — but these he borrows. 
 
 Love is a pretty nothing. 
 
 Yet what a coil doth keep ! 
 And with his mighty doings 
 
 Will let no mortal sleep. 
 
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 21 
 
 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 
 
 '• He, that after long denials, 
 Dares attempt no farther trials, 
 Where his warrant to acquire 
 Solace for his heart's desire ?" 
 
 Sir Philip Sidnky. 
 
 Over the mountains. 
 
 And over the waves ; 
 Under the fountains, 
 
 And under the caves: 
 Under floods that are deepest 
 
 Which Neptune obey; 
 Over rocks that are steepest 
 
 Love will find out the way ! 
 
 Where there's no place for 
 
 The glow-worm to lie, 
 Where there's no space for 
 
 Receipt of a fly ; 
 Where the midge dares not venture, 
 
 Lest herself fast she lay, 
 If Love come, he will enter, 
 
 And find out the way ! 
 
22 THE POET. 
 
 You may esteem him a 
 
 Child for his might, 
 Or you may deem him a 
 
 Coward from his flight; 
 But if she, whom Love doth honour, 
 
 Be conceal'd from the day 
 Set a thousand guards upon her, 
 
 Love will find out the way ! 
 
 Some think to close him, 
 
 And hold the boy confin'd ; 
 And some do suppose him. 
 
 Poor thing! to be blind: 
 But if ne'er so close you wall him, 
 
 Do the best that ye may. 
 Blind Love, if so ye call him. 
 
 Will find out the way ! 
 
 You may train the eagle 
 
 To stoop to your fist ; 
 Or you may enveigle 
 
 The phcenix of the East; 
 The lioness, ye may move her 
 
 To give o'er her prey ; 
 But you'll ne'er slop a lover : — 
 
 He will find out the way ! 
 
THE OUTSIDE AND THE IN. 23 
 
 THE OUTSIDE AND THE IN. 
 
 Till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come 
 into ray grace. 
 
 Shakspkare. 
 
 Wantons! 'tis not your sweet eyeings, 
 Passions forc'd, and well-feign'd dyings, 
 Gestures tempting, tears beguiling, 
 All your smirking, all your smiling. 
 Nor those painted charms, with which 
 Heedless mortals you bewitch. 
 Nor those gently-heaving breasts. 
 Where love, rock'd in pleasure, rests, 
 Can to win my love avail, 
 When more sure attractions fail. 
 
 Beauties ! 'tis not all the features 
 
 Cull'd from all the fairest creatures, 
 
 Can such mighty power discover 
 
 As tempt me to be a lover; 
 
 Not the nectar we may sip 
 
 From a honey-dropping lip, 
 
 Nor the fierce and lightning glances 
 
 Which the eye of beauty lances, 
 
 Can to win my love avail, 
 
 When more sure attractions fail. 
 
24 THE POET. 
 
 Charmers ! if you think you may 
 Draw my foolish love astray, 
 You must bring forth other graces 
 Than this meagre list embraces; 
 Practising a different art 
 From all these, to win my heart ; 
 Hidden charms, and excellencies 
 Born to strike the inward senses : 
 Yes, the maiden whom I woo 
 Must yield joys to reason too. 
 
 Who would doat on thing so common 
 As mere outward-handsome woman'? 
 Such half-beauty can but win 
 Fools, to let affection in. 
 I seek such delights as lie 
 In the mind's deep treasury. 
 Vulgar wits, from reason shaken, 
 Are with coarse impostures taken ; 
 Nothing shall with me avail, 
 Where more sure attractions fail ! 
 
PROOF AGAINST LOVE. 25 
 
 PROOF AGAINST LOVE. 
 
 What braggart is this same, who deafs our ears 
 With an abundance of superfluous breath ? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Away, fond trifler ! 'tempt no more ; 
 I'll not be won with all thy store ! 
 I can behold thy golden hair, 
 Nor yet be captur'd in the snare, 
 Thy starry eyes can gaze upon, 
 Yet be mine own when all is done. 
 
 Yes, I can view thee as thou art. 
 Nor feel one fluttering round my heart ; 
 Can hear thee sing thy syren lay, 
 Yet still bid reason hold its sway, 
 My liberty thou canst not wrong 
 With all the witchery of thy tongue. 
 
 Still can I gaze upon thine eyes, 
 
 And all thy beauty's niceties, 
 
 Yet, after such a free survey, 
 
 From thee no lover go away. 
 
 Then, Syren, hence, nor tempt me more, 
 
 I'll not be won with all thy store! 
 
26 THE POET. 
 
 FIE UPON LOVE. 
 
 When wit is ovcrrul'd by will, 
 
 And will is led by fond desire, 
 Then reason had as good be still. 
 
 As, speaking, kindle fiercer fire. 
 What boots the cunning pilot's skill. 
 
 To tell which way to shape his course, 
 When he that steers will have his will. 
 
 And drive thern where he list, perforce. 
 
 Davidson. 
 
 Fie upon love ! it ill befits 
 
 That man or woman know it : 
 Love was not made for people in their wits, 
 
 And they who fondly show it, 
 Betray the lightness of their brains, 
 And shall have only Bedlam for their pains ! 
 
 To love is to disturb my sleep, 
 
 And, waking, to wear fetters ; 
 To love is but to go to school to weep : — 
 
 I'll leave it to my betters. 
 If single love be such a curse, 
 To marry is to make things ten times worse ! 
 
BADINAGE. 27 
 
 BADINAGE. 
 
 A feather from the wings of vanity. 
 
 Chamberlayne. 
 
 Fine young folly ! though you were 
 That proud beauty I did swear, 
 
 Yet you ne'er could reach my heart ; 
 For we triflers learn at school 
 Only with your sex to fool — 
 
 You're not worth the serious part. 
 
 When I sigh, and kiss your hand, 
 Cross my arms, and wondering stand, 
 
 Holding parley with your eye. 
 And then dwell on my desire, 
 Swearing none e'er felt such fire — 
 
 What is't but a handsome lie ! 
 
 When I eye your curls or lace. 
 Gentle soul ! you think your face 
 
 Dreadful murder doth commit ; 
 And your conscience doth begin 
 To grow scrupulous of my sin — 
 
 I but talk to show my wit. 
 
28 THE POET. 
 
 Bid no frown your forehead cloud, 
 Nor to check my flame, grow proud; 
 
 By my troth, I shrewdly doubt 
 'Tis the perfume in your hair. 
 Not your breath that scents the air, 
 
 And your dress that sets you out. 
 
 Be the honest truth confess'd : — 
 All my vows were but in jest, 
 
 Made to pass an hour or so. 
 All the year fond turtles bill, 
 But we, birds of passage, still 
 
 Lightly come and lightly go. 
 
THE CHOICE. 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 When the choice is once for all, 
 
 'Tis a serious chasing ; 
 For what evils might befal 
 Were the bargain losing ! 
 
 29 
 
 Chs. Cottox. 
 
 If I were to chuse a woman, — 
 
 Though 1 never think to marry ; — 
 I would trust the eye of no man, 
 Nor a tongue that might miscarry : 
 In the way of love and glory, 
 Each tongue best tells its own story. 
 
 Prudent to prevent such care 
 
 That repentance soon may bring, 
 Merchant-like I'd chuse my ware, 
 Useful more than glittering : 
 He that weds for state, or face, 
 Buys the horse to lose the race. 
 
 Staid she should be ; yet not lose 
 So much breeding, as to fling 
 Unbecoming scorn on those 
 Fain to worship everything ; 
 
 Let her fear loose looks to scatter, 
 And loose men will fear to flatter. 
 
30 THE POET. 
 
 Be she such, as when she's wooed, 
 Bluslies not for ill thoughts past, 
 But so innocently good, 
 
 That her very dreams are chaste: 
 For the maid that thinks a sin, 
 Has betrayed the fort within. 
 
 When the priest shall join our hands, 
 
 I would have her think but thus : — 
 In what high and holy bands 
 
 Heaven, like twins, hath coupled us; 
 That like Aaron's rod, together 
 We may bud, grow gray, and wither. 
 
THE poet's advice TO THE VIRGINS. 31 
 
 THE POET'S ADVICE TO THE VIRGINS TO 
 MAKE MUCH OF TIME. 
 
 Now, what is love, I prithee say? 
 Love is a pretty wanton fay ; 
 It is a thing will soon away ; — 
 Then seize the 'vantage while you may. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Fain will he give, presumptuous elf, 
 The counsel he most needs himself. 
 
 CaRew. 
 
 Gather the rose-buds while ye may, 
 
 Old Time is still a flying-; 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
 
 To-morrow will be dying. 
 
 The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 
 
 The higher he is getting. 
 The sooner will his race be run, 
 
 The nearer is his setting. 
 
 That age is best which is the first, 
 When youth and blood are warmer; 
 
 But, being spent, the worse; and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
32 THE POET. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 And, while ye may, go marry; 
 
 For having- but once lost your prime, 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
A bachelor's musings. 33 
 
 A BACHELOR'S MUSINGS. 
 
 The culprit who consents to take a wife, 
 Is bound for good behaviour during life. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Oh, how wretched is his life, 
 Who is troubled with a wife ! 
 Be she e'er sa gay and comely, 
 Be she e'er so rude and homely, 
 Be she e'er so young and toward, 
 Be she e'er so old and froward, 
 Be she kind, with arms enfolding, 
 Be she peevish, cross, and scolding. 
 Be she blythe, or melancholy, 
 Bless'd with wit, or curs'd with folly, 
 Be she thrifty, be she squandering, 
 Be she staid, or be she wandering, 
 Be she constant, be she fickle. 
 Or all fire, or icicle ; 
 In a word, or good, or evil, 
 Very saint, or very devil. 
 Oh, how wretched is his life, 
 Who is troubled with a wife! 
 
 These are strange extremes, I know, 
 But all womankind is so, 
 3 
 
34 THE POET. 
 
 And the golden mean to none 
 
 Of the luckless race is known, 
 
 Or to one if known, it be, 
 
 That blest man's unknown to me. 
 
 Some Utopian traveller 
 
 May, perhaps, have gone so far, 
 
 As t' have found, in spite of nature. 
 
 Such an admirable creature. 
 
 If a voyager there be 
 
 Has made such discovery, 
 
 Let him tell the where, and we 
 
 To that blessed land will flee, 
 
 And bring home the perfect creature 
 
 To improve our race and nature. 
 
 But alas ! there's no such woman : 
 The calamity is common ; 
 The first rib did bring in ruin : 
 So they all have since been doing ; 
 Some by one way, some another : 
 Woman still is mischief's mother ! 
 Yet your fools will not forbear. 
 Though it cost them ere so dear. 
 But, what are the marriage joys 
 That make such a mighty noise ? 
 All's summ'd up in one short sentence' 
 Sorry pleasure, vast repentance! 
 Yet fools speed to taste the pleasure. 
 And repent them at their leisure. 
 E'en the trifling blessing got. 
 Is too dearly, dearly bought! 
 
A bachelor's musings. 35 
 
 Why, then, all this vast pains-taking, 
 Whence this watching, whence this waking 
 Whence this riding, whence this running. 
 Whence this art, and craft, and cunning? 
 Whence this piping and this crying, 
 This romance of sighing, dying. 
 All this clatter to get wives, 
 Just to weary out men's lives? 
 Oh ! 'tis very madness, folly. 
 Fit to make one melancholy ! 
 
 Then, how pleasant to he free, 
 Sweetest spouse is Liberty ! 
 She my quiet days shall bless. 
 She be all my happiness; 
 Flesh of flesh, and bone of bone, 
 She shall be my spouse alone. 
 Yes, to her will I be wed. 
 She shall bless my board and bed ; 
 We the by-word will reverse 
 " Or for better, or for worse," 
 Better only be our lot. 
 Worse for simple fools, I wot. 
 Thus I leave to him the toil, 
 Noise, and racket, and turmoil, 
 Nightly lecture, daily strife, 
 Who is wedded to a wife. 
 
THE POET. 
 
 THE POET ON THE VALUE OF A TRUE 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Short is the roll of friends, writ in my heart, 
 Which with your name begins. 
 
 OONXE. 
 
 Words are easy like the wind ; 
 Faithful friends are hard to find. 
 Every man will be thy friend, 
 Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend 
 But if store of crowns be scant, 
 No man will supply thy want. 
 If that one be prodigal, 
 Bountiful they will him call; 
 And with such like flattering — 
 ' Pity but he were a king !' 
 But if fortune once do frown, 
 Then farewell his great renown; 
 They that fawn'd on him before. 
 Use his company no more. 
 He that is thy friend indeed, 
 He will help thee in thy need; 
 If thou sorrow, he will weep ; 
 If thou wake, he cannot sleep; 
 Thus, of every grief, in heart 
 He with thee will bear a part. 
 These are certain signs to know 
 Faithful friend from flattering foe. 
 
EXHORTATION NOT TO LOVE. 37 
 
 THE POET'S EXHORTATION TO HIS 
 FRIEND NOT TO LOVE. 
 
 All, gaze not on those eyes, forbear! 
 Close to that witching voice thine ear ; 
 Fly, if thy freedom thou'dst maintain.— 
 Alas! the good advice is vain. 
 Whose safety but in flight doth lie, 
 Is far too lost to have the power to fly. 
 
 Cotton. 
 
 Beware, my friend ; nay, you must be 
 My scholar, and learn this of me : 
 There are in love as many fears 
 As the summer corn hath ears ; 
 
 {Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows more 
 Than the sands upon the shore, 
 Freezing cold, and fiery fever, 
 Both tormenting lovers ever. 
 
 Would'st thou know, besides all these, 
 How hard a woman is to please; 
 How cross, how sullen; and how soon 
 She shifts her phases like the moon; 
 
 How false, how hollow at the heart, 
 
 And how she is her own least part; 
 
 How high she's prized, though worth but small: 
 
 Little thou'lt love, or not at alL 
 
38 THE POET. 
 
 LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 
 
 Fondness it is for any, being free, 
 To covet fetters, tho' of gold they be. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds, 
 
 Yet few know whom they serve ; 
 Little they reck how little love 
 
 Their service doth deserve. 
 The will she robbeth from the wit, 
 
 The sense from reason's lore; 
 She is delightful in the rind. 
 
 Corrupted in the core. 
 
 Like winter-rose, and summer-ice, 
 
 Her joys are still untimely; 
 Before her hope, behind remorse. 
 
 Fair first, in fine unseemly. 
 Plough not the seas, sow not the sand, 
 
 Leave off your idle pain ; 
 Seek other mistress for your mind, 
 
 Love's service is in vain. 
 
CHAPTER SECOND. 
 
I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants 
 of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long 
 against marriage. But, when I said 1 would die a 
 bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were 
 married. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 "My tales of love were wont to weary you : 
 I know you joy not in a love discourse." — 
 
 But, my good friend, that life is altered now: 
 I have done penance for contemning love, 
 Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me 
 With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
 With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs: 
 For, in revenge for my contempt of love. 
 Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes. 
 And made them watchers of my own heart's sorrow. 
 O gentle friend. Love is a inighty lord ; 
 And hath so humbled me, that I confess 
 There is no wo like his correction, 
 Nor, as his service, such sweet joy on earth! 
 Now, no discourse, except it be of love ; 
 Nor can I break my fast, dine, sup, or sleep. 
 Save on the very naked name of Love ! 
 
 lb. 
 
CHAPTER SECOND. 
 
 THE POET IN LOVE. 
 
 Your noisy declaimers, as well in politics as in love, are 
 ever to be suspected ; they are not unfrequently the very 
 first to rat. Even so is it with our inveterate railer 
 against the sex. After all his mighty ado, he falls an 
 easy conquest to Julia, a young lady of great beauty 
 and accomplishments; whose only defect, if defect it can 
 be called, is an excess of sensibility, A single inter- 
 view with this fair charmer is sufficient to make him 
 read his " Recantation." — The Poet is all rapture at the 
 new existence that has dawned upon him, and gives free 
 scope to the enthusiasm of his youthful heart. He de- 
 scribes to his friend " The revolution wrought in his 
 mind." He portrays his lady love, and gives loose to 
 his '' Enthusiasm :" — He descants " Upon hope." — " A 
 morning meditation." — The Poet is shown an epistle 
 from " Julia, in reply to an inquisitive friend," in which 
 she describes the man of her choice, and he has the 
 vanity to think that he may be the happy mortal. Acting 
 under this impression, he summons up sufficient reso- 
 lution to address the lady: — "Unpretending love." 
 He presses his suit: — " Silence in love:" — " Reserve 
 in love :" — " Admiration :" — At length our Poet ventures 
 on " A declaration ;" and a rose, accompanied by 
 a copy of eloquent verses, is " The messenger of his 
 love." 
 
42 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S RECANTATION. 
 
 How now ? a rat! 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 In reason strong, but, oh! how weak in love; 
 He soar'd an eagle, but he stoop'd a dove ! 
 
 Sir W. Davenant. 
 
 Love, I recant, 
 
 And pardon crave 
 That lately I offended; 
 
 'Twas all, in sooth. 
 
 To make a brave, 
 And no disdain intended. 
 
 No more I'll vaunt, 
 
 For now I see 
 Thou only hast the power, 
 
 To find and bind 
 
 A heart that's free, 
 And slave it in an hour. 
 
THE REVOLUTION WROUGHT IN HIS MIND. 43 
 
 THE POET DESCRIBES THE REVOLUTION 
 WROUGHT IN HIS MIND. 
 
 Why, here's a change indeed! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Ah me ! and am I then the man, whose muse, 
 In happier times, was wont to laugh at love, 
 
 And those, who suffered that blind boy t' abuse 
 The noble gifts were given them from above] 
 What metamorphose strange is this I prove? 
 
 Myself now scarce I find myself to be ; 
 And think no fable Circe's tyranny, 
 
 And all the tales are told of changed Jove. 
 Virtue hath taught with her philosophy, 
 
 My mind unto a better course to move: 
 
 Reason may chide her fall, and oft reprove 
 Affection's power; but what is that to me, 
 
 Who ever think, yet never think on aught 
 
 But that bright being who has thrall'd my thought. 
 
44 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET ATTEMPTS A PICTURE OF 
 HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 She is Ihe pride and primrose of the rest. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 She, in her lowliness retir'd from sight, 
 Beneath the bushel hides her peerless light : 
 And as dark texts need notes, some there must be 
 To usher Beauty, and say—' This is she !' 
 
 Donne. 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love? 
 
 Hearken then awhile to me; 
 And if such a woman move 
 
 As I now shall versify, 
 Be assured 'tis she, or none, 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 Nature did her so much right. 
 That she scorns the help of art : 
 
 In as many virtues dight 
 As e'er yet adorn'd a heart; 
 
 So much good, so truly tried : 
 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
A PICTURE OF HIS MISTRESS. 45 
 
 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. 
 
 Reason masters every sense, 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth ; 
 
 Lovely as all excellence, 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 
 That worth only kindles love. 
 
 Such she is, and if you know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung. 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so 
 
 That she be but somewhile young; 
 Be assured 'tis she, or none. 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
46 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S ENTHUSIASM. 
 
 The maid whose image on my heart is painted, 
 And who doth sit in my thought's temple sainted. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes 
 
 More by your number than your light; 
 You common people of the skies, 
 What are you when the sun shall rise? 
 
 You curious chaunters of the wood 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 
 
 Thinking your passions understood 
 
 By your weak accents; where your praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise 1 
 
 You violets that first appear, 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known, 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the year. 
 As if the spring were all your own; 
 What are ye when the rose is blown? 
 
 80, when my mistress shall be seen 
 In sweetness of her looks and mind. 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, my queen ; 
 Tell me, was she not design'd 
 The eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
PHILOSOPHISES ON HOPE. 47 
 
 THE POET PHILOSOPHISES ON HOPE. 
 
 Hope is a wanton bird, that falls to sing 
 As soon as fledged. 
 
 Chamberlayne. 
 
 Joy in thy hope, best earnest of thy love, 
 For so thou may'st enjoy thy heart's desire ; 
 
 True hope the absent can as present prove, 
 And keep alive love's still renewing fire. 
 
 But of thy hope let silence be the tongue, 
 x\nd secrecy the nurse of thy desire; 
 
 For hope reveaPd will but the pain prolong : 
 Then guard with vestal care thy bosom's fire. 
 
 Sweet are the hopes that do themselves enjoy. 
 As vow'd unto themselves to live and die : 
 
 Sweetest those joys, and freest from annoy, 
 That waken not the eye of jealousy. 
 
 Thy love is not thy love, if not thine own ; — 
 
 And such it is not if it once be known. 
 
43 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S MEDITATION. 
 
 Julia., a name 
 That sweetens e'en the name of him that speaks it. 
 
 Shirley. 
 To thee the powers assign'd 
 A body fair, but a far fairer mind ; 
 And that thy like no age might more behold. 
 When thou wert form'd. Dame Nature brake the mould. 
 Drummond of Hawthornden. 
 
 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
 
 I thought to form unto my zealous muse 
 What kind of being I could most desire 
 
 To honour, serve, and love, as poets use. 
 I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, 
 
 Of purest blood, and yet more good than great ; 
 I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 
 
 Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. 
 I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, 
 
 Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
 I meant each softer virtue there should meet. 
 
 Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
 Only a learned and a manly soul 
 
 I purpos'd her, that should, with even powers, 
 The rock, the spindle, and the sheers controul 
 
 Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
 Such \vhen I meant to feign, and wished to see, 
 ♦Write Julia,' said my Muse — and that was she! 
 
JULIA TO A FRIEND. 
 
 JULIA, 
 
 IN REPLY TO AN INQUISITIVE FRIEND. 
 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of its choice, 
 And could of men distinguish her election. 
 E'en such a one hath she seal'd for herself. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Of thy trouble, friend, to ease me, 
 I will say what man would please me. 
 I would have him, if I could, 
 Noble, or of gentle blood ; 
 Titles, I confess, do take me — 
 Very woman heaven did make me ! 
 Young I'd have him too, and fair, 
 Yet a man ; his clustering hair 
 Not in ringlets wanton-wise, 
 Such in him I should despise ; 
 Eyebrows arch'd like Cupid's bow, 
 Front, an ample field of snow ; 
 'Twere too long to speak of all. 
 What we harmony do call 
 In a body, should be there ; 
 Well he should his dress, too, wear, 
 Yet no tailor help to make him : 
 Dress'd, you still for man should take him, 
 4 
 
50 THE POET. 
 
 And not think he'd eat a stake, 
 
 Or were set up in a brake. 
 
 He should be valiant, full of fire, 
 
 And yet show daring more than ire: 
 
 Bounteous as the clouds to earth, 
 
 And as honest as his birth; 
 
 All his actions should be such, 
 
 As to do no thing too much ; 
 
 Nor o'erpraise, nor yet o'erblame, 
 
 Nor o'ervalue, nor condemn; 
 
 Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive, 
 
 Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave ; 
 
 And from baseness to be free. 
 
 As he durst love truth and me. 
 
 To such one, with every part 
 
 I would give my very heart. 
 
 But of one if short he came, 
 
 I can rest me where I am. 
 
TO JULIA. 51 
 
 UNPRETENDING LOVE. 
 
 Love can be bought with nothing but itself. 
 
 Sir W. Ralkigh. 
 
 Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid 
 Of sighs, or oaths to make it known ; 
 
 And to convince the crudest maid, 
 Lovers should use their love alone. 
 
 Into their every look 'twill steal. 
 
 And he who would most hide his flame, 
 
 Does but thereby his pain reveal : — 
 Silence itself can love proclaim. 
 
 This, dearest Julia, makes ma shun 
 The paths that common lovers tread, 
 
 Whose idle passions are begun. 
 Not in the heart, but in the head. 
 
 I cannot sigh, and with crossed arms 
 Accuse your rigour, and my fate ; 
 
 Nor tax your beauty with such charms 
 As men adore and women hate. 
 
 Simply I love, and without art, 
 
 Knowing my love you must have spied ; 
 And thinking it a foolish part 
 
 To try to show what none can hide. 
 
52 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA, ON SILENCE IN LOVE. 
 
 Love's eye, in silence, halh a speech 
 Which love best understands. 
 
 SODTHVVELL. 
 
 The heart will rather suffer wrong, 
 
 Than mar its suit by aidance of the tongue. 
 
 Shakspeare {Minor Poems). 
 
 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 
 
 The merit of true passion, 
 By thinking that he feels no smart, 
 
 Who sues for no compassion ; 
 If no sad plaint is breath'd to prove 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty, 
 It comes not from defect of love, 
 
 But fear to exceed my duty. 
 
 For, knowing that I sue to serve 
 
 A saint of such perfection. 
 That all desire, but none deserve 
 
 A place in her affection ; 
 I rather choose to want relief. 
 
 Than venture the revealing : 
 Where glory recommends the grief, 
 
 Despair disdains the healing. 
 
TO JULIA. 53 
 
 Silence in love betrays more wo 
 
 Than words, tho' ne'er so witty; 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
 
 May challenge double pity. 
 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
 
 My love for secret passion 
 He smarteth most who hides the smart. 
 
 And sues for no compassion ! 
 
54 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 RESERVE IN LOVE. 
 
 . . . . Trust me, sweet, 
 Out of thy silence have 1 pick'd a welcome. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Love is all eye, yet should not be all tongue. 
 
 Donne. 
 
 'Tis well, 'tis well ; 1 might despise 
 
 A lightly won and easy prize ; 
 
 Be coy, be cruel yet awhile, 
 
 Nor grant one gracious look or smile : 
 
 Then, every slightest grace from thee 
 
 Will seem a heaven on earth to me ! 
 
 If you would have me still love on 
 With all the zeal I first begun, 
 Still, as at first, as scornful be : 
 For if you yielding are, like me, 
 My flame will languish and begone, 
 Like fire when shin'd on by the sun. 
 
 Lay not thy wiles too soon aside. 
 In hopes thy lover fast is tied ; 
 I've known an angler, in this way, 
 By over-haste to lose his prey; 
 Had he a little longer stay'd, 
 The silly fish had been betray'd. 
 
TO JULIA. 55 
 
 A DECLARATION. 
 
 Whene'er his words on embassy love sends, 
 Oh what sweet music unto them he lends ! 
 
 Shakspeare (Minor Poems). 
 
 Not, Julia, that I wiser am, 
 
 Or better than the rest, 
 For I might change each hour like them, 
 
 Were not my heart at rest. 
 But I am tied to very thee 
 
 By every thought I have; 
 Thy face alone I care to see, 
 
 Thy heart alone I crave. 
 
 All that in woman is ador'd, 
 
 In thy dear self I find ; 
 For the whole sex can but afford 
 
 The handsome and the kind. 
 Why then should I seek farther store, 
 
 And still make love anew? 
 When change itself can give no more, 
 
 'Tis easy to be true. 
 
56 THE POET. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 Beauty, and beauteous words should go together. 
 
 G. Herbert. 
 
 Go, lovely Rose ! 
 Tell her, that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That well she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet, and Ikir, she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her, that's young. 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That had'st thou sprung 
 In deserts, where no men abide. 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty, from the light retir'd: 
 
 Bid her come forth. 
 Suffer herself to be desir'd, 
 And not blush so to be admir'd. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee; 
 How small a part of time they share. 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 
 
CHAPTER THIRD. 
 
There is no life on earth, but being in love ! 
 There are no studies, no delights, no business, 
 No intercourse, or use, or sense, or soul, 
 But what is love! I was the laziest creature, 
 The most unprofitable sign of nothing, 
 The veriest drone, and slept away my life 
 Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love ! 
 But now, I can out-wake the nightingale. 
 Out-watch an usurer, and out- walk him too ; 
 Stalk like a ghost that haunts a hidden treasure, 
 And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! 
 
 Ben JoNsoy. 
 
CHAPTER THIRD 
 
 THE DAYS OF WOOING. 
 
 If men of the least excitable imaginations are wanned 
 into something like enthusiasm, by the new scene of ex- 
 istence opened to them in the romantic days of wooing, 
 what must be the feelings of the Poet in such a season of 
 blissfulness ! His declaration has been accepted ; but, 
 in the fervour of the moment, he thinks it has been too 
 coldly received. He gives Julia to understand that there 
 should be " No medium in love :" — A smile from Julia 
 revives his hopes, and the result is a protestation "To 
 Julia, who may command him anything:" — "A deli- 
 cate suggestion:" — Solicits and obtains a lock of Julia's 
 hair; — his offering in return, accompanied by "A 
 madrigal :" — Reflections "On visiting Julia's birth-place;" 
 the Poet's ideas of '' A revival in love ;" — " The Poet 
 to his FRIEND: " — '* Stately beauty." — " Hints to be 
 improved:" addressed to one of the incredulous. In 
 the midst of happiness so new, and so unhoped for, is 
 there not reason to apprehend lest the Poet should run 
 riot in his joy, and, perhaps, be tempted to forget, for a 
 moment, the convenances recogmsed in the code of love? 
 Such things have been, and an act of indiscretion into 
 which our Poet is betrayed, proves that such things may 
 again be. An interesting '• Pale young beauty" crosses 
 his path at a ball, and attracts his marked attention. 
 Nothing escapes the eye of the watchful Julia; she ob- 
 serves this bit of flirtation, and a spark of jealousy is 
 awakened, which is fanned into a flame by the subse- 
 quent discovery of a copy of sentimental verses addressed 
 by her faithless swain " To the pale young beauty :" — 
 
60 THE POET. 
 
 A good deal of pouting and jealousy is the consequence ; 
 and unsatisfactory explanations lead to coolness and sus- 
 picion. The thing is vastly unpleasant, and the Poet 
 opens the matter to his friend. — He is advised to brave 
 the thing out, and works himself up into something like 
 "A resolution." But second thoughts are best; he 
 confesses his fault, makes his amende honorahlem a very 
 prettily-turned " Palinode," and is forgiven. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 NO MEDIUxM IN LOVE. 
 
 O render love for love. 
 It is a just exchange ! 
 
 Sir T. WyATT. 
 
 In love, who stops to ponder, and consider, 
 Search, and compare, and judge, and then resolve. 
 Shows policy, but surely small affection. 
 
 Cartwright, 
 
 Or love me less, or love me more, 
 
 But play not with my liberty ! 
 Either take all, or all restore — 
 
 Bind me at once, or set me free. 
 Some nobler torture let me find 
 Than this for-ever-doubting mind; 
 Take all my peace: but you betray 
 My honour too this cruel way ! 
 
TO JULIA. 61 
 
 'Tis true that 1 have nursed before 
 That hope, of which I now complain ; 
 
 And having little, sought no more, 
 Fearing to meet with your disdain. 
 
 The sparks of love you deigned to give 
 
 I gently blew to bid them live; 
 
 And yet have gained, for all my care 
 
 No rest in hope, nor in despair. 
 
 I see you wear that pitying smile 
 Which you have still vouchsaf'd my smart. 
 
 Content thus cheaply to beguile. 
 And trifle with a harmless heart. 
 
 But I no longer can give way 
 
 To hope that doth so little pay ; 
 
 And yet, I dare no freedom owe. 
 
 Whilst you are kind — though but in show. 
 
 Then give me more, or give me less; 
 
 Do not disdain a mutual sense ; 
 Or your unpitying beauties dress 
 
 In their own free indifference. 
 Yet, show not a severer eye. 
 Sooner to give me liberty ; 
 For 1 shall love the very scorn 
 Which for my sake you do put on ! 
 
THE POET. 
 
 THE POET TO JULIA, WHO MAY COMMAND 
 HIM ANY THING. 
 
 Bid me to live, and I will live, 
 
 Thy suppliant to be; 
 Or bid me love, and I will give 
 
 A loving heart to thee ; 
 A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 
 
 A heart as sound and free 
 As in the whole world thou canst find ; 
 
 — That heart I give to thee. 
 
 Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, 
 
 To honour thy decree ; 
 Or bid it languish quite away — 
 
 It shall do so for thee ! 
 Bid me to weep, and I will weep 
 
 While I have eyes to see ; 
 And having none, yet will I keep 
 
 A heart to weep for thee. 
 
 Bid me despair, and I'll despair 
 
 Under that cypress tree ; 
 Or bid me die, and I will dare 
 
 E'en death for love of thee. 
 Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 
 
 The very eyes of me ; 
 And hast command of every part, 
 
 To live and die for thee ! 
 
TO JULIA. 
 
 A DELICATE SUGGESTION. 
 
 Thoughts too deep to be express'd, 
 Yet too strong to be suppress'd. . 
 
 Wither. 
 
 Nay, Ifidy, give thy feelings scope, 
 Grant me some earnsst of my hope ; 
 True, thou may'st love me, yet I need 
 Thy lips to witness to the deed. 
 
 Speak, then; but as you falter out 
 
 The words that are to solve my doubt. 
 
 Let them be so confus'd, I may 
 
 More guess, than hear what thou would'st say. 
 
 At such a moment, 'twere offence 
 To love, to look for too much sense ; 
 tt will thy passion best betray, 
 When words are wanting what to say. 
 
 Then let thy speech, like the colours show 
 What melt together in Heaven's bow, 
 Which for more beauty seem designed, 
 Because their tints are undefined. 
 
64 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 As in our streets sly beggars narrowly 
 Watch motions of the giver's hand and eye, 
 So do I wait, Love, for an alms from thee. 
 
 Donne, 
 
 Know, Julia, that this gift of thine, 
 This knot in which thy locks entwine, 
 On which I gaze so oft, and pay 
 Thousands of kisses every day ; 
 Is not so much my love and care 
 Because composed of thy dear hair ; 
 — And yet, it may be truly said 
 Sunbeams are wove of coarser thread — 
 No, Julia, I the truth will tell; 
 I do not prize the braid so well. 
 Because it is thy hair and art, 
 As that it is thy gift, dear heart! 
 
TO JULIA. 65 
 
 TO JULIA, ON PRESENTING HER WITH A 
 BRACELET IN RETURN. 
 
 To keep an adjunct to remember thee, 
 Wer't not to import forgetfulness in me ? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 While I tie about thy wrist, 
 Julia, this my silken twist. 
 For what other reason is 't, 
 
 But to show thee how, in part, 
 Thou my pretty captive artf 
 But thy bondslave is my heart. 
 
 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee. 
 Snap the thread, and thou art free 
 But how different with me! 
 
 I am bound, and fast bound so, 
 That from thee I cannot go: — 
 If I could, 1 would not so ! 
 
66 THE POET. 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 Eye of the garden, queen of flowers, 
 Sweet nursling of the Spring's young hours. 
 
 Sir John Davies. 
 
 Sweet Rose ! whence is this hue 
 
 Which does all hues excel"? 
 
 Whence this most fragrant smell? 
 And whence this form, and pleasing grace in you ? 
 
 In flowery Psestum's fields, perhaps, you grew, 
 Or were on Hybla's mountains bred, 
 Or upon Enna's odorous plains you fed. 
 
 Or Tmolus, where the boar young Adon slew. 
 
 Or hath the Queen of Love dyed you anew 
 In that dear blood, which makes you look so red ? 
 Oh ! none of these, but cause more high has bless'd you, 
 My lady's breast has borne, her lips have press'd you. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 67 
 
 THE POET'S REFLECTIONS ON VISITING 
 JULIA'S BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 The nymphs that dance upon the lea, 
 
 The Muses and the Graces, 
 Have pleasure in this place to be 
 
 Above all other places. 
 
 This is to them the bower of May, 
 
 The sweetest of all alleys, 
 Here do they still keep holiday, 
 
 And haunt no other valleys. 
 
 Sir John Davies. 
 
 Hail ! fair town, among the rest 
 
 Fairest in thy site and best; 
 
 Yet therein lies not thy praise, 
 
 Why I crown thy towers with bays. 
 
 'Tis not thy site my fancy weds, 
 
 Thy ports, nor thy proud pyramids ; 
 
 Nor full many wonders more : 
 
 But that she whom I adore, 
 
 Whom scarce goodness self can pair, 
 
 Here first breathing blessed the air ; 
 
 She in whom the virtues came 
 
 In woman's shape, and took her name ; 
 
 She, whose simply-written story 
 
 To my name shall add more glory, 
 
 Than had the decree of chance 
 
 Given my arm to conquer France. 
 
 Had she graced a former age. 
 
 This house had been for pilgrimage. 
 
 And reputed more divine 
 
 Than Walsingham, or Becket's shrine. 
 
^ THE POET. 
 
 Be the hours of August dear, 
 More than hours of all the year, 
 For 'twas then her blessed sprite 
 First beheld the holy light. 
 Let the maids from Flora's bowers, 
 With their choicest, daintiest flowers 
 Deck thee out, and from their store 
 With brave garlands crown thy door. 
 Old men, passing by that way, 
 To their sons shall, pointing, say: 
 " There was she, that lady, born, 
 Whom the Poet's lays adorn ; 
 Or, the rather, she who long 
 Shall malie live that Poet's song." 
 The lover when he passes by. 
 Back to that house shall cast his eye, 
 Speaking my verses as he goes. 
 And with a sigh at every close ! 
 Dear city ! travelling by thee, 
 When thy rising spires I see, 
 Destin'd as her place of birth, 
 Then, methinks, the very earth 
 Hallow'd is, and in it I 
 More than common earth descry. 
 Should the dwellers in this place 
 Hear some saucy tongue disgrace 
 Thy city, with some scurvy thing 
 That some jester forth may bring, 
 Speak these lines, her worth that sum, 
 And strike the slave for ever dumb ! 
 
TO JULIA. 
 
 A REVIVAL IN LOVE. 
 
 Alas ! too fond and foolish heart, 
 
 Thou wilt not cease to love her still ; 
 
 Hers and not mine I see thou art; — 
 Let her do by thee as she will. 
 
 Sir Ths. Wyatt. 
 
 Go, gentle tear-drops, like the morning showers. 
 And sweetly weep into my lady's breast; 
 
 And as the dews revive the drooping flowers, 
 So let your drops of pity be address'd 
 
 To quicken up the thoughts of my desert, 
 
 Which else might droop when I from her depart. 
 
 Haste, hapless sighs, and let your burning breath 
 Dissolve the ice of her obdurate heart. 
 
 Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful death, 
 Doth scarcely feel a touch of my desert : 
 
 The sighs and tears that here I sacrifice, 
 
 Are from a spotless heart and patient eyes. 
 
70 THE POET. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND. 
 
 STATELY BEAUTY 
 
 We love a contrast every where : 
 
 The haughty frown hath still more grace 
 
 When waked on quiet Beauty's face. 
 
 Cartwright. 
 
 Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire, 
 
 In finding fault with her too portly pride; 
 The thing which I do most in her admire, 
 
 Is of the world unworthy most envied ; 
 
 For in those lofty looks is close implied 
 Scorn of base things, and sdeign of foul dishonour, 
 
 Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, 
 That loosely they dare not to look upon her. 
 Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour, 
 
 That bolden'd innocence bears in her eyes ; 
 And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner^ 
 
 Spreads in defiance of all enemies ! 
 Was never in this world ought worthy tried. 
 Without some mark of such self-pleasing pride. 
 
HINTS TO BE IMPROVED. 
 
 HINTS TO BE IMPROVED. 
 
 Honest lover, list I pray- 
 To the truth these rhymes convey. 
 If there ever was inwrought 
 In thy love one wavering thought : 
 Thou lov'st not truly, that is plain, 
 And must begin the work again. 
 
 If when she entereth the room. 
 Thou tremblest not, and art struck dumb. 
 And in striving this to cover, 
 Dost not speak thy words twice over: 
 Thou lov'st not truly, that is plain. 
 And must begin the work again. 
 
 If fondly thou dost not mistake. 
 And all defects for graces take ; 
 Persuaded that bright jests are broken, 
 When she scarce a word has spoken : 
 Thou lov'st not truly, that is plain, 
 And must begin the work again. 
 
 If when thou sittest at thy meat. 
 Thou dost not quite forget to eat, 
 And with deep gazing on her face. 
 Dost not rise hungry from thy place : 
 
 Thou lov'st not truly, that is plain ; 
 
 And must begin the work again. 
 
 71 
 
72 THE POET. 
 
 VERSES ADDRESSED BY THE POET TO 
 A PALE YOUNG BEAUTY. 
 
 The rival roses, on that cheek 
 Long time did for the victory seek ; 
 At last the civil war is done, 
 The white rose hath the victory won. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 From thy pale look the God of Love doth seem 
 With more imperiousness to give the law, 
 
 Than when from conscious blushes, and the beam 
 Of conquering eyes, he challenges our awe. 
 
 The fairest colour spread by nature's hand 
 Full often from the jaded cheek retires ; 
 
 While like a statue of yourself you stand 
 In such symmetric beauty, as requires 
 
 No lustre but its own. Since, then, 'twere vain 
 To a fair statue colouring art to add, 
 
 So were it to your native white a stain. 
 In any other ornament if clad. 
 
 Who to your orient white should seek to join 
 The fading western hue, most eyes adore. 
 
 Were but like one, who, gilding silver coin. 
 Gives but occasion to suspect it more. 
 
TO HIS FRIEND. 73 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 Haste, bid Suspicion double-lock the door, 
 Lest Jealousy, that sour unwholesome guest. 
 Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast. 
 
 Shakspeare {Minor Poems). 
 
 Julia jealous, thought I did, 
 
 False and fickle, woo another, 
 
 And would her company forbid — 
 Women, poor things ! they cant't their passion smother. 
 
 The warmer love, the more disdain, 
 When truth is with distrust requited ; 
 I swore never to return agam : — 
 
 She own'd her fault, wept, and my stay invited. 
 
 And then I had a mind to chide her, 
 
 Because she had true love abus'd ; 
 
 I was resolv'd ne'er to abide her — 
 But oh how sweetly she her fault excused! 
 
 She did my heart the more entangle. 
 
 Saying; "True love will have its fears." 
 They never love, that never wrangle: — 
 
 Your lovers' quarreling true love endears! 
 
74 THE POET. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND. 
 
 RE SOLUTION. 
 
 Love is so wrought on, 
 
 He takes false shadows for true substances. 
 
 SHA.KSPEARE. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 
 Die because a woman's fair) 
 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 
 Because anothers rosy are 1 
 
 Be she fairer than the day, 
 
 Or the flowery meads in May; 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care I how fair she be ! 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be pined 
 Because I see a woman kind. 
 And a soft and gentle nature 
 Join'd to loveliness of feature! 
 Be she meeker, kinder than 
 The turtle-dove or pelican ; 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care I how kind she be ! 
 
TO HIS FRIEND. 75 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love? 
 Or her well-deserving known, 
 Make me quite forget my own? 
 Be she with all goodness blest, 
 And of maids the first and best ; 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 
 What care I how good she be ! 
 
 If her fortunes seem too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die? 
 Those that bear a noble mind. 
 Where they want of riches find. 
 Think what with them they would do, 
 That without them dare to woo ! 
 
 And unless such mind I see. 
 
 What care I how great she be ! 
 
 Great or good, or kind or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair. 
 If she love me, this believe : — 
 I would die ere she should grieve.- 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 I can slight and scorn her too: 
 
 If she be not fit for me. 
 
 What care I for whom she be I 
 
76 THB POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 A PALINODE. 
 
 What ! frown on me 1 nay, nay, that brow's so smooth, 
 It will not bear a spoiling wrinkle on it. 
 
 Ths. Heywood. 
 
 Prythee, why so angry, sweet f 
 
 Nay, nay, you know how vain 
 
 Is all this feign'd disdain : 
 That frown in its infancy I'll meet. 
 
 And kiss it to a smile again! 
 
 In that pretty anger lies 
 
 Such a witching grace. 
 
 As love's fancy would embrace: 
 'T would to fresh faults my heart entice, 
 
 So soon forgiveness would have place! 
 
 When thy reddening brow thus checks, 
 Sweetly checks each bold offence, 
 Gods ! I'd sin with a pretence ; 
 
 Through the sweet chiding blush there breaks 
 So fair, so bright an innocence ! 
 
CHAPTER FOURTH, 
 
Here is a pretty posey too, 
 We call it Cupid's curse : — 
 " They that exchange old love for new, 
 Pray heaven, they change for worse !" 
 
 Anonymous (1600). 
 
 Double and treble admonition, 
 And still to forfeit in the self-same kind I — 
 This would make mercy swear, and play the tyrant. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
CHAPTER FOURTH. 
 
 THE DOUBLE INDISCRETION". 
 
 A melancholy mania is that of rhyming at all hazards! and 
 of its consequences our poet is destined to be a sad exam- 
 ple. Unmindful of the indiscretion for whicli he has so 
 recently obtained forgiveness, he is betrayed into a se- 
 cond error, the consequences of which are likely to prove 
 serious, A lady ' of a certain age,' one of your beauties 
 in the wane, with all the coquetry of sixteen, had whis- 
 pered to the Poet, in a tone loud enough to be heard by 
 a whole room-full of company, that " She wished herself 
 younger for his sake." This was too tempting an appeal 
 to his vanity, and a copy of sentimental verses was the 
 result. — Resolved to enjoy her triumph, the aged flirt 
 maliciously contrives to have the verses conveyed to 
 Julia, not unaccompanied by certain mysterious inuen- 
 does. The consequence might readily be anticipated 
 from a lady of Julia's susceptibility, — a revival of former 
 jealousies, recrimination, and rupture outright. In his 
 embarrassment, the Poet has again recourse to his friend, 
 feelingly portraying the " Extremes in love." But 
 what pardon for an offence treading so closely upon a 
 former transgression! Julia upbraids the poet for his 
 " Inconstancy." She gives a loose to sorrow, and re- 
 ceives consolation from a kind soul of her acquaintance. 
 — The poet makes some awkward attempts at an expla- 
 nation, but Julia remains inexorable. All the satisfac- 
 tion he has, is to see his friend launch a piquant and 
 well-timed squib against the originator of this mischief. 
 
80 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET TO A LADY WHO WISHED HER- 
 SELF YOUNGER FOR HIS SAKE. 
 
 Oh! love is blind and lovers cannot, see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit ; 
 For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Celia, why wish you that your years 
 Should backward run till they meet mine, 
 
 That perfect semblance, which endears 
 Like things to like, might so combine 1 
 
 Our ages so in dates agree, 
 
 That twins do differ more than we. 
 
 There are two births : the one, when light 
 First strikes the newly-waken'd sense; 
 
 The other, when two souls unite: — 
 
 Now we must date our life from thence. 
 
 Were fond love plighted 'twixt us two, 
 
 Then should we both be born anew. 
 
 Love then to us would new souls give, 
 And in those souls would plant new powers; 
 
 Yes, we another life should live, 
 The breath we breathe were his, not ours. 
 
 Jjove makes those young whom age doth chill, 
 
 And whom he finds young, keeps young still. 
 
TO HIS FRIEND. 
 
 EXTREMES IN LOVE. 
 
 81 
 
 Extremes do always discord bring ; 
 
 Tlie mean the music makes in every thing. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 How oft doth sorrow upon love attend ; 
 
 How oft *tis waited on by jealousy : 
 With sweet beginning, but a bitter end; 
 
 Too high or low, ne'er settled equally. 
 With mingl'd good and ill its empire teems, 
 And ever runneth riot in extremes. 
 
 It now is faithful, now is full of fraud, 
 And can be blasted in a breathing while; 
 
 The bottom poison, and the surface strewed 
 
 With sweets, that can the sharpest sense beguile. 
 
 The strongest it has power to render weak. 
 
 Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. 
 
 Sparing it is, and yet too full of riot. 
 
 Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; 
 
 The loud bravado it can keep in quiet. 
 
 Pluck down the rich, and heap the poor with 
 treasures. 
 
 Now is it raging-rough, now silly-mild, 
 
 Makes the young old, the old to play the child. 
 
 It will suspect when there's no cause for fear; 
 
 It will not fear when it should most mistrust ; 
 Now over-merciful, now too severe. 
 
 And most deceiving when it seems most just. 
 Perverse it is when it doth seem most toward, 
 Breeds fear in valour, courage in the coward. 
 6 
 
S2 THE POET. 
 
 JULIA UPBRAIDS THE POET FOR HIS IN- 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 The time was once, when thou, unurg'd, would'si vow 
 That never words were music to thine ear, 
 That never object pleasing in thine eye, 
 That never touch well-welcome to thy hand, 
 That never meat sweet-savour'J to thy taste. 
 Unless I spake, look'd, touch'd, or carv'd to thee. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Begone, begone, thou perjured man, 
 
 Nor ever dare return, 
 For know, that thy inconstancy 
 
 Hath chang'd ray love to scorn. 
 Thou hast awak'd me, and I can 
 See clearly there's no truth in man. 
 
 My love for thee was chaste and pure 
 
 As is the morning dew; 
 Such had it ever been, besure, 
 
 Had'st thou not proved untrue. 
 Bet I am waken'd now, and can 
 See clearly there's no truth in man. 
 
 Thou may'st, perhaps, prevail upon 
 
 Some other to believe thee; 
 But, since thou canst love more than one, 
 
 Ne'er think that it shall grieve me. 
 No; I'm a waken'd now, and can 
 See clearlv there's no truth in man. 
 
HIS INCONSTANCY. 83 
 
 By thy apostacy, I find 
 
 That love is plac'd amiss, 
 Nor can abide within a mind 
 
 Where virtue wanting- is. 
 Now I'm resolv'd, and know there can 
 No constant truth remain in man. 
 
84 THE POET. 
 
 JULIA TO THE POET. 
 
 O jealously! 
 Most wayward issue of a gentle sire, 
 Self-hurt, still marring of thine own desire. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 In grief companionship is sweet, 
 Afflictions lighter grow ; 
 
 In love alone 
 
 We dare not own 
 A partner of our wo. 
 
 With your inconstancy I dare, 
 Hard though it be, to cope; 
 
 Foi I can bear 
 
 My own despair, 
 But not another's hope I 
 
A FRIEND TO JULIA. 85 
 
 A KIND FRIEND OF JULIA OFFERS HER 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 It is some ease our sorrows to reveal, 
 If they, to whom we do impart our woes, 
 
 Seem to partake of what our bosoms feel, 
 And meet us with a sigh at every close. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 O WEEP not, lady, weep not so; 
 
 Some gentle comfort seek: 
 Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 
 
 Nor tears bedew thy cheek. 
 
 Nay, weep not, lady, weep no more, 
 
 Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
 For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers 
 
 Cannot bid grow again. 
 
 Our joys like winged visions fly, 
 Then why should sorrow last? 
 
 Since grief but aggravates the loss, 
 Grieve not for what is passed. 
 
 Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 
 
 Men were deceivers ever; 
 One foot on sea and one on shore :— 
 
 To one thing constant never! 
 
86 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S FRIEND TO THE OLD COQUET. 
 
 Art thou still fain to toy and flirt? 
 
 Well! as thy brow doth carry 
 Gray hairs and wrinkles, I'll e'en court 
 
 In form of antiquary , 
 
 R. Brcme. 
 
 Lord ! how you take upon you still ! 
 
 How you will crow and domineer ! 
 What] still expect to have your will, 
 
 And carry the dominion clear, 
 As if you still were that which once you were. 
 
 Fie on you! 'tis a gross mistake; 
 
 Correct your error and be wise: 
 Kindly we still your kindness take, 
 
 But must your youthful airs despise, 
 Disdaining now to call them cruelties. 
 
 We were your slaves while you were fair, 
 
 And had youth to excuse it; 
 Ourselves we then your vassals sware. 
 
 But do not now abuse it; 
 Forsooth, 'tis very dotage thus to use it ! 
 
CHAPTER FIFTH 
 
I never heard 
 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipp'd 
 
 By care, which, Hke the canker-worm, doth eat 
 
 The leaves of the Spring's sweetest flower, the rose. 
 
 MiDDLETON. 
 
 She hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head, 
 And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. 
 
 To weep with those that weep doth ease some deal ; 
 But sorrow flouted at is double death. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
CHAPTER FIFTH. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 Mortified at Julia's indifference, the Poet bethinks himself 
 of throwing out a hint about " Parting ;" but, if the 
 truth must be spoken, it was with more than half an eye 
 to reunion. I'he ruse, however, does not succeed. Julia 
 takes it in good earnest, and the poor lover is driven to 
 desperation. He takes a review of his conduct, but 
 finds no reason seriously to impugn his " Constancy." 
 With every allowance lor her temper and character, he 
 cannot acquit Julia of undue severity, and might be 
 driven to revenge himself; indeed, at this critical con- 
 juncture, a somewhat trying occasion presents itself, but 
 fidelity triumphs, and he gives proof of " His steadfast 
 heart." He makes one other " Appeal to Julia ;" but 
 with as little success as before. After a severe struggle 
 with his feelings, the poor disappointed lover resolves to 
 fly and bury his sorrows in solitude. Tiiis resolution he 
 carries into effect, after despatching a " Last parting 
 word to Julia." 
 
90 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 Nay, let our parting 
 Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; 
 That the pale envious world, glad of the food 
 Of others' miseries, of sad dissentions. 
 And lovers' strifes, may not feed fat with ours. 
 
 Th3. Middleton. 
 
 With a heart which griefs o'erflow, 
 
 Far from love and thee I go; 
 
 Hard to sever thus, in tears, 
 
 A love knit up in many years ! 
 In this sad kiss I render thee 
 Back to tliyself, — there, thou art free ! 
 
 And must we, whose early youth 
 
 Was all fondness, love, and truth, 
 
 Must we thus in sadness sever. 
 
 Ne'er to meet again, no never ! 
 In this sad kiss I render thee 
 Back to thyself — there, thou art free ! 
 
 We on whom the morning shone 
 
 But to bring us joys alone. 
 
 And the eve in blisses set, 
 
 IMust we learn how to forget? 
 In this last kiss I render thee 
 Back to thyself — there, thou art free! 
 
TO JULIA. 91 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 If e'er my wish did trespass 'gainst thy love, 
 
 Or in discourse, or thought, or actual deed 
 
 Or if mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
 
 Delighted them in any other form ; 
 
 Or if I do not yet, and ever did, 
 
 And ever will, most fondly, dearly love thee, 
 
 Comfort forswear me ! 
 
 ShakspeaRe. 
 
 I CANNOT change, as others do, 
 
 Though you unjustly scorn; 
 Since the poor heart that sighs for you. 
 
 For you alone was born. 
 No, Julia, no; your heart to move 
 
 A surer way I'll try ; 
 And to revenge my slighted love, 
 
 Will still love on, will still love on and die. 
 
 When, kill'd with grief, your Poet lies, 
 
 And you to mind shall call 
 The sighs that now unpiti'd rise. 
 
 The tears that vainly fall : 
 That welcome hour which ends this smart, 
 
 Will then begin your pain : 
 For such a fond and faithful heart 
 
 Can never break, can never break in vain ! 
 
92 THE POET. 
 
 HIS STEADFAST HEART. 
 
 . . . Misplac'd suspicion 
 Invites, and justifies the falsehood fear'd. 
 
 Chapman. 
 
 Hence away, thou Syren! leave me; 
 
 Nay, unclasp those wanton arms, 
 Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me. 
 
 Though they breathe a thousand charms. 
 I'm no slave to such as you be, 
 
 Neither shall that snowy breast, 
 Eye of fire, and lip of ruby, 
 
 Ever rob me of my rest. 
 
 I have elsewhere vow'd my duty; 
 
 Turn away that tempting eye: 
 Show me not thy painted beauty. 
 
 Such impostures I defy. 
 Can he prize the tainted posies 
 
 That on every breast are worn, 
 Who may pluck the virgin roses 
 
 From the fresh and untouch'd thorn? 
 
HIS STEADFAST HEART. 93 
 
 I would scorn to vow a duty 
 
 Where each amorous spark may woo; 
 Give me her whose sun-like beauty 
 
 Buzzards dare not soar unto. 
 Leave me then, thou Syren, leave me, 
 
 Seek no more to work my harms; 
 Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, 
 
 I am proof to all your charms. 
 
94 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 THE APPEAL. 
 
 Proud fair, be cruel, but be generous too. 
 
 Earl of Surrey. 
 
 Though I can not your cruelty constrain 
 For my good will to favour me again; 
 Though my true and faithful love 
 Have no power your heart to move ; 
 Rejoice not at my pain ! 
 
 Full well I see your high disdain 
 Will ne'er grant me that boon to gain; 
 Yet do but grant at least 
 This my poor small request:. — 
 Rejoice not at my pain ! 
 
MADRIGAL. 95 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 - ... And when the sun 
 Hath brought the daj', it nothing doth abate 
 The travail of my endless smart and pain ; 
 
 For then, as one that hath the light in hate, 
 I wish for night more covertly to plain. 
 And to withdraw from every haunted place. 
 
 Earl of Surrey. 
 
 Oh, thou unwelcome light ! 
 Do not approach to bring the woful day, 
 
 When I must bid for aye 
 Farewell to her, and live in endless plight. 
 
 Fair moon ! with gentle beams, 
 
 The sight who never mars, 
 Clear long heaven's sable vault; and you, bright stars, 
 Your golden locks long view in earth's pure streams. 
 
 Let Phoebus never rise 
 
 To dim your watchful eyes ; 
 Prolong, alas ! prolong my short delight, 
 And, if ye can, oh make one long eternal night ! 
 
96 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 A LAST PARTING WORD. 
 
 Yes, when that hour o'er-slips me in the day, 
 Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 
 The next ensuing hour, some foul mischance 
 Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Together do these lines and I depart, 
 I to my lonely walks, they to thy heart. 
 And though I languish, press'd with melancholy, 
 This verse, fond fruit of heart devoted wholly, 
 May live to see that for whose want I die, 
 Breath'd by thy lips and perfum'd by thy sigh. 
 And hence I envy them that are thus sent, 
 Hoping they'll find thy frozen heart relent. 
 Accept them kindly, and if in them be 
 Merit of love — bestow that love on me ! 
 
 Nor now, because I bend me at thy feet. 
 
 The humble booty of thy conquering eye, 
 
 And lay my heart all open in thy sight. 
 
 And tell thee I am thine, and tell thee right; 
 
 And do not suit my looks, nor clothe my words 
 
 In other colours than my thoughts do wear, 
 
 But do thee right in all ; oh ! scorn me not. 
 
 As if thou didst not love sincerity. 
 
 Never did crystal more apparently 
 
 Present the colour it contains within, 
 
 Than have these eyes, these tears, this tongue of mine, 
 
 Betray'd my heart, and told how much I'm thine! 
 
CHAPTER SIXTH. 
 
How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. 
 Here can I sit alone, unseen of an}', 
 And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
 Tune my distresses, and record my woes, 
 O thou, that dost inhabit in my breast, 
 Leave not the mansion too long tenantless 
 Lest growing ruinous, the building fall. 
 And leave no memory of what it was ! 
 Repair me with thy presence, Julia, 
 O pitying nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
CHAPTER SIXTH. 
 
 THE POET IN SECLUSION. 
 
 The Poet's philosophy." — His friend, who hears all that 
 has passed, writes to him in his solitary retreat, and 
 strives, by dint of " Remonstrance," seasoned with well- 
 directed raillery, to arouse him to a sense of the folly and 
 unmanliness of his condnct. He reads him a few lessons 
 from his own personal experience : — " The broken vow;" 
 — " Former follies." Finding that all will not do, he re- 
 news the attack with more determined vigour, and rallies 
 him in a playful but cutting " Expostulation;" he urges 
 him to break from his solitude and forget his sorrows 
 amid the gaiety of the festive board. Moved at length 
 by these repeated solicitations, our Poet seems, for a 
 moment, disposed to listen to the voice of reason and 
 friendship. He replies to his friend in a spirited review 
 of his " I'ormer follies :" — He summons resolution suffi- 
 cient to fly to " Indifference," as the best cure for his folly. 
 But his weakness returns; he feels persuaded that re- 
 sistance to love is vain ; he "Apostrophises Reason," as 
 a vain impertinence, and at once flies off at a tans-ent. 
 
 THE POET'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 False though she be to love and me, 
 
 This heart shall never range; 
 The chang'd one fondly priz'd shall be, 
 Though I deplore the change. 
 
 In hours of bliss we oft have met, 
 They could not always last; 
 
 And though the present I regret, 
 Frn grateful for the past. 
 
100 THE POET. 
 
 FROM HIS FRIEND. 
 
 A REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 What is love but mere conjecture, 
 Seeking much, but nothing finding ; 
 
 'Tis mere fancy's architecture. 
 With illusions reason blinding. 
 
 NiCH. Breton. 
 
 Come away, why thus pursue 
 A shadow that will follow you] 
 Woman, lighter than a feather, 
 Won and lost, and altogether 
 Such a creature as no rule. 
 As no wit of man can school. 
 
 Come away, nor let thine eyes 
 Be taken with her fantasies, 
 Nor thy better genius dwell 
 On a subject known so well ; 
 For whose folly at the first. 
 E'en in Eden, man was cursed. 
 
 Come away, thou wilt not find 
 A single one that's fair and kind, 
 Brighter tho' she be than day. 
 Sweeter than the morn in May, 
 Yet her heart and tongue agree 
 As the antipodes and we. 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 101 
 
 Come away, or if thou must 
 Stay awhile, yet do not trust 
 To her sighs, or what she swears; 
 If she weeps, suspect her tears : 
 Tho' she seem to melt with passion, 
 Old's the trick, tho' new the fashion. 
 
 Come away, nor be a slave 
 
 To all her changeful fancies crave; 
 
 What she will or do or say 
 
 Is meant the clean contrary way. 
 
 As thou lov'st me, trust her not, 
 
 Lest thou become — I know not what! 
 
102 THE POET. 
 
 FROM HIS FRIEND. 
 
 THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 My faithful lute 
 Alone shall hear me plain, 
 Alas ! all other suit 
 Is clean in vain ! 
 
 Sir T. VVvatt. 
 
 I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more; 
 
 Thine be the grief, as thine the blame: 
 Thou art not what thou wast before, 
 
 What reason I should be the same] 
 He that can love unlov'd again, 
 Has better store of love than brain: 
 Heaven send me love my debts to pay, 
 While unthrifts fool their love away. 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 
 If thou hadst still continu'd mine ; 
 
 Nay, hadst thou but.remain'd thy own, 
 I might, perchance, have yet been thine. 
 
 But thou thy freedom didst recall 
 
 To seek elsewhere thy heart to thrall; 
 
 Say, then, how could I but disdain 
 
 A captive's captive to remain] 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 103 
 
 When a new love had conquer'd thee, 
 And chang'd the object of thy will, 
 
 It had been folly's self in me. 
 Not constancy, to love thee still. 
 
 Yea, it had been a sin, to go 
 
 And outrage pure affection so; 
 
 Since we are taught no prayers to say 
 
 To such as must to others pray. 
 
 And thou mayst glory in thy choice. 
 
 And he of his good fortune boast; 
 I neither grieve, nor yet rejoice. 
 
 To see him gain what I have lost. 
 The height of my disdain shall be 
 To laugh at him, to blush for thee. 
 To love thee still — but go no more 
 A begging at a beggar's door. 
 
104 THE POET. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND. 
 
 FORMER FOLLIES . 
 
 Nursing the old twins, Hope and Fear. 
 
 Once did my fancies ebb and flow, 
 As passion's tide did move ; 
 
 Once did I hope, then fear again — 
 For then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I wakeful spend the night, 
 And lagging hours reprove; 
 
 Once did I wishing waste the day — 
 For then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I breathe another's breath, 
 And in my mistress move ; 
 
 Once was I not mine own at all — 
 For then I was in love. 
 
 Once did I sonnet to my saint, 
 My soul to numbers move ; 
 
 Once did I tell a thousand lies — 
 For then I was in love. 
 
 Once went I moping night and day. 
 
 Sighing like turtle-dove ; 
 Once, in a word, I was a fool — 
 
 For then I was in love. 
 
 DONNI 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 105 
 
 AN EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 They who their days to idleness divide. 
 Unmindful of chief parts of manliness ; 
 
 Who do themselves, for want of nobler pride. 
 Vain votaries of lazy love profess, 
 
 E'en Cupid's self of them ashamed is. 
 
 And quite disowns for servitors of his. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover, 
 
 Prithee, why so pale'? 
 Will, if looking well can't move her, 
 
 Looking ill prevail] 
 
 Prithee, why so paleT 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner, 
 
 Prithee, why so mute 1 
 Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
 
 Saying nothing do't? 
 
 Prithee, why so mute'? 
 
 Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move. 
 
 This cannot take her: 
 If of herself she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her. 
 
 The devil take her ! 
 
106 THE POET. 
 
 FROM HIS FRIEND. 
 
 THE VIRTUE OF A BUMPER. 
 
 We pledge you from the bottom of our bowls, 
 Aye, from the depth and bottom of our souls. 
 
 Sir J. Denham. 
 
 Here's to thee, Dick ! This whining love despise ; 
 Pledge me, my boy, and drink till thou art wise. 
 It sparkles livelier far than she ; 
 
 'Tis pure and bright, nor knows deceit ; 
 And such no woman ere will be : 
 No, they are all sophisticate. 
 
 Follies have they so numberless in store, 
 That only he who loves them can have more. 
 Neither their sighs nor tears are true, 
 
 These idly breathe, those idly fall, 
 When utter'd, false, forsworn when due, 
 In nothing like to ours at all. 
 
 Come, here's to thee again ; thy sorrows drown'd, 
 Let the glass walk, till all the house turn round. 
 Again! till these two lights be four; 
 
 Nor error here can dangerous prove, 
 Thy passion, man, deceived thee more : 
 None see things double like your men in love. 
 
TO JULIA. 107 
 
 INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 Thanks, Julia, for thy timely scorn, 
 
 Now am I free as I was born. 
 
 By your timely coldness cur'd. 
 
 Of all the pain that I endur'd. 
 
 In losing me, proud nymph, you lose 
 
 The humblest slave your beauty knows; 
 
 In losing you, I but throw down 
 
 A haughty tyrant from her throne. 
 
 Love is a burthen, which two hearts, 
 When equally they bear their parts. 
 With pleasure carry ; but no one, 
 Alas ! can bear it all alone. 
 I am not one to court his pain, 
 And make an idol of disdain ; 
 Nor yet of those, who, not prevailing, 
 Take the vain liberty of railing. 
 
 For who would make his victor less, 
 Does his own weak defence confess; 
 And while her power he dares defame, 
 But poorly doubles his own shame. 
 He but his torment does betray. 
 Who seeks to end it in that way ; 
 In love, indifference is sure 
 The only sign of perfect cure. 
 
108 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S APOSTROPHE TO REASON. 
 
 . . . You may as well 
 Forbid the sea for to obey the moon, 
 As or by oath, remove, or counsel, shake 
 The fabric of his folly. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Reason, thou vain impertinence, 
 
 Deluding hypocrite, begone ! 
 Away, and plague your men of sense, 
 
 But let my love and me alone. 
 In vain the dreamy prosing fool 
 
 Would bid thee o'er our senses reign, 
 And all those noble passions cool. 
 
 That constitute the creature man. 
 
 In vain the dotard may pretend 
 
 Thou art our torch to happiness — 
 To happiness ! — which poor mankind 
 
 As little know as Paradise. 
 At best, thou'rt but a glimmering light, 
 
 Which serves not to direct our way, 
 But, like the moon, confounds our sight, 
 
 And only shows it is not day. 
 
 Then, hence thou vain impertinence, 
 
 Deluding hypocrite, begone ! 
 Away, and plague your men of sense, 
 
 But let my love and me alone. 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTH. 
 
I have done penance for contemning love, 
 Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me 
 With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
 With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs : 
 For, in revenge of my contempt of love, 
 Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes, 
 And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow. 
 O, my good friend, Love is a mighty lord. 
 And hath so humbled me, that I confess. 
 There is no wo like his correction ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Thus, sometimes, hath the brightest day a cloud ; 
 And after summer evermore comes on 
 Bleak winter, witii his wrathful nipping cold : 
 So cares and joy succeed, as seasons fleet. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTH. 
 
 EFFECTS OF SOLITUDE ON THE POET. 
 
 It was the depth of " Winter," when the Poet abandoned 
 the gaieties of the city for the gloom and seclusion of the 
 country. In the dreariness of nature, he seems to behold 
 a reflection of liis own feehngs, and experiences all the 
 heaviness of a lonely heart. He abandons himself to 
 " Melancholy ;'' his nights are sleepless, and his days un- 
 cheered by hope; his sole consolation is to embody in 
 verse the gloom of his feelings. It is not unfrequently 
 in moments like these, that the wounded spirit collects 
 its powers, and gives evidence of an energy which no 
 outward circumstances can depress. In proof of this 
 we might appeal to the Poet's invocation to '* Congenial 
 darkness,-' his lines " To his watch, when he could not 
 sleep," his " Invocation to sleep," and his " Aspirations 
 for the daylight;" all of which are marked by great in- 
 tensity of feeling, set off by all the graces of an active 
 fancy. In the meantime, we learn that the heart of 
 Julia has relented. The spring- tide of passion has found 
 its retiring ebb ; and having had leisure calmly to review 
 her past conduct, her better feelings adjudge it to have 
 been unmeritedly severe. Its consequences weigh heavily 
 upon her heart, and we find her full of regrets for the past, 
 and of generous intimations for the future. An im- 
 passioned piece from her pen, entitled " The sacrifice," 
 will afford a sufficient clue to the true state of her 
 feelings. 
 
112 THE POET. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Now aTi2:ry Winter doth the year deform 
 
 With blustering blasts, that lay bare every tree ; 
 
 And the fierce pelting of the bitter storm . 
 Bids all the swains to their warm coverts flee. 
 
 The icicles hang dangling from the rocks, 
 
 And scarcely food is there to feed the penn'd-up flocks. 
 
 December raves ; the northern blasts that blow, 
 In icy chams have bound each wanton flood 
 
 Rills hush their murmurs, streamlets cease to flow, 
 And into stone congeal'd the river stood. 
 
 While deep the sprinkled snow had sown the ground, 
 
 And in its robe of white clad all the landscape round. 
 
 Hawthorn hath lost its summer livery, 
 
 Yet are its branches hung with blossoms cold ; 
 
 All nature seems to droop in misery : 
 As in a mirror bidding me behold 
 
 My wretched plight. Like fellow-sufferers, we 
 
 Seem to partake a natural sympathy. 
 
TO MELANCHOLY. 113 
 
 THE POET TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Here can 1 sit alone, unseen of any, 
 And, to the nightingale's complaining notes. 
 Tune my distresses, and record my woes. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Hence, hence, ye vain delights ! 
 As short as are the nights 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly ; 
 There's nought in life that's sweet, 
 If men were wise to see't. 
 
 But only melancholy, 
 
 Sweet dainty melancholy ! 
 
 Folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 Frequent tears and ceaselsss sighs, 
 Look that's wedded to the ground. 
 Tongue chain'd up without a sound; 
 Welcome, welcome to me now, 
 You have all my warmest vow ! 
 
 Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 
 Places which pale Passion loves, 
 Moonlight walks when all are sleeping. 
 Save the owl her vigil keeping; 
 Midnight bell, and parting groan, 
 These are sounds I feed upon. 
 Then stretch my bones in some still lonely valley, 
 Where all to sadness is devoted wholly. — 
 Oh, naught so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy! 
 8 
 
114 THE POET. 
 
 CONGENIAL DARKNESS. 
 
 Pale sorrow shuns the light, 
 And plaiiieth darkling, like the bird of night. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Close in, sweet night, best friend unto those cares 
 That wait upon their mistress, iVelancholy; 
 
 So ill my disappointed spirit fares. 
 That I to thee do consecrate it wholly. 
 
 Sweet night, close on my griefs when they are told, 
 Let thy soft silence all around be reigning; 
 
 When thou dost all things in thy shades enfold. 
 Then is it sweet to utter one's complaining! 
 
TO HIS WATCH. 115 
 
 TO HIS WATCH, WHEN HE COULD NOT 
 SLEEP. 
 
 . . . Upon us steals 
 The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Lncessant minutes, while you move, you tell 
 The time that tells our life ; which, though it run 
 Never so fast or far, your new -begun 
 
 Short steps shall overtake : for though life well 
 
 May 'scape his own account, it shall not yours. 
 
 You are Death's auditors, that both divide, 
 And sum whate'er this life of ours endures 
 
 From its beginning ; and through you we bide 
 
 The doom of Fate, whose unreveal'd decree 
 You date, bring, execute ; making what's new, 
 Old, and good, ill : for, as we die in you, 
 
 You die in time — time in eternity. 
 
116 THE POET. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 
 
 O sleep ! O gentle sleep ! 
 Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
 That thou no more wilt weigh mine eyelids down, 
 And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Sleep, silence' child, bestovver of sweet rest, 
 Whose soft approach doth peace to mortals bring ; 
 
 Indifferent host to shepherd and to king, 
 Sole comforter to minds that are oppress'd. 
 
 Lo ! by thy charmed rod all breathing things 
 Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness oppress'd : 
 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spar'st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
 
 Come to thy suppliant, come ! but with that face 
 To th' inward sight, which thou wert wont to show, 
 
 With feigned solace ease a true-felt wo : 
 Or if, deaf god, thou dost deny that grace, 
 
 (Jome as thou wilt, and what thou wilt, bequeath: — 
 
 I long to kiss the image of my death ! 
 
ASPIRATIONS FOR THE DAYLIGHT. 117 
 
 ASPIRATIONS FOR THE DAYLIGHT. 
 
 Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep, 
 And time seems then not for to fly, but creep ; 
 Just so it is with me, who, listening, pray 
 The winds to blow the tedious night away. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 Will it ne'er be morning 1 Will the promised light 
 Ne'er break, and clear these clouds of night 1 
 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, 
 
 Whose conquering ray 
 May chase dull night : sweet Phosphor, bring the day ! 
 
 Ah say, how long shall this benighted eye 
 Languish in shades, and feebly lie 
 Expecting light ] How long shall darkness soil 
 The face of Earth, and thus beguile 
 The soul of sprightly action 1 Nay, 
 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day. 
 
 Whose conquering ray 
 May chase dull night : sweet Phosphor, bring the day! 
 
 O night, thou image of dull ignorance. 
 How doth thy lethargy benumb the sense ! 
 Let those, whose eyes like owls abhor the light, 
 Let those have night, that love the night. 
 But, oh ! thou loitering lamp of heaven, return, 
 And may the living torch of Truth so burn ! 
 
 Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, 
 
 Let light repay 
 The wrongs of night : sweet Phosphor, bring the day! 
 
118 THE POET. 
 
 JULIA'S RESOLUTION. 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 Let me still love, supposing thou art true ! 
 
 Shakspeare (Sonnets). 
 
 Spite of thy power, almighty Love, 
 
 I will my torments hide ; 
 And all affection past shall prove 
 
 A sacrifice to Pride. 
 
 Pride ! thou'rt become my idol now. 
 
 To thee a shrine I rear ; 
 For thee at morn my every vow, 
 
 At night my every tear. 
 
 Yet ah ! should he, my first love, frown, 
 
 And take thy injur'd part ; 
 Soon should I cast that idol down, 
 
 And yield him all my heart ! 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTH. 
 
Now is the Winter gone. Earth throws aside 
 The robe of snow, and decks her with new pride ; 
 The genial sunbeams loose the yielding earth. 
 And make it fruitful; give a sacred birth 
 To the dead swallow ; wake in hollow tree 
 The drowsy cuckoo, in dried flowers the bee : 
 Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring, 
 In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring ; 
 The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array 
 Welcome the coming of the long-wish'd May. 
 All nature smiles. 
 
 Carlw, 
 
 . . . . I here live private ; 
 Without acquaintance of more sweet companions 
 Than the old inmates of my love, — my thoughts; 
 And, day by day, frequent I silent groves, 
 And solitary walks. 
 
 Ford. 
 
 This life of mine, exempt from public haunt, 
 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
CHAPTER EIGHTH. 
 
 SOME FRUITS OF THE POEt's SOLITUDE. 
 
 At length the Spring returns, with all its reviving in- 
 fluences ; and, after a long struggle with his dejected 
 feelings, our Poet finds some solace for his sorrows in 
 the new-born beauties, and the tranquillizing scenes of 
 nature. His rural walks, and quiet musings amidst the 
 woods and glens of a romantic retreat, tend to tranquillize 
 his heart. The void in his bosom is painful ; but, by de- 
 grees, his feelings are mellowed down into that tender 
 melancholy, which is the very atmosphere wherein Poetry 
 loves to breathe. He invokes the aid of' Music to calm 
 tlie fever of his mind." He finds a secret sympathy in 
 the lovely objects of nature by which he is surrounded, 
 and gives proof of this happy influence in the eff'usions 
 of his fancy, which are marked by more than ordinary 
 power and feeling ; " To the blossoms," " To the daffo- 
 dils." As a natural efl'ect of his isolated mode of life, he 
 grows superstitious ; he finds good omens in the objects 
 that meet him in his path ; " To the olive branch "and is 
 cheered by " A dream," in which he fancies that he be- 
 holds his Julia restored to his arms, arrayed in all her 
 former charms, and with more than her former kindness. 
 
122 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
 
 Now wel^apparell'd April on the heel 
 Of limping Winter treads. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king", 
 In whose gay garniture are rich display'd 
 
 All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring, 
 In goodly colours gloriously array'd. 
 
 Go to my love, where she is careless laid, 
 Yet in her winter's bower not well awake : 
 
 Tell her the joyous time will not be staid, 
 Unless she do him by the forelock take. 
 
 Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make. 
 To wait on Love amid his lowly crew ; 
 
 Where every one that misseth then her wake, 
 Shall be by him amers'd with penance due. 
 
 Make haste, therefore, sweet love, while it is prime, 
 
 For none can call again the bye-gone time ! 
 
TO BIUSIC. 123 
 
 TO MUSIC, TO CALM THE FEVER OF 
 HIS MIND. 
 
 Oh! it comes over the ear like the sweet South, 
 Breathing upon a bank of violets, 
 Stealing and giving odour, 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Charm me to sleep, and melt me so 
 
 With thy delicious numbers, 
 That, being ravish'd, hence I go 
 Away in easy slumbers. 
 
 Oh, make me weep 
 
 My pains asleep, 
 And give me such reposes, 
 
 That I, poor I 
 
 May think thereby, 
 I live and die midst roses. 
 
 Fall on me like a silent dew, 
 
 Or like those maiden showers, 
 Which, at the peep of morning, strew 
 A baptism o'er the flowers. 
 Melt, melt my pains 
 With thy soft strains. 
 That, ease unto me given. 
 With full delight 
 I leave this light. 
 And take my flight for heaven ! 
 
124 THE POET. 
 
 TO THE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 And I behold among earth's pleasant things 
 Each one decay :— and yet my sorrow springs ! 
 
 Earl of Surrev. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 
 Why do ye fade so fast? 
 
 Your date is not so past, 
 But you may yet stay here awhile 
 
 To blush and gently smile. 
 And go at last. 
 
 What! were ye born to be 
 
 An hour or half's delight, 
 
 And so to bid good night? 
 'Twas pity nature brought ye forth 
 
 Merely to show your worth, 
 And lose you quite ! 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon things have 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave : 
 
 And after they have shown their pride, 
 liike you, awhile ; they glide 
 Into the orave ! 
 
THE DAFFODILS. 125 
 
 TO THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 Daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty. 
 
 ShakspeaRE. 
 
 Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 
 You fade away so soon; 
 As yet the early-risen sun 
 
 Has not attain'd his noon. 
 Stay, stay, 
 
 Until the hastening day 
 Has run 
 
 But to the even-song; 
 And having pray'd together, we 
 
 Will go with you along. 
 
 We have short time to stay, like yon ; 
 
 We have as brief a spring ; 
 As quick a growth to meet decay, 
 
 As you, or any thing. 
 We die 
 
 As your hours do, and dry 
 Away, 
 
 Like to the summer rain, 
 Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
 
 Ne'er to be found again ! 
 
126 THE POET. 
 
 THE GOOD OMEN. 
 
 THE OLIVE BRANCH. 
 
 ... No custoiTwid eventj 
 But he will pluck away the natural cause, 
 And call it sign, or portent. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Sadly I vvalk'd within the field 
 
 To see what comfort it would yield ; 
 
 And as I went my private way, 
 
 An olive-branch before me lay, 
 
 And, seeing it, I made a stay. — 
 
 I took it up and view'd it; then. 
 
 Kissing the omen, said "Amen! 
 
 Be, be it so! and let this be 
 
 A divination unto me, 
 
 That, in short time, my woes may cease, 
 
 And love may crov.'n my end with peace !" 
 
A DREAM. 127 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 This babbling dream will sure prove ominous. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Methought I wander'd in a shade, 
 
 The sweetest that the spring could spread, 
 Of jasmin, briar, and woodbine made : 
 
 — And there I saw my Julia dead ! 
 Though dead she lay, yet could I see 
 
 Nor cypress there, nor mournful willow ; 
 Nature seemed pitiless as she. 
 
 Nor hung one token o'er her pillow. 
 
 And now, methought, I lost all care 
 
 In losing her ; and felt as free 
 As prison'd birds let loose in air, 
 
 Or rivers that are got to sea. 
 Yet, from my bosom's mistress freed^ 
 
 I soon more frantic grew, than glad ; 
 Thus subjects, getting liberty, 
 
 Get but a licence to be mad. 
 
 Birds that are long in cages mewed. 
 Are fain to 'scape, and fond to roam; 
 
 But wanting skill to live abroad, 
 
 They pine, and hover near their home. 
 
128 THE POET. 
 
 To ocean swiftly rivers run, 
 
 From being pent in banks of flowers, 
 
 Not knowing that th' exlialing sun 
 
 Will send them back in weeping showers. 
 
 Thus, too, my pride of liberty 
 
 Fell, to its ancient thraldom fitted ; 
 The vanity of being free 
 
 Confess'd its folly, and submitted. 
 Thus does the rebel see too late 
 
 The safety of well-order'd reign, 
 Finding his boasted free estate 
 
 Is but proud strutting in a chain. 
 
 So now I mourn'd that she was dead. 
 Whose simple will could govern me ; 
 
 And quickly was by reason led 
 To see the harm of liberty. 
 
 My soul, in sleep's soft fetters bound. 
 Did now for vital freedom strive ; 
 
 I wak'd, I started up, and found. 
 Oh rapture ! Julia still alive ! 
 
CHAPTER NINTH 
 
I sent a sigh to seek thee out, 
 
 Deep-drawn in pain, 
 Wing'd like an arrow ; nor my scont 
 
 Returns in vain. 
 
 Geo. Herbert. 
 
 As a long-parted mother with her child 
 
 Plays fondly 'midst her tears, and smiles in weeping. 
 
 So weeping, smiling, greet I thee. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Oh my reviving joy ! thy quickening presence 
 Sits like a youthful spring upon my heart : 
 I cannot make thy welcome rich enough 
 With all the wealth of words. 
 
 MiDDLETON. 
 
 If what I feel I could express in words, 
 Methinks I could speak joy enough to men, 
 To banish sadness from all love for ever. 
 
 Field. 
 
CHAPTER NINTH. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 The visionary anticipations of the Poet's dream are destined 
 to be realized. Juha, who has accompanied an old 
 schoolmate of her's to this part of the country, acci- 
 dentally meets her lover in his solitary walks. The 
 result is readily anticipated, — surprise, explanation, 
 tears, " Reconciliation." They realize the truth of old 
 Herrick's adage : 
 
 Love of itself 's too sweet ; the best of all, 
 Is when love's honey has a dash of gall. 
 
 The Poet eloquently paints to his mistiess the pangs 
 which his heart has experienced during their long sepa- 
 ration ; illustrating the truth of the observation, that 
 "Absence extinguishes a light attachment, but rivets true 
 affection." Circumstances require a " Temporary ab- 
 sence" on the part of the Poet ; he has a tender "Protes- 
 tation at parting;" he philosophises upon "Absence," 
 and ingeniouly maintains the paradox that "True 
 lovers never part." The value of the blessings we 
 possess is enhanced by contrasting them with the absence 
 of all that renders life desirable. 
 
132 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 I'll pay thee, for thy pains and sorrows past, 
 A usury of long delight at last. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Come, let us now resolve, at last. 
 
 To live and love in quiet; 
 We'll tie the knot so very fast, 
 
 That time shall ne'er untie it. 
 
 The truest joys they seldom prove, 
 Who free from quarrels live ; 
 
 'Tis the most tender part of love, 
 Each other to forgive. 
 
 When least I seem'd concern'd, I took 
 
 No pleasure then nor rest; 
 And when I feign'd an angry look. 
 
 Ah me ! I lov'd you best ! 
 
 Own but the same to me, you'll find 
 
 How blest will be our fate ; 
 Oh ! to be happy, to be kind. 
 
 Sure never comes too late ! 
 
ON ABSENCE. 133 
 
 ON ABSENCE. 
 
 1 will her absence my heart's penance make, 
 That of her presence I full meed may take. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 From you have I been absent in the spring, 
 Wiien proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
 
 Hath put such spirit of youth in every thing, 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. 
 
 Yet, nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of flowers, in odour different and in hue, 
 
 Could make me any summer-story tell. 
 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. 
 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose : 
 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight. 
 Drawn after you — you, pattern of all those ! 
 
 Yet seemed it winter still, and you away : — 
 
 As with your shadow I with these did play. 
 
134 THE POET. 
 
 TEMPORARY ABSENCE. 
 
 What ! keep a week away ? seven daj's and nights ? 
 Eight score eight hours, — and lovers' absent hours, — 
 More tedious than the dial eight score times ? 
 O weary reckoning ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 When that day comes, whose ev'ning says I'm gone, 
 And thou, my Julia, art left alone. 
 Devoutly let one little offering be 
 Presented to thy household gods for me. 
 
 J^soon will the days that part us, love, be past, 
 And this of all our partings be the last ! 
 Then peace be with thee, Julia! and forbear, 
 In my short absence, to let fall one tear. 
 
 And yet, for love's sake, let thy lips do this : — 
 Give my mute picture one reviving kiss ; 
 Warm it to life, and let me ever dwell 
 In thy best memories, Julia. So, Farewell. 
 
TO JULIA. 135 
 
 A PROTESTATION ON PARTING. 
 
 Feed on this flattery, 
 That absent lovers one in th' other be. 
 
 Donne. 
 
 Why dost thou wound and break my heart, 
 
 As if we should for ever part 1 
 
 Hast thou not heard an oath from me, 
 
 After a day, or two, or three, 
 
 I will come back' a/id bide with thee? 
 
 Take, if thou dost distrust that vow, 
 
 This second protestation now : — 
 
 Upon that cheek the spangled tear 
 
 Which sits like dew on roses fair, 
 
 That tear shall scarce be dried, before 
 
 I'll kiss the threshold of thy door. 
 
 Then weep not, sweet, but thus much know — 
 
 Fm half returned before I go ! 
 
136 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF ABSENCE. 
 
 We are like trees, whom shaking fastens more ; 
 While blustering winds deface the wanton bowers, 
 And rifle all their curious knots and store. 
 
 G. Herbert. 
 
 Regret not, love, that we are doom'd to part ; 
 
 'Tis nature that doth gently bid us sever, 
 Thereby to train us up, with tender art, 
 
 To brook the day that we must part for ever. 
 
 For nature, doubting we might be surpris'd 
 By that sad day, which shall asunder tear us, 
 
 Doth keep us this way school'd and exercis'd. 
 Lest that most bitter hour should overbear us. 
 
THE poet's paradox. 137 
 
 TRUE LOVERS NEVER PART. 
 
 have charg'd him, 
 
 At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
 To encounter me with orizons ; for then 
 I am in heaven with him. 
 
 SH.V.KSPEARE. 
 
 When, dearest, I but think on thee, 
 It seems all things that lovely be 
 
 Are present, and my soul delighted; 
 For beauties that from worth arise. 
 Are like the grace of deities, 
 
 Still present with us, though unsighted. 
 
 Thus, while I sit and sigh the day. 
 With all its spreading lights, away. 
 
 Till night's dark pinions overtake me; 
 Thinking on thee, thy beauties then. 
 Like sudden lights on sleeping men. 
 
 Do by their glorious rays awake me. 
 
 Thus absence dies, and dying proves 
 No absence can consist with loves. 
 
 That do partake of fair perfection ; 
 Since in the darkest night they may, 
 By their bright influence, find a way 
 
 To see each other by reflection. 
 
138 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET PHILOSOPHISES. 
 
 THE POWER OF CONTRAST. 
 
 When all the years our fields are fresh and green, 
 
 With breathing flowers and sunshine every day ; 
 When rosy hours for ever wing between 
 
 The heaven and earth — they heedless pass away. 
 The fulness and abiding of a blessing 
 
 But make us heedless of the present good ; 
 And if they sometimes fly not our possessing, 
 
 Their inborn sweetness is not understood. 
 
 Had we no winter, summer would be thought 
 
 Not half so pleasing ; and if tempests were not, 
 The blessings of a calm were cheaply bought : 
 
 For things, save by their opposites, appear not. 
 She whom I love, her kindness now denies, 
 Turning deaf ear to all my vows and sighs : 
 Feeling the winter of her scorn, I may 
 More know the value of her summer-ray. 
 
 Now, when of sickening love the blossoms droop, 
 
 I come to know the bliss of blooming hours; 
 And, 'mid the barrenness of nature, Hope 
 
 Sees all the charm of once unheeded flowers. 
 So do I learn to know my former gladness 
 From the deep galling of my present sadness ; 
 And, cheated for a season of my pleasure, 
 I shall more prize it in the future measure. 
 
CHAPTER TENTH 
 
See ! it is come, the merry month of May, 
 When lads and lasses troop in fresh array. 
 Now all is clad with pleasure ; the green woods 
 Pat forth their leaves, and blossoms, and fresh buds ; 
 Youth's merry folk now flocken every where 
 To gather May and pluck the smelling briar; 
 Then hasten home the doors and posts to dight; 
 And the church pillars, ere the broad daylight, 
 With hawthorn buds, and sweetest eglantine, 
 And garlands of fair roses to entwine. 
 
 Spensek. 
 
CHAPTER TENTH. 
 
 THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY. 
 
 Tlie Poet returns to rejoin his Julia and her companion. 
 All now is contentment and unalloyed delight. The 
 season of trial is past. The self-inflicted sufferings of 
 the two lovers are not unattended with a beneficial re- 
 sult. They have instilled a wholesome lesson of mutual 
 forbearance, and tended to chasten and subdue much 
 that might have disturbed the repose of their future years. 
 There is no monitor like E.xperience : if her lessons are 
 severe, they are salutary, and of a character not likely to 
 he forgotten. The lovers enjoy the pleasures of rural 
 hfe, and with a zest, heightened by a contrast with the 
 past. They join the country revels, and participate in 
 iill the pastimes and characteristic observances with 
 which our simple forefathers celebrated the return of the 
 iiii;rry month ol"3Iay. 
 
142 THE POET. 
 
 THE TRUANT RETURNED. 
 
 If e'er my wish did trespass 'gainst thy love, 
 Or in discourse, or thought, or actual deed, 
 Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense. 
 Delighted them in any other form, 
 Comfort forswear me ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I AM return'd: rejoic'd to see 
 Perfection in naught else but thee, 
 Yet many beauties have I seen, 
 And in that search a truant been, 
 Through vain and fruitless curiosity. 
 
 I've been to gaze upon each star, 
 Fond men durst with thy light compare, 
 Yet, after all my search 1 find 
 That all but love and I are blind, 
 And not one maid but thou divinely fair. 
 
 Now, then, I fix : and now, grown wise, 
 
 All objects but thyself despise ; 
 Taught by my folly, now I swear, 
 If you forgive me, ne'er to err. 
 Nor madily seek impossibilities. 
 
MAY. 143 
 
 IM A Y . 
 
 Each day of thine, sweet month of May, 
 
 Love makes a solemn holiday ; 
 Thy aspect can all happy make, 
 
 Thoughts of young love awaking ; 
 Hearts you both do cause to ache, 
 
 And yet be pleas'd with aching. 
 
 Sir John Davies. 
 
 See ! the bright morning-star, day's harbinger, 
 Come dancing from the east, and leads with her 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
 The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. 
 
 Hail ! bounteous May, that dost inspire 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
 Hill and valley boast thy blessing. 
 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song. 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long! 
 
144 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S INVITATION TO JULIA TO 
 GO A-MAYING. 
 
 Get up, get up, for shame ! The blushing morn 
 Already in the glowing east is born; 
 See how Aurora flings her fair 
 Fresh mingl'd colours through the air. 
 Up, up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
 The dew-bespangl'd herb and tree. 
 Each flower has wept, and bovv'd itself to the east 
 Above an hour ago, and you not dress'd ! 
 Nay, not so much as out of bed, 
 When all the birds have matin's said, 
 And sung their grateful hym.ns. 'Tis sin, 
 Nay, profanation to keep in, 
 When thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May, 
 
 Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 
 
 To come forth like the spring-time, fresh, and green, 
 
 And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
 
 For jewels for your dress, or hair, 
 
 Fear not, the leaves will strew 
 
 Gems in abundance upon you. 
 Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
 Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ; 
 
 Come, and receive them, while the light 
 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. 
 
 And Titan on the eastern hill 
 
 Bestirs himself, or else stands still 
 Till you come forth : nay, then, be brief in praying ; 
 pew beads are best, when we do go a-Maying. 
 
INVITATION TO JULIA. 145 
 
 Come, Julia, come ; there's not a girl to-day 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May ; 
 
 A deal of youth ere this is come 
 
 Back, and with whitethorn laden home ; 
 
 Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream. 
 
 Before that we have left to dream ; 
 And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, 
 And chose their priest, ere we have cast off sloth. 
 
 Can such delight be in the street, 
 
 And open fields, and we not see't? 
 
 Come, let's abroad, and strait obey 
 
 The proclamation made for May. 
 heVs sin no more, as we have done, by staying: — 
 Come, then, my Julia, come, let's go a-Maying ! 
 
 Come, let us go while we are in our prime, 
 And take the harmless folly of the time. 
 
 We shall grow old apace, and die 
 
 Before we know our liberty : 
 
 Our life is short, and our days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun. 
 And as a vapour, or a drop of rain. 
 Once lost can ne'er be found again. 
 
 So when or you or I am made 
 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight. 
 
 Lie drown'd with us in endless night. 
 Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
 Come, dearest Julia, come, let's go a-Maying. 
 
 10 
 
146 THE POET. 
 
 TO JULIA.. 
 
 THE MAY-TIDE OF LOVE. 
 
 Who will not take the blessing that is offer'd, 
 May never find it more. 
 
 ShakspeaRl'. 
 
 Yes, love whilst thou mayst be belov'd again, 
 
 Now, while thy May doth fill thy lap with flowers ; 
 
 Now, while thy beauty shines without a stain» 
 Now use the stimmer-smiles ere winter lours. 
 
 And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun 
 The fairest flower that ever saw the light, 
 
 Enjoy thy time before thy sweets be done : 
 For, Julia, think, thy morning must have night. 
 
 Yes, thy bright sun will set at length to west, 
 
 When thou wilt close up what thou proudly show'st. 
 
 And think the same becomes thy fading best. 
 Which then shall most inveil, and shadow most. 
 
 Men do not prize the stem for what it was, 
 
 When once they find the flower, her glory, pass. 
 
147 
 
 TRUE LOVE A PERPETUAL MAY. 
 
 I sliall the eifjct of this good lesson keep 
 As watchman to my heart. 
 
 ShaKSI'EaRE. 
 
 When men shall find the flower, thy glory, pass, 
 And thou, with care-worn brow, sitting- alone, 
 
 Receiv'st the message from thy honest glass, 
 Which tells the truth, and says that all is gone ! 
 
 Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, 
 Though spent the flame, in me the warmth remaining, 
 
 I that did love thee thus before thou fadedst, 
 
 My faith shall thrive while thou art in thy waning. 
 
 The world shall find this miracle in me, 
 
 That fire can burn when all the matter's spent ; 
 
 Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, 
 That, if thou wert unkind, thou mayst repent. 
 
 Yes, mayst repent that thou didst scorn my tears. 
 
 When winter-snows are on those raven hairs. 
 
148 THE POET. 
 
 A MAY-DAY MEDITATION. 
 
 Alas ! for all 
 We so much doat on, and wherein v.'e trust, 
 Are melting shadows, flowers that fade and fall. 
 Landscapes on water, records trac'd in dust. 
 
 Delauny (16T0) 
 
 Sweet Day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
 
 The dews shall weep thy fall to-night, 
 
 For thou must die ! 
 
 Sweet Rose ? whose hue so bright and bravt 
 
 Bids the rash gazer veil his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in the grave. 
 And thou must die ! 
 
 Sweet Spring ! full of bright days and roses. 
 
 Where thousand sweets compacted lie, 
 Thy music shows thou hast thy closes. 
 And all must die ! 
 
 Virtue alone in lustre burns, 
 
 Nor any sullying shade receives. 
 Bat when the world to ashes turns 
 Then chiefly lives! 
 
MAY-DAY NIGHT. 149 
 
 KEVELS OF THE MAY-DAY NIGHT. 
 
 See the moon is riding high, 
 Now's the hour for revehy, 
 
 'Tis no time to slumber ; 
 Such the joys this night doth bring, 
 
 So sweet, and without number ! 
 
 Sir John Davu 
 
 The star, that bids the shepherd fold, 
 
 Now the top of heaven doth hold ; 
 
 And the gilded car of day 
 
 His glowing axle doth allay 
 
 In the steep Atlantic stream ; 
 
 And the slope sun his upward beam 
 
 Shoots against the dusky pole, 
 
 Pacing towards the other goal 
 
 Of his chamber in the east. 
 
 Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast, 
 
 Midnight shout, and revelry. 
 
 Tipsy dance, and jollity ! 
 
 Braid your locks with rosy twine, 
 
 Dropping odours, dropping wine. 
 
 Rigour now is gone to bed. 
 
 And Advice with scrupulous head: 
 
 Strict Age and sour Severity, 
 
 With their grave saws in slumber lie. 
 
150 THE POET, 
 
 We, that are of purer fire, 
 
 Imitate the starry quire, 
 
 Who, in their nightly watchful spheres. 
 
 Lead in swift round the months and years. 
 
 The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 
 
 Now to the moon in wavering morrice move : 
 
 i'^nd, on the tawny sands and shelves. 
 
 Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves; 
 
 By dimpled brook and fountain brim. 
 
 The wood-nymphs, deck'd with daisies trim, 
 
 Their merry wakes and pastimes keep : 
 
 What hath such night to do with sleep? 
 
 Come, let us our rites begin ; 
 
 'Tis only day-light that makes sin, 
 
 Which these dun shades will ne'er report. — 
 
 Hail ! goddess of nocturnal sport, 
 
 Dark-veil'd Cotytto! oh befriend 
 
 Us thy fond votaries, till utmost end 
 
 Of all thy dues be done, and none left out ; 
 
 Ere the babbling eastern scout, 
 
 The nice morn, on the Indian steep. 
 
 From her cabin'd loop-hole peep. 
 
 And to the tell-tale sun descry 
 
 This our blythe solemnity. 
 
 Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 
 
 In a liffht fantastic round ! 
 
CHAPTER ELEVENTH 
 
The treasures of the deep are not so precious, 
 As are the hidden blisses of the heart 
 Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I but approach the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth, 
 The violet-bed not sweeter! Honest wedlock 
 Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, 
 On which the spring's bright flowrets take delight 
 To shed the largest dowry of their sweets. 
 
 MiDDLETON. 
 
CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 
 
 THE POET IN THE MARRIED STATE. 
 
 Amidst those vernal delights the hours stole away unheeded. 
 Yet were these pleasures not unalloyed. A painful 
 sensation would steal into the very bosom of enjoyment, 
 and a secret voice seemed to whisper to the lovers, — ■ 
 shall your happiness be short-lived as the season, and 
 
 In some brief fleeting hours decay 
 As do the blooming buds of May? 
 
 Shall they not endeavor to arrest it in its flight, and render 
 the blessing permanent ? There can be little difficulty 
 in anticipating the answer to these queries. We hear 
 of certain significant reflexions from the Poet, " On 
 beauty's decay ;" and at last we have the Poet's " Self- 
 congratulation on the triumph of his love." — To drop 
 tlie language of figure and give it in honest household 
 terms, they have resolved in good earnest upon ' settling 
 down in life.' They are married, and their friend com- 
 poses their " Epithalamium," and a Song, full of kind- 
 hearted wishes, "To be sung at the wedding." We shall 
 peruse with pleasure the Poet's reflexions on " The 
 nuptial tie," nor shall we listen without interest to 
 •' Julia's vow for retirement," and "The Poet's reply." 
 
154 THE POET. 
 
 BEAUTY'S DECAY. 
 
 Time makes great states decay, 
 
 Time doth May's pomp efface, 
 
 Time draws deep furrows on the fairest face, 
 Time wisdom, force, renown, doth take away : 
 
 Time doth consume the years. 
 
 And works a change in heaven's eternal spheres. 
 Yet this fierce tyrant, that doth all devour. 
 To lessen love in me shall have no power ! 
 
 Drummond of Hawthornden. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain his fire ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flame must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 Order'd thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Heart with equal love combin'd, 
 Kindle never-dying fires. 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes! 
 
THE TRIUMPH. 155 
 
 THE POET'S SELF-CONGRATULATION ON 
 THE TRIUMPH OF HIS LOVE. 
 
 O ! such a day, so fought, so fairly won, 
 
 Came not till now. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The famous warriors of the days of old, 
 Used trophies to erect in stately wise, 
 
 In which they would the records have enroll'd 
 Of their great deeds and valorous emprise. 
 
 What trophy, then, shall I most fit device. 
 In which I may record the memory 
 
 Of my love's conquest, peerless beauty's prize, 
 Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity 1 — 
 
 Even this verse, vow'd to eternity, 
 Shall be thereof immortal monument. 
 
 To tell the praise to all posterity, 
 
 That may adorn such work of wonderment : 
 
 This happy guerdon of my glorious spoil 
 
 Gathering at last, with labour and long toil. 
 
156 THE POET. 
 
 E P I T H A L A IM I U M . 
 
 'Twas once my thought, and still I fondly think, 
 Had all the characters of love been lost, 
 His lines, dimensions, and whole signature, 
 Raz'd and defac'd in dull humanity. 
 That both his nature and his essence might 
 Have found their happy instauration here ; 
 Here, where the confluence of good and fair 
 Meets to make up all beauty. 
 
 Ben Jonson 
 
 Hail to ye, happy pair ! each trial past, 
 
 Full joy is come to crown your hours at last. 
 
 Now have ye reach'd the fulness of your hope, 
 
 And come at length unto the utmost scope 
 
 Of all your wishes; here delight is sure, 
 
 And to the term of bsing shall endure. 
 
 Now will you think pass'd woes but penance small, 
 
 And all your anxious pains no pains at all. 
 
 Upon your hours, and days, and months, and years, 
 
 Drop the fat blessings of the teeming spheres, 
 
 Softly descending like the genial dew. 
 
 By day and night, both upon yours and you. 
 
 Live in the love of doves, and having told 
 
 The raven's years, go hence more ripe than old I 
 
SONG. 157 
 
 SONG 
 
 TO BE SUNG AT THE WEDDING. 
 
 Yea, earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, 
 
 Thau that, which withering on the virgin thorn, 
 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Comforts lasting, loves encreasing, 
 Like the flowing hours unceasing ; 
 Peace and plenty, joy and pleasure. 
 Without mixture, without measure ; 
 
 Hearts by holy ties united, 
 Not by custom coldly plighted; 
 Fruitful issue, life so grac'd, 
 Not by age to be effac'd. 
 
 Budding as the year ensueth, 
 Every spring another youth, 
 Each return of this bless'd day, 
 Soft as the approach of May. 
 
 All that warmest wish can send you, 
 All the favoring fates can lend you, 
 All tliat thought can add, betide 
 On this bridegroom and this bride ! 
 
158 THE POET. 
 
 THE NUPTIAL TIE. 
 
 Content to bind 
 
 In one self-sacred knot each other's mind. 
 
 Marlow. 
 
 And as the snail, wherever he doth roam, 
 Carries his house, and ever is at home, 
 So he we our own house, and safely dwell 
 Within ourselves. 
 
 Donne. 
 
 The doubt we cherish, O how light and vain, 
 
 That fondly fears the loss of liberty ! 
 For, losing one, two liberties we gain. 
 
 And make him bound that bondage erst did fly. 
 
 Sweet are the bonds the which true love doth tie. 
 Without constraint, or dread of any ill ! 
 
 The gentle bird feels no captivity 
 
 Within her cage, but sings, and feeds her fill. 
 
 There pride dares not approach, nor discord spill 
 The league 'twixt them, whom loyal love has bound. 
 
 But simple truth and mutual goodwill 
 
 Seek with sweet peace to salve each angry wound. 
 
 There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, 
 
 And spotless Pleasures build their sacred bower. 
 
Julia's vow. 159 
 
 JULIA'S VOW FOR RETIREMENT. 
 
 I'd rather like the violet grow, 
 
 Unraark'tl within the shady vale, 
 Than, on the hill, those terrors know 
 
 Whicli breathe forth from tlie angry gale : — 
 There is more pomp above, more sweet below. 
 
 Habington. 
 
 Grant me, O indulgent Fate ! 
 
 Grant me yet, before I die, 
 
 A sweet, but absolute retreat, 
 
 'Mid paths so lost, and trees so high, 
 That my unbroken liberty 
 Never may the world invade 
 Through such windings, and such shade ! 
 
 Here let there reign a soft twilight; 
 A something betwixt day and night 
 Amid these thick-grown shades be found; 
 
 While here and there a piercing beam 
 Scatters faint sun -light on the ground. 
 Spangling with diamond points the gloom around 
 
 A holy, pleasing, melancholy gleam ! 
 
160 THE POET. 
 
 For Contemplation fit retreat, 
 And for her sister Quiet meet ; 
 Nor ever may the world invade 
 Through such windings, and such shade ! 
 
 Let no intruders hither come, 
 Who visit but to be from home ; 
 None who their vain moments pass. 
 Only studious of their glass : 
 News, that charm to idle ears. 
 False alarm to hopes and fears; 
 Common theme for every fop, 
 From the statesman to the shop. 
 In these coverts ne'er be spread, 
 Where the heart to peace is wed. 
 
 Never may the vi^orld invade 
 
 Through such windings, and such shade ! 
 
 Courteous Fate! afford me there 
 A table spread, without my care, 
 With what my garden can impart; 
 Whose cleanliness be all its art. 
 When of old the kid was dress'd 
 (Though to make an angel's feast). 
 In the plain unstudi'd sauce 
 Nor truffle nor morillia was. 
 Nor could the mighty patriarch's board 
 One far-fetch'd ortolan afford. 
 Courteous Fate ! nay, give me there 
 Only plain and wholesome fare; 
 
JULIA.'S VOW. 161 
 
 Fruits may kindly heaven bestow, 
 
 All that did in Eden grow, 
 
 All — but the forbidden tree — 
 
 Would be coveted by me; 
 
 Grapes with juice so crowded up. 
 
 As breaking through the native cup: 
 
 Figs, yet growing, candied o'er 
 
 By the sun, a tempting store; 
 
 Cherries, with the downy peach, 
 
 All within my easy reach ; 
 
 While, creeping near the humble ground, 
 
 Should the strawberry be found, 
 Springing whereso'er I stray'd 
 Through those windings, and that shade ! 
 
 One thing more ! — since heaven has shown 
 'Twas not good to be alone — 
 Powers benignant have assign'd 
 A partner suited to my mind, 
 Solitary, pleas'd, and kind ; 
 Who, partially, can something see 
 Preferred to all the world in me; 
 Slighting, by my noiseless side, 
 Fame and splendour, wealth and pride. 
 When but two the earth possessed, 
 Those were happiest days and besst; 
 Nor by business, nor by wars, 
 Nor by aught that quiet mars. 
 From each other were they drawn 
 But in grove or flowery lawn. 
 Spent the swiftly-flying time, 
 11 
 
Iti2 THE POET. 
 
 Spent their own, and Nature's prime, 
 In love — tliat only passion given 
 To smooth the rug-ged path to heaven. 
 Such the good, by fate's decree, 
 I have found, belov'd, in thee ! 
 When comes, at length, the closing hour. 
 Here may it find us in this bower. 
 Without one anxious fear or sigh, 
 Pleas'd to live on — prepar'd to die. 
 And be the debt of nature paid 
 Amid these windings, and this shade ! 
 
THa REPLF. 163 
 
 THE POET'S REPLY. 
 
 Each wish of thine, the moment known, 
 By sympathy becomes my own. 
 
 Wither. 
 
 Well, then ; I now do plainly see 
 The busy world and we shall ne'er agree ; 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 
 Does of all sweets the soonest cloy : 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve our pity, 
 Who for it can endure the stings, 
 The crowd, the buzz, and murmurings, 
 
 Of that great hive, the city. 
 
 Yes, ere we yet descend to the grave, 
 May we a small house and large garden have; 
 And a few friends, and many books, both true. 
 
 Wise, witty, and delightful too! 
 
 Then love can never from me flee, 
 While you, my kind and gentle fair, 
 As good as guardian angels are. 
 
 Only belov'd, and loving me ! 
 
 Ye fountains ! when shall we espy 
 Our faces in your limpid purity? 
 Oh fields ! oh woods ! when, when shall we be made 
 
 The happy tenants of your shade 1 
 
164 THE POET. 
 
 Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood, 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 
 Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; 
 Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, 
 
 And nought but Echo flatter. 
 The gods, when they descended, hither 
 From heaven did always choose their way; 
 And therefore we may boldly say, 
 
 That 'tis the way too thither. 
 
 How happy thou and 1 
 Should here live placid, and embracing die ! 
 Thou, who art all my world, and causfc exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude.' 
 1 should have then this only fear, — 
 Lest men, when they our pleasures see, 
 Should hither throng to live as we, 
 
 And make a city here. 
 
CHAPTER TWELFTH. 
 
How blind 
 Your lovers are ! What eagles are we still 
 In matters that belong to other men, 
 What beetles in our own ! 
 
 Chapman. 
 
 I much do wonder that one man, seeing how much an- 
 other man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviour to love, 
 will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, 
 become the argument of his own scorn, by falling in love. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Every night he comes 
 With music of all sorts, and songs eompos'd 
 On his unworthiness. Tt nothing steads us 
 To chide him from our eaves ; for he persists, 
 As if his life lay on't. 
 
 Idem. 
 
CHAPTER TWELFTH. 
 
 THE POETS FRIEND IN LOVE. 
 
 Example, as all the world knows, is contagious. Witness- 
 ing the pure domestic bliss that brightens the fireside of 
 the Poet and his Julia, their friend, the inveterate 
 declaimer against the sex, the redoubted champion of 
 celibacy, is seen to relax from his severity, and is fairly 
 caught at last. How frequently does it happen, thatyour 
 loudest railers against the caprice and inconstancy of 
 womankind, are the first to run into the snare. It is so 
 in the instance before us; the Poet's friend falls a captive 
 to one of the most volatile of her sex, and in the delirium 
 of the moment, he is determined to humour her follies. 
 x\larmed for the fate of his friend, the Poet alteu)pts his 
 rescue ; but there are indications that his efforts come loo 
 late. Captivated by the novelty of his situation, the 
 credulous lover fancies that the charm is to last for ever. 
 But, ere many moons have waned, we hear certain 
 gloomy forebodings of '' The ills of love." Before long, 
 we have a fretful " Expostulation with Coelia," followed 
 by a piquant retort from that lady, who is evidently more 
 than a match for her luckless swain. At length matters 
 come to such a pass, that the lover's good natine and his 
 gallantry at once forsake him ; he upbraids his mistress 
 outright, accuses her as a "Coquet," and talks of defects 
 which to the eye of partiality had been before invisible. 
 Tilings approach a crisis : the lover comes to a '' Resolu- 
 tion" of brea'ing with his mistress forever. The effort 
 is, however, no easy one, as we gather from his bitter 
 reflections on the misery of ''Self-deception." The disap- 
 pointed lover receives a seasonable " Congratulation" 
 from the Poet on his fortunate escape. 
 
168 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S FRIEND TO CGELIA THE 
 VOLATILE. 
 
 Here, Coelia, for thy sake I part 
 With all that grew so near my heart — 
 The passion that I had for thee, 
 The faith, the love, the constancy ; 
 And that I may successful prove. 
 Transform myself to what you love. 
 
 Fool that I was, so much to prize 
 Those simple virtues you despise ! 
 Fool ! that with such dull arrows strove, 
 Or hop'd to reach a flying dove ; 
 For you, in endless motion still. 
 Elude our force, and mock our skilh 
 
 Now will I rove through fields of air, 
 Mount, make a stoop at all that's fair. 
 And with a fancy unconfin'd. 
 As lawless as the sea or wind. 
 Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly. 
 And with your wildest thoughts comply. 
 
 At all thy freaks I'll not complain ; 
 
 Again elude me and again : 
 
 For still to be deluded so 
 
 Is all the pleasure lovers know. 
 
 Who, like good falconers, take delight 
 
 Not in the quarry, but the flight. 
 
THE HAFPY ILLDSION. 169 
 
 THE HAPPY ILLUSION. 
 
 Nay, my Coelia, do but say 
 
 Love lliou dost, though Love say, ' Nay !' 
 
 S[)eak me fair ; for lovers be 
 
 Gently kill'd by flattery. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 Tell me no more that I'm deceiv'd! 
 
 While Coelia seems so kind, 
 And is so fain to be believ'd, 
 
 The cheat I fear to find. 
 
 To flatter me, should falsehood lie 
 
 Conceal'd in her soft youth, 
 A thousand times I'd rather die, 
 
 Than know the bitter truth. 
 
 She makes me think I have her heart, 
 
 How much for that is due ! 
 Though she but act the tender part, 
 
 The joy she gives is true. 
 
170 THE POET. 
 
 ON THE ILLS OF LOVE. 
 
 Such is the fruit from love ensu'th, 
 How small the gain, how vast the ruth ! 
 
 Sir T. Wyatt. 
 
 The sea hath many thousand sands, 
 The sun hath motes as many, 
 
 The sky is full of stars, and love 
 As full of woes as any. 
 
 Trust me, who know too well the elf, 
 
 And make no trial by thyself. 
 
 It is a pretty toy, forsooth. 
 
 For boys to play withal ; 
 But oh ! the honey of our youth 
 
 Oft proves our age's gal!. 
 Self-proof in time will make thee know 
 He was a prophet told thee so. 
 
 A prophet, that, Cassandra-like, 
 
 Tells truths beyond belief; 
 For headlong youth will run his race, 
 
 Although the goal be grief 
 Love's martyr, when his fires are past, 
 Proves care's confessor at the last. 
 
TO CCELIA. 171 
 
 EXPOSTULATION TO CGELIA. 
 
 When my love swears that she is made of truth, 
 I do believe it, though I know it lies. 
 
 S;iAKSPEA'RE. 
 
 You cannot love, my pretty heart! — and why? 
 
 There was a time you told me that you would ; 
 But now agam you will the same deny: 
 
 If it might please you, would to heaven you could ! 
 
 What! will you hate? — nay, that you will not neither. 
 
 Nor love, nor hatel — how then ? — what will you do ] 
 Say, will you keep a mean, then, betwixt either? 
 
 Or will you love me, and yet hate me, too? 
 
 Yet serves not this. — What next? what other shift? 
 
 You will, and will not — what a coil is here ? 
 Now do I see your craft, perceive your drift. 
 
 And all this while I was mistaken there : 
 Your love and hate is this, I now do prove you, 
 You love in hate, by hate to make me love you. 
 
172 THE POET. 
 
 FROM CGELIA, IN REPLY. 
 
 LOVE AND TIME. 
 
 Let's take the instant by the forward top. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 All my past life is mine no more, 
 
 The flying hours are gone; 
 Like flitting dreams long past and o'er, 
 Whose images are kept in store 
 
 By memory alone. 
 
 The time that is to come, is not, 
 
 How can it, then, be mine? 
 The present moment's all my lot, 
 And that as fast as it is got. 
 
 Dear friend, is only thine. 
 
 Then, talk not of inconstancy, 
 False hearts', and broken vows : 
 
 If I, by miracle, can be 
 
 This live-long minute true to thee, 
 'Tis all that heaven allows. 
 
THE poet's friend TO CCELIA. 173 
 
 THE COQUET. 
 
 I DO confess thou art smooth and fair, 
 
 And I mi^ht have g-one near to love thee, 
 
 Had 1 not found the slightest prayer 
 
 That lips could seal, liad power to move thee. 
 
 I do admire thee, and yet shun 
 
 As worthy to be lov'd by none. 
 
 I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find 
 Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 
 
 Thy favours are but like the wind 
 That kisseth every thing it meets. 
 
 Then, since thou canst love more than one, 
 
 Thou'rt worthy to be loved by none. 
 
 The morning rose that untouch'd stands, 
 By thorns protected, sweetly smells; 
 
 But pluck'd and rifled by rude hands 
 Her scent no longer with her dwells ; 
 
 Her leaves fall from her one by one, 
 
 And scent and beauty, all are gone ! 
 
 Such fate ere long will thee betide, 
 When thou'st been handl'd for a while, 
 
 Like sere flowers to be thrown aside; 
 And I shall sigh, while some will smile, 
 
 To see that love to every one 
 
 ilath brought thee to be lov'd by none. 
 
174 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S FRIEND TO CGELIA. 
 
 Love is a joy which upon pain depends; 
 
 A drop of sweet drown'd in a sea of sours ; 
 What folly has begun, oft folly ends : 
 
 They hate for ever who have lov'd for hours. 
 Earl of Sterline. 
 
 Then, when I lov'd thee, thou wert fair ; 
 
 Thou art no longer so : 
 For all their pride thy beauties rare 
 Do to opinion owe. 
 Thou, like the moon, in borrow'd light dost shine ; 
 For, 'twas my love that gave thy beauty thine. 
 
 The magic brightness of thine eye 
 
 Doth with my own expire; 
 Thy fairest graces fade and die, 
 At once with my desire. 
 Love's fires a mutual influence return, 
 And thine are dead, since mine have ceas'd to burn. 
 
 Then, haughty Ccelia, hope no more 
 
 To be implor'd or woo'd ; 
 This scorn of thine does but restore 
 The wealth my love bestow'd. 
 Thy proud disdain too late this truth shall find, — 
 That none are fair but those whose hearts are kind. 
 
TO THE FOET FROM THE SAME. 175 
 
 RESOLUTION. 
 
 To love unlov'd how great the pain ! 
 For she, my heart's proud sovereign, 
 
 Some foolish head so high hath set her. 
 That I can get no love again, 
 
 But break my heart, and nought the better ! 
 
 How blythe with her, the livelong day, 
 To dance and sing, to sport and play. 
 
 And oftimes in these arms to fetter: 
 But now I mourn both night and day. 
 
 And break my heart, and nought the better! 
 
 Once I was wont to see her go 
 Right trimly passing to and fro. 
 
 With comely smiles whene'er I met her: 
 But now I live in pain and wo. 
 
 And break my heart, and nought the better! 
 
 But, what a very fool am I 
 Thus for a fickle minx to die, 
 
 Since well I know 1 may not get her: 
 And what should be the cause, and why. 
 
 To break my heart, and nought the better ! 
 
 Fond heart, the good old proverb shows 
 This truth : — ' As good love comes, as goes :' 
 
 Then chuse some other and forget her : 
 That fool, forsooth, deserves his woes. 
 
 Who breaks his heart, and nought the better 
 
176 THE rOET. 
 
 FROM HIS FRIEND. 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 'Tis fancj' that creates delight ; 
 
 As we conceive things, they are such: 
 The glow-worm is as warm as bright, 
 
 Till the illusive flame we touch. 
 
 Habingto.v. 
 
 How are our fancies working- still, 
 
 Yet changing every minute ; 
 To rule them far exceeds our skill, 
 
 Such difficulty's in it! 
 We fain would have we know not what, 
 
 And when our will is granted, 
 How waywardly we find in that 
 
 Something unthought-of wanted. 
 
 Our hopes and joys such shadows are 
 
 As with each motion vary. 
 Which, when we've fetch'd them from aibi 
 
 With us will never tarry. 
 Some worldly cross doth still attend 
 
 What long we have been spinning, 
 And ere we fully reach the end. 
 
 We miss of the beginning. 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 177 
 
 Our policies so peevish are, 
 
 That with themselves they wrangle ; 
 And many times become a snare 
 
 The sooner to entangle. 
 Nay, e'en the love we bear our friends, 
 
 Though ne'er so strongly grounded, 
 Hath in it certain oblique ends, 
 
 If to the bottom sounded. 
 
 Our own well-wishing maketh it 
 
 A pardonable treason, 
 For that it is deriv'd from wit; 
 
 And underpropp'd by reason. 
 For our dear selves' belov'd sake. 
 
 E'en in the depth of passion, 
 Our centre though ourselves we make. 
 
 Yet is not that our station. 
 
 For while our brows ambitious be, 
 
 And youth at hand awaits us, 
 It is a pretty thing to see 
 
 How finely beauty cheats us ! 
 And while with Time we trifling stand. 
 
 To practise antique graces. 
 Age with his pale and wither'd hand 
 
 Draws furrows on our faces. 
 
 12 
 
178 THE POET. 
 
 THE CONGRATULATION. 
 
 Why dost thou make such bitter wail, 
 And waste in sighs thy youthful days, 
 
 Is it that she did flout, and rail. 
 
 And give such proof of woman's ways ? 
 
 Rather rejoice that she hath shown 
 
 Her arts, ere greater griefs were known. 
 
 Why, thank her then, and cease to moan, 
 For thou hast 'scap'd more deadly smart; 
 
 Nay, bless the day that has made known 
 How small the hold on woman's heart. 
 
 Soft words will charm, and take such root 
 
 That the fond heart expects fair fruit. 
 
 But ere the blossom forth doth rise 
 To shed a sweetness on the sense, 
 
 Comes cold disdain, and cankerwise 
 Its blighting mildew doth dispense : 
 
 There is no hope for all your toil. 
 
 There is no fruit from such a soil ! 
 
 Give o'er thy plaint, the danger o'er ; 
 
 She might have poison'd all thy life : 
 Such v/ayward mind had bred thee store 
 
 Of sorrow, had she prov'd thy wife. 
 Then for thy fortune thankful be. 
 And bless thy stars that thou art free! 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH 
 
Believe me, love is nature's second sun, 
 Causing a spring of virtues where he shines ; 
 And, as without the sun, the world's great eye, 
 All traits and beauties, both of art and nature, 
 Are given in vain to man ; so, without love. 
 All beauties born in woman are in vain, 
 All virtues born in man lie buried quite. 
 'Tis love informs them, as the sun does colours: 
 And as the sun, reflecting his warm beams 
 Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers. 
 So love, fair shining in the inward man, 
 Brings forth in hira the honorable fruits 
 Of valour, virtue, and all noble thoughts. 
 Brave rssolution, and divine discourse. 
 
 Chapma]!< 
 
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 
 
 While the Poet's friend is thus painfully struggling to 
 extricate himself from the toils in which he is entangled, 
 it is a relief to turn to the contrast presented by the scene 
 of domestic bliss around the hearthstone of the happy 
 pair. We read with no common interest the address to 
 them from their friend " On the birth of their first boy ;" 
 as well as the Poet's effusion "On the anniversary of his 
 marriage." We listen with delight to the outpourings of a 
 fond father's heart " On the birth-day of his boy;" and to 
 the address from his friend "On his little daughter Julia." 
 We learn that music forms one of the choicest enjoy- 
 ments of this happy circle ; and are presented with 
 numerous traits of solicitude and afteciion that compose 
 a family-picture of touching interest. We have poetic 
 moralizing on " The flight of time ;" on " The love that 
 dieth not ;" and a touching inquiry " Whether love shall 
 survive the tomb?" In conclusion, we learn, and not 
 without pain, that their frfend, soured by disappoint- 
 ment, has bade " Farewell to love and poetry." In the 
 bitterness of the moment, he has been led to throw out 
 some insinuations against the Poet's favourite pursuit, 
 which he cannot allow to pass unnoticed ; and we are 
 gratified by a warm "Vindication" of his favourite art. 
 
182 THE POET. 
 
 TO THE POET FROM HIS FRIEND ON THE 
 BIRTH OF HIS FIRST BOY. 
 
 Lo! how kind heaven doth to you present 
 This little babe, of sweet and lovely face, 
 And spotless spirit, in which to enchase 
 
 Whatever forms thereto ye list apply, 
 Being now soft and fit them to embrace : 
 
 Whether ye list him train to chivalry, 
 
 Or nurse him up in lore of learn'd philosophy. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Joy to my friend! the love which I 
 Thought in the marriage bond might die, 
 Is fully here restor'd to view, 
 A copy how exact and true ! 
 I feel what pleasure you must take 
 To hear the nurse discovery make, 
 That chubby cheek, and lip, and eye, 
 And forehead full of majesty, 
 Show all the father, and to this 
 The mother's beauty added is. 
 Oh, should the pretty poppet weep, 
 I'll strive to lull him into sleep. 
 Seeking every softest number 
 To woo his sorrow into slumber ! 
 And soon the merry wag shall grow, 
 And each day new attractions show; 
 Soon shall his growing powers have force 
 To wield the rattle, draw the horse ; 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 183 
 
 And soon his venturing tongue shall speak 
 
 In babbling syllables, and break 
 
 His word short off, and make it two, 
 
 Lisping as little prattlers do. 
 
 <) how it ravishes the sense 
 
 To view these sports of innocence ! 
 
 It makes the wisest doat upon 
 
 Such pretty imperfection. 
 
 Accept the honest prayer that I 
 Thus breathe for him right fervently ; 
 I wish all goodness timely be 
 Instill'd, and with his A. B. C. ; 
 J wish him all the bliss of health, 
 His father's learning, — perhaps more wealth, 
 And that to use, not hoard ; a purse 
 Open to bless, not shut to curse. 
 May he have many and fast friends, 
 Meaning good will, not private ends. 
 May his light sash and whistle be 
 The hardest of his loads ; may he 
 Have no sad cares to break his sleep, 
 Nor other cause, than now, to weep. 
 May he not live to be again 
 What he is now — a child; may pain. 
 If it must visit, as a guest 
 But just drop in, not dare to rest. 
 
184 THE POET. 
 
 LOVE'S ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Time, the firm anchor-hold of my desire. 
 
 Daniej 
 
 Fair sun, again thou bringest the blest hour, 
 In which I first by marriage, sacred power, 
 Join'd with my Julia hearts ; — and as the same 
 Thy lustre is as then, so is my flame : 
 
 Which had increas'd, but that, by love's decree. 
 As 'twas at first, it could no greater be. 
 But tell me, glorious orb, in thy survey 
 Of things below thee, what doth not decay 
 
 By age to weakness ? I, since that, have seen 
 The rose bud forth and fade ; tlie tree grow green 
 And wither, and the beauty of the field 
 With winter wrinkl'd. E'en thyself dost yield 
 Something to time, and to thy grave draw nigher : 
 But virtuous love is one bright endless fire ! 
 
TO HIS BOY. 185 
 
 THE POET TO HIS BOY ON HIS BIRTH-DAY 
 
 ..... It is a gallant child ; 
 One that makes old hearts fresh, and still desire 
 A term of life to see him grow a man. 
 
 ShakspeaRe. 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell, 
 
 But all shall say I wish thee well. 
 
 I wish thee, Boy, before all wealth, 
 
 Both bodily and ghostly health. 
 
 Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee, — 
 
 Too much of either may undo thee. 
 
 I wish thee learning, not for show, 
 
 Enough for to instruct and know ; 
 
 Not such as gentlemen require 
 
 To prate at board, or round the fire. 
 
 I wish thee all thy mother's graces 
 
 And more than all thy father's places; 
 
 I wish thee friends, perhaps one at court, 
 
 Not to build on, but for support, 
 
 To keep thee, not in doing many 
 
 Oppressions, but from suffering any. 
 
 I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 
 
 Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 
 
 And when thy soul and body part, 
 
 As innocent as now thou art. 
 
18t) THE POET* 
 
 FROM THE POET'S FRIEND, TO HIS LITTLE 
 DAUGHTER JULIA. 
 
 The benediction of yon smiling heavens 
 Fall on her head like dew ! O, may she live 
 Longer than I have time to tell her years, 
 Ever belov'd and loving ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Little Julia, take a verse 
 Shall thy future fates rehearse : 
 What you'll be in time, we know 
 By the stock on which you grow ; 
 
 As by roses we may see 
 What in time the buds will be; 
 So ill flowers, and so in trees, 
 So in every thmg- that is ; 
 
 Like its like does still produce, 
 As is nature's constant use; 
 Thus the good, and thus the fair, 
 Kindly propagated are. 
 
 Grow then, sweet, till you discover 
 All the beauties of your mother : 
 Naught but fair and sweet can be 
 From so sweet and fair a tree. 
 
ON THE POWER OF MUSIC. 187 
 
 THE POET ON THE POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 The mellow touch of music doth most wound 
 The soul, when it doth rather sigh than sound. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 When whispering accents softly steal 
 
 Willi creeping passion through the heart, 
 And when, at every touch, we feel 
 Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 
 When these can make 
 The heart-strings quake, 
 Philosophy 
 Can scarce deny 
 The soul to be made up of harmony. 
 
 O lull me, lull me, charming air ! 
 
 My senses rock with wonder sweet ; 
 Like snow on wool thy fallings are, 
 Soft as a spirit's are thy feet. 
 Grief who need fear 
 That hath an ear, 
 Down let him lie, 
 And slumbering die, 
 And change his soul for harmony ! 
 
188 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET TO JULIA. 
 
 In vain we piece our journey out, or crave 
 Respite of breath, — our home is in the grave! 
 
 Ford. 
 
 Time is a fealher'd thing: 
 
 E'en while I praise 
 The sparkling of thine eyes, the rays 
 
 Are shadow'd by his wing. 
 He throws behind him, as he flies, 
 A dimness o'er the brightest eyes. 
 
 His minutes while they're told 
 
 Do make the tellers old, 
 And every sand of his fleet glass 
 Adding to age as it doth pass, 
 Insensibly sows wrinkles there. 
 Where rose and lily flourish'd fair. 
 
 E'en as we speak, life's fire 
 
 Doth gradually expire ; 
 And ere the doubting sense can know 
 Whence on our head descends the snow, 
 Chill on the life-blood falls the frost, 
 And all our spring is in dull winter lost. 
 
ON THE LOVE THAT DIETH NOT. 1S9 
 
 THE POET DESCANTS ON THE LOVE 
 THAT DIETH NOT. 
 
 Taivc is a heaven-born flame tliat cannot die, 
 A part and parcel of the purest sky. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 How ill doth he deserve a lover's name, 
 Whose pale and feeble flame 
 Has not the virtue to retain 
 
 Its warmth in spite of absence, or disdain ! 
 
 The noble flame my bosorn keeps alive, 
 
 Shall death itself survive ; 
 And in the very ashes of my urn, 
 Shall, like a hallow'd lamp, for ever burn. 
 
190 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S MUSINGS ON THE COMING 
 ON OF YEARS. 
 
 Antl niellow'd by the stealing hours of time. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Look how the flower, which ling'ringly doth fade, 
 The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, 
 Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
 
 As high as it did rise, bows low the head ; 
 
 Right so the pleasures of my life being dead 
 
 Or in their contraries but only seen, 
 With swifter speed decline than erst they spread, 
 
 And blasted now, scarce show what they had been. 
 
 Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night 
 
 Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 
 Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day. 
 Thy sun posts westward, pass'd is thy short morn, 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 
SHALL LOVE SURVIVE THE TOMB 1 191 
 
 SHALL LOVE SURVIVE THE TOMB? 
 
 Stern Death cannot their souls divide, 
 
 Who, loving, were in love so strongly tied. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The infant year had wak'd to birth; 
 
 The widow'd mead, that late did mourn, 
 Was strew'd with flowers, for the return 
 
 Of the wish'd bridegroom of the earth. 
 
 The woodland choirs, long- silent, sing 
 Their hymns unto the pleasant time, 
 And, in a sweet consorted chime. 
 
 Bade welcome to the cheerful spring. 
 
 The gentle whisperings of the wind, 
 The warbling murmurs of the brook, 
 And varied voice of leaves that shook, 
 
 A harmony of parts combin'd. 
 
 With love no language can express, 
 Julia and I, a happy pair. 
 Came to enjoy the season fair. 
 
 And with our loves the groves to bless. 
 
 She with a sweet though troubl'd look, 
 Thus first broke silence : " Dearest friend, 
 O that our love might have no end, 
 
 Or never had beginning took ! 
 
192 THE POET. 
 
 I speak not this with a false heart, 
 
 (At which my hand she gently strain'd), 
 Or that would change a love maintain'd 
 
 With so much truth on either part. 
 
 "Nay, I protest, though Death with his 
 Worst counsel should divide us here. 
 His terrors could not make me fear 
 
 To come where your lov'd presence is. 
 
 But if life's flame be with the breath 
 Of life enkindl'd, then I doubt 
 With our last breath 'twill be breath'd out, 
 
 And quench'd by the sad chill of death." — 
 
 '' Shall love, (said I,) which soars beyond 
 
 Each low and dying appetite. 
 
 And which such chaste desires unite, 
 Not hold in an eternal bond? 
 O no, belov'd ! of this be sure — 
 
 Those virtuous habits wc acquire, 
 
 As being with the soul entire, 
 Must with it evermore endure. 
 
 "Else would our souls in vain elect; 
 
 And vainer yet were heaven's laws, 
 
 That to an everlasting cause 
 Should give a perishing effect. 
 Nought here on earth, then, nor above, 
 
 Our firm afi^ection can impair; 
 
 For where God doth admit the fair. 
 Think you that he excludeth love? 
 
SHALL LOVE SURVIVE THE TOMB 1 193 
 
 " These eyes again thine eyes shall see, 
 
 These hands again those hands enfold; 
 
 And eacli chaste bliss that can be told, 
 Shall with us everlasting be. 
 Then let no doubts your bosom touch. 
 
 No faultering fears your mind invade; 
 
 Were not our souls immortal made, 
 Oi.ir equal loves would make them such." 
 
 13 
 
194 THE POET. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO LOVE AND POETRY. 
 
 Love, fare thee well! go trouble simple hearts. 
 
 Sir. T. WvA-rr. 
 
 No more, no more of this ! I vow 
 'Tis time to leave this fooling now ; 
 
 The vain pursuit give o'er: 
 'Twas weakness to have once begun, 
 And now 'tis time I should have done, 
 And meddle with't no more. 
 In youth itself it is a folly, 
 But at my years a madness wholly ! 
 
 The heat of youth, of love, and pride, 
 Swell'd in me like a strong spring-tide, 
 
 And did each thought engage ; 
 And made me trifle with such toys, 
 As are but fit for wanton boys. 
 Unworthy sober age. 
 
 I was persuaded in those days, 
 
 There was no crown like love and bays. 
 
FROM HIS FRIEND. 195 
 
 But now my youth and pride are gone, 
 And age and cares come creeping on, 
 
 To rob the heart of ease ; 
 Why need I take a needless toil. 
 And waste my labour, time, and oil, 
 On nothings such as these'? 
 
 For when the cause is ta'en away. 
 What reason why the eiFect should stay] 
 
 Besides the danger that ensu'th 
 
 To him that speaks or writes the truth. 
 
 The advantage is so small ; 
 To be call'd Poet, and wear bays. 
 And factor turn of songs and plays, 
 Is poor work after all ! 
 
 Wit that's bat good to sport and sing, 
 Is a needless and an endless thing. 
 
 Give me the wit whose sterling sense 
 Can stand a man in his defence. 
 
 Not that learn'd of his grannam ; 
 That ready, useful, worldly wit, 
 That helps a ploddhig man to get 
 His thousand pounds per annum; 
 And purchase, without much ado. 
 The poems and the poet too. 
 
196 THE POET. 
 
 THE POET'S VINDICATION OF HIS ART. 
 
 The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
 Though to herself alone it live and die. 
 
 Shakspeare {Sonnets). 
 
 Seest thou not, in clearest days, 
 
 How thick fogs wil] cloud the rays 
 
 Of the sun with rising steams, 
 
 Seeking to pollute his beams, 
 
 And yet vanish into air, 
 
 Leaving him unblemish'd, fair. 
 
 So it is, sweet Poesy, 
 
 When detraction breathes on thee, 
 
 Though there come the mists of spite 
 
 'Twixt men's judgments and her light, 
 
 Yet so much her power can do. 
 
 That she can dissolve them too. 
 
 Upward bravely doth she tower, 
 
 And as she makes wing she gets power, 
 
 Till she to the height hath past. 
 
 Where she rests with Fame at last. 
 
 Though for her my fortune's cross'd, 
 And though worldly hopes are lost; 
 Yea, though she should make my trouble 
 Ten times more than ten times double, 
 I would love and keep her too. 
 Spite of all the world could do. 
 
VINDICATION OF HIS ART. 197 
 
 Though I may miss many a thing 
 
 That the smiles of fortune bring, 
 
 She doth for my comfort stay, 
 
 And keep many cares away. 
 
 Should I miss the flowery fields, 
 
 With those sweets the spring-tide yields; 
 
 Though I might not see those groves, 
 
 Where the shepherds chaunt their loves. 
 
 And the lasses more excel 
 
 Than the sweet-voic'd Philomel; 
 
 Though of all these pleasures past, 
 
 Nothing should remain at last, 
 
 But remembrance — poor relief! 
 
 That more makes than mendeth grief — 
 
 She, my mind's companion still. 
 
 Spite of envy's evil will, 
 
 She doth tell me whence to borrow 
 
 Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 
 
 Makes the desolatest place 
 
 To her presence be a grace, 
 
 And the darkest discontents 
 
 To be pleasing ornaments. 
 
 In my former days of bliss, 
 Her divine skill taught me this : — 
 That from every thing I saw 
 I could some contentment draw. 
 And raise pleasure to its height 
 Through the meanest object's sight. 
 Through the murmur of a spring, 
 Or the least bough's rustleing ; 
 
198 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 By a daisy, whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or by shady bush or tree, 
 She could more infuse in me, 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man; 
 Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
 I will cherish thee for this. 
 
 Poesy ! thou sweet' st content 
 That heaven hath to mortals lent, 
 Though they as a trifle leave thee. 
 Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee: 
 Though thou be to them a scorn 
 That to nought but earth are born, 
 May my life no longer be 
 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 mad'st fits 
 More than all their greatest wits. 
 And though some, too seeming holy. 
 Do account thy raptures folly. 
 Thou dost teach me to condemn 
 What makes knaves and fools of them. 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
If, after rude and boisterous seas, 
 My wearied pinnace here find ease ; 
 If so it be, I've gain'd the shore 
 With safety of a faithful oar; 
 If having run my bark aground. 
 Ye see the aged vessel crown'd ; 
 What's to be done ? but on the sands 
 To dance and sing, and now clap hands. 
 The first act's doubtful: but we say 
 It is the last commends the play. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 To those who may feel solicitous to follow our Poet, and 
 the partner of his earthly happiness, to the closing scene 
 of existence, it may be interesting to know that this faith- 
 ful pair, as ' they were lovely in their Hves, so in death 
 they were not divided.' We learn that they paid the 
 debt of nature on the same day, and were interred in the 
 same grave. Their common friend, faithful in affection 
 to the last, embalmed their memories in no unworthy 
 Epitaph, the same pen that had performed the grateful 
 task of composing their Epithalamium, having also fulfil- 
 led the mournful duty of tracing their Requiem. 
 
202 THE POET. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 The good, the learn'd, the generous, and the just, 
 Leave something of their glory in their dust. 
 
 Massinger. 
 
 To those, whom Death again did wed, 
 This grave's the second marriage-bed ; 
 For though the hand of Fate could force 
 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, 
 It could not sever man and wife. 
 They having both liv'd but one life. 
 Peace ! gentle Reader, do not weep ; 
 Peace! the two lovers do but sleep: 
 Here the sweet turtles folded lie 
 In the last knot that Love could tie. 
 Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 
 Till this stormy night be gone. 
 And the eternal morning dawn: 
 Then the curtains will be drawn, 
 And they wake into a light 
 Whose day shall never die in night! 
 
THE REQUIEM. 203 
 
 THE REQUIEM. 
 
 Their chapel be a mournful cypress shade, 
 Their requiem Philomela's sweetest lay. 
 And prayers be there continually made 
 By pilgrim lovers, passing by that way. 
 
 Drayton. 
 
 Beauty, Truth, and Rarity, 
 Grace in al] simplicity, 
 Here in silent ashes lie. 
 
 To this urn let all repair. 
 All the true, and all the fair. 
 And for the sleepers sigh a prayer ! 
 
 Sigh for the hapless hour, 
 
 When two hearts knit in one, 
 Have felt the conqueror's power, 
 
 And sleep beneath this stone ! 
 
 Crashaw. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 CHAPTER FIRST. 
 
 THE POET Ilf THE BACHELOR STATE. 
 
 Page 
 
 What is Love ? . Anonymoits (Heber MSS.) . 19 
 
 Love will find out the way . (Percy collection) . 21 
 
 The outside and the in . . . Wither . 23 
 
 Proof against love .... Cokatne . 25 
 
 Fie upon love . Anonymotis (Harleian MSS.) . 26 
 
 Badinage ..... Etheribge . 27 
 
 The choice . . Sir Thomas Overburt . 29 
 
 To the virgins, to make much of time . Herrick . 31 
 
 A bachelor's musings .... Cotto^n- . 33 
 
 The value of a true Friend . . Shakspeare . 36 
 
 Dissuasion from love .... Herrick . 37 
 
 Love's servile lot . . . . Southwell . 38 
 
 CHAPTER SECOND. 
 
 the poet i:x love. 
 
 The recantation ..... Herrick . 42 
 The revolution wrought in the Poet's mind 
 
 Shakspeare . 43 
 
206 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 A picture of his mistress . Sir H. Wottox . 44 
 
 Enthusiasm 76. . 46 
 
 On hope . . Anonymoiis (Harleian MSS.) . 47 
 
 A morning meditation . . Bkjv Joxsox . 48 
 JuHa, in reply to an inquisitive 
 
 friend 76. . 49 
 
 Unpretending love . . Siii Chs. Sedlex . 51 
 
 Silence in love . . . Sir W. Raleigh , 52 
 
 Reserve in love . .Anonymous (Heber MSS.) . 54 
 
 A declaration . . . Sir Cus. Sedlet . 55 
 
 The messenger of love . . . Waller . 56 
 
 CHAPTER THIRD. 
 
 THE DAYS OF WOOIXG. 
 
 No medium in love . . Sidney Godolphin . 60 
 To Julia, who may command him any 
 
 thing ...... Herrick . 61 
 
 A delicate suggestion .... Carew . 63 
 
 The gift Ths. Heywood . 64 
 
 On presenting a bracelet to Julia . Herrick . 65 
 
 A madrigal . Drummoxd of Hawthohxdne . 66 
 
 On visiting Julia's birthplace . . Draytox . 67 
 
 A revival in love . . . . . Dowlaxd . 69 
 
 Stately beauty ..... Spenser . 70 
 
 Hints to be improved . .Sir Jxo. Sucklixg . 71 
 To a pale young beauty 
 
 Lord Herbert of Cherburt . 72 
 
 Jealousy Haxxay . 73 
 
 Resolution ..... Wither . 74 
 
 A palinode ..... Cottox . 76 
 
207 
 
 CHAPTER FOURTH. 
 
 THK DOUBLE INDISCRETION. 
 
 Page 
 
 The aged coquet . . . Cartwri&ht . 80 
 
 Extremes in love . . . Suakspeare . 81 
 
 Reproof of inconstancy, ^wo?i. (LansdowneMSiS.) . 82 
 
 Jealous love . . .lb. (Heber MSS.) . 84 
 
 Consolation . Beaumont and Fletcher . 85 
 
 To the aged coquet . . . Cotton . 86 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTPI. 
 
 THE PARTING. 
 
 The parting King . 90 
 
 Constancy . Wilmot, Earl of Rochester . 91 
 
 The steadfast heart . . . Wither . 92 
 
 The appeal to Julia . Sir Ths. Wtatt . 94 
 
 Madrigal . Drummond of Hawtuornden . 95 
 
 A last parting word to Julia, Dunne and Daniel . 96 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTH. 
 
 THE POET IN SECLUSION. 
 
 The Poet's philosophy . . Congreve . 99 
 
 A remonstrance . . . Davidson . 100 
 
 The broken vow . . SirRob.Atton . 102 
 
 Former follies .... Alex. Scot . 104 
 
 An expostulation . Sir John Suckling . 105 
 
 The virtue of a bumper . . Cowley . 106 
 
 Indiiference . . . Sir Chs. Sedlet . 107 
 
 Apostrophe to Reason, Anon, (Harleian MSS.) , 108 
 
208 INDEX. 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTH. 
 
 EFFECTS OF SOLITUDE OX THE POET. 
 
 Pago 
 
 Winter Brome . 113 
 
 To melancholy . . . Frs. Beaumont . 113 
 Congenial darkness ^/2o?i. (LansJowne MSS.) . 114 
 To his watch when he could not sleep, 
 
 Lord Herbert of Cherburt . 115 
 Invocation to sleep, Drummond OF Hawthornden . 116 
 Aspirations for the day -light . . Quarles . 117 
 The sacrifice, Lucx, Marchioness of WnARTOif . 118 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTH. 
 
 SOME FRUITS OF THE POEt's SOLITUDE. 
 
 The return of spring Shakspeare . 122 
 
 To music, to calm the fever of his mind, Heurick . 123 
 To the blossoms . . . . lb. .124 
 
 To the daffodils . . . . lb. . 1 25 
 
 To the oUve branch . . . lb. .126 
 
 The Poet's dream . . Sir Wm. Dayexant . 127 
 
 CHAPTER NINTH. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 Reconciliation, 
 
 John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham . 132 
 
 Absence , . . . Shakspeare . 133 
 
 Temporary absence .... Herri ck . 134 
 
 A protestation at parting . . . lb. . 135 
 The philosophy of absence, 
 
 George, Earl of Bristol . 136 
 
INDEX. 209 
 
 Page 
 True lovers never part . Owen FEtiTHAM . 137 
 The Poet philosophises on the power of contrast, 
 
 Wither . 138 
 
 CHAPTER TENTH. 
 
 THE MERRT MONTH OF MAY. 
 
 Cotton 
 
 142 
 
 Milton 
 
 143 
 
 . Herrick 
 
 144 
 
 Daniel 
 
 . 146 
 
 lb. 
 
 147 
 
 Geo. Herbert 
 
 148 
 
 Milton 
 
 149 
 
 The truant returned . 
 
 On May morning 
 
 Invitation to JuUa to go a-Maying 
 
 The May-tide of love 
 
 True love a perpetual May 
 
 A May-day meditation 
 
 Revels of the May-day night 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 
 
 THE POET IN THE MARRIED STATE. 
 
 Beauty's decay .... Carew . 154 
 The Poet's self-congratulation on the 
 
 triumph of his love , . . Spenser . 155 
 
 Epithalamium ..... Herrick . 156 
 
 Song, to be sung at the wedding . Ford . 157 
 
 The nuptial tie Spenser . 158 
 
 Julia's vow for retirement, 
 
 Anne, Countess of Winchelsea . 159 
 
 The Poet's reply .... Cowlet . 163 
 
 CHAPTER TWELFTH. 
 
 THE poet's friend IN LOVE. 
 
 The Volatile . . . Frs. Beaumont .168 
 
 The happy illusion . . . Etheridge . 169 
 
 The ills of love . . ^i7io7J. (Lansdowne MSS.) . 170 
 14 
 
yio 
 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 An expostulation 
 
 , 
 
 
 Drayton 
 
 . 171 
 
 Love and Time . 
 
 Wi 
 
 CMOT, Earl of Rochester 
 
 . 172 
 
 The coquet 
 
 
 
 Sir Rob. Ayton 
 
 . 173 
 
 To the same 
 
 
 
 Stanley 
 
 . 174 
 
 Resolution 
 
 
 
 Alex. Scot 
 
 175 
 
 Self-deception . 
 
 
 
 Drayton 
 
 176 
 
 A congratulation 
 
 
 Sir John Harington 
 
 178 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 
 
 THE poet's fireside. 
 
 To the Poet from his Friend on the 
 
 birth of his first boy . . Cartwright . 182 
 Love's anniversary . , . Habington . 184 
 The Poet to his boy, on his birth-day Corbet . 185 
 From his Friend, on his little daughter Julia, 
 
 Flecknoe . 186 
 The power of music .... Strode . 187 
 The flight of Time .... Mayne . 188 
 The love that dieth not . Frs. Beaumont . 189 
 The coming on of years, 
 
 Drummond of Hawthornden . 190 
 Shall love survive the tomb 1 
 
 Herbert, Lord Cherbury . 191 
 A farewell to love and poetry . . Brome . 194 
 The Poet's vindication of his art . Wither . 19tj 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Epitaph Crashaw . 202 
 
 Requiem . . , . . Shakspeare . 203 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 
 
 OF POETS QUOTED. 
 
 Ayton, Sir Robert 
 
 Beaumont, Francis 
 
 p. 1 
 is - J '^- ^ 
 
 born 1567, London, 102, 173. 
 died 1622, Grace-Dieu, Lei'shire. 
 
 581, 
 
 616, 
 buried. 
 
 Beaumont, Sir John 
 
 S b. 1582, 
 
 \ d. 1628, 
 
 fb. 1550, 
 
 Breton, Nicholas - <( d. 1624, 
 L 
 
 Bristol, George Earl of 5 ^" 
 
 Brome, Alexander 
 
 Butler, Samuel 
 
 Carew, Thomas 
 Cartwright, Wm. 
 Chamberlayne, 
 
 Chapman, George 
 
 Cokayne, Sir Aston 
 Congreve, Wm. 
 
 1612, 
 1676, 
 1620, 
 1666, 
 
 fb. "1612, 
 
 - ^ d. 1680, 
 Xjburied, 
 
 C6. 1589, 
 
 " Id. 1639, 
 
 5 b. 1611, 
 
 ■ Id. \ 644, 
 
 ,„ <:b. 1613, 
 
 W m. ^ , icon 
 
 ^ c/, 1689, 
 fb. 1527, 
 I J. 1634, 
 ] buried, 
 
 I 
 
 C6. 1608, 
 Id. 1683, 
 r6. 1672, 
 ^f/. 1727, 
 f buried. 
 
 London. 
 
 Westminister Abbey, 
 85, 113, 168. 
 
 Grace-Dieu, Leicester- 
 shire. 
 
 Tamworth,Stafdshire. 
 
 Norton, Northamp- 
 tonshire, 100. 
 
 ?vladrid. 
 
 London, 136. 
 
 London, 86, 112,193. 
 
 Strensham, Worces- 
 
 shire. 
 London, 33. 
 St. Paul's, Coy. Gard. 
 London, 31, 63, 120, 
 
 154. 
 London. 
 
 Oxford,60,70, 80,182. 
 Shaftsbury. 
 Dorset, 27, 47. 
 
 London. 
 
 St. Giles in the Fields^ 
 
 92, 166, 180. 
 Elverton, Derbyshire. 
 Derby, 25. 
 Cork, Ireland, 99. 
 London, 
 Westminister Abbey. 
 
212 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 
 
 Corbet, Richard 
 Cotton, Charles 
 
 Cowley, Abraham - 
 
 Crashaw, Richard - 
 Crowne, John 
 
 Daniel, Samuel 
 
 Davenant, Sir Wm. - 
 
 Davies, Sir John 
 
 Davidson, Francis - 
 
 Denham, Sir John 
 
 Donne, Dr. John 
 Dowland, Robert 
 Drayton, Michael - -^ 
 
 C6. 1583, 
 td. 1635, 
 Cb. 1630, 
 ^d. 1687, 
 
 fb. 1618, 
 j d. 1667, 
 "^1 buried, 
 
 L 
 
 ^b. 1596, 
 
 Id. 1650, 
 
 5 6. 1646, 
 
 td. 1710, 
 
 fb. 1562, 
 
 1 d. 1619, 
 
 I 
 
 5 6. 1605, 
 !</. 1668, 
 f^>. 1570, 
 ! J. 1626, 
 i biiried, 
 
 L 
 
 C6. 1570, 
 1^/. 1621, 
 fb. 1615, 
 J. 1668, 
 , buried, 
 
 fb. 1573, 
 ' d. 1631, 
 j buried, 
 
 L 
 
 5 6. 1562, 
 
 |f/. 1615, 
 
 fb. 1563, 
 
 f/. 1631, 
 
 buried, 
 
 L 
 
 -^ 
 
 Ewell, Surrey. 
 Norwich, 135. 
 Beresford, Stafford. 
 Westminister, 29, 33, 
 37, 76, 86, 142. 
 
 London. 
 
 Westminister Abbey, 
 
 108, 163. 
 London. 
 
 Loretto,201, 202. 
 Nova Scotia. 
 London. 
 
 Taunton, Somerset. 
 Philip-Norton,46, 72, 
 
 84, 85, 96,114,132, 
 
 146,147, 184. 
 Oxford. 
 
 London, 42, 127. 
 Chisgrove, Wiltshire. 
 London. 
 St.Mart. in the Fields. 
 
 66,67,143,149. 
 
 London, 26, 100. 
 
 Dublin. 
 London. 
 
 Westminster Abbey, 
 106. 
 
 London. 
 
 St. Pauls, 36, 44, .54, 
 64,96,104,135,158. 
 London. 
 Denmark, 69. 
 Hartshill, Leicester're. 
 London. 
 
 Westminster Abbey, 
 67, 171,176, 202. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 
 
 213 
 
 fb. 1583, 
 Drummond, William J d. 1649, 
 of Hawthornden - ] buried, 
 
 Ethridge, George - \ ['^ }^^^' 
 
 Fane, Anne, Countess 
 of Winchelsea, 
 
 Felltham, Owen 
 
 I d. 1688, 
 b. 1670, 
 d. 1726, 
 b. 1620, 
 d. 1675, 
 
 Field, Nathaniel 
 Flecknoe, Richard 
 
 Fletcher, John 
 
 C6. 1620, 
 td. 1673, 
 fb. 1576, 
 ' d. 1625, 
 ] buried. 
 
 Ford, John _ . . _ 
 
 Cb. 1610, 
 Godolphin, Sidney - < J. 1642, 
 
 Habington, Wm. 
 
 Hanney, James 
 Harrington, Sir John 
 
 fb. 1605, 
 ; d. 1647, 
 ] buried, 
 
 L 
 
 c 6. 1596, 
 
 ^ //. 1629, 
 
 b. 1561, 
 
 J. 1612, 
 
 fb. 1581, 
 
 Herbert, Thomas Earl J ^^ jg^g 
 Cherbury - ^ ^;^.^^^^ ' 
 
 Herbert, Geo., brother) ^^ 1636 
 of the above - ) * ' 
 
 Hawthornden. 
 
 Lesswade Church, 48, 
 66,95,116,154,190. 
 Jjondon. 
 Ratisbon, 27, 169. 
 
 London, 159. 
 
 London, 137. 
 
 London, was living in 
 1710. 130. 
 
 London, 186. 
 
 Northampton. 
 
 London. 
 
 St. Mary's Church, 
 
 Southwark, 85. 
 London, was living in 
 
 1630. 120, 157. 
 London. 
 
 at the attack of C lag- 
 ford Devon, 60. 
 
 Henlip, Worcester're. 
 
 In Henlip Church, 
 176, 184. 
 
 London, 73. 
 
 Kelston, near Bath. 
 London, 159. 
 Montgomery Castle, 
 
 Wales. 
 Queen St., London. 
 St. Giles' in the Fields, 
 
 72, 115, 191. 
 Montgomery Castle.! 
 Leighton, Lincoln're, 
 
 56, 130, 136,148. 
 
214 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 
 
 Herrick, Robert 
 
 Heywood, Thomas 
 
 JoNsox, Ben 
 
 King, Henry 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher < .* , 
 
 Massinger, Philip 
 
 Mayne, Dr. Jasper 
 Middleton, Thomas 
 
 MiLTOiir, John 
 
 Overbury, Sir Thomas 
 Porter, Henry 
 
 Prior, Matthew 
 
 fb. 1591, Cheapside, London. 
 I d. 1662, DeanPrior, Devon, 31, 
 j 37, 42, 61, 65, 81, 
 
 ] 117, 123. 124, 125, 
 
 I 126, 134, 135, 144, 
 
 L 155, 169, 187,200. 
 
 London, was living in 
 
 1650,76. 
 Westminster. 
 London. 
 
 Westminster Abbey, 
 48, 49, 58, 156.- 
 Wornhall. 
 Chichester, Sussex,90. 
 
 London, 158. 
 
 Salisbury. 
 
 Southwark. 
 
 St. Saviours Church, 
 202. 
 
 Hatherleigh, Devon. 
 
 Christ church, Oxford, 
 188. 
 
 London, 88, 90, 130, 
 152. 
 
 Bread St., London. 
 
 Bunhill Fields. 
 
 Saint Giles' Church, 
 Cripplegate,143, 149. 
 
 Warwick. 
 
 Poisoned in the Tow- 
 er, 29. 
 Was Uving in 1599, 
 18. 
 
 Winburne,Dorsetshire 
 
 x'^t the Earl of Ox- 
 ford's, Middlesex. 
 '{_buriedy Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Cb. 1574, 
 J d. 1637, 
 ] buried^ 
 
 L 
 
 J b. 1591, 
 } d. 1669, 
 1560, 
 594, 
 fb. 1584, 
 ' d. 1640, 
 ] buried, 
 
 L 
 
 Cb. 1604, 
 \d. 1671, 
 
 Xb. \i 
 
 ) d. U 
 
 1587 
 630 
 fb. 1608, 
 ' d. 1674, 
 > buried, 
 
 rb. 1581, 
 >d 1613, 
 
 -< 
 
 fb. 1664, 
 d. 1721, 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 
 
 215 
 
 Quarles, Francis 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter ^ 
 
 fb. 1592, 
 
 <j d. 1644, 
 j buried, 
 
 fb. 1552, 
 I d. 1618, 
 
 Rochester, 
 Lord 
 
 Wilmot 
 
 I buried, 
 
 1647, 
 d. 1680, 
 
 l' 
 
 Scot, Alexander 
 Sedley, Sir Charles 
 
 C6. 1530, 
 Id. 1584, 
 C6. 1639, 
 Id, 1703, 
 
 r 
 
 I b. 1534, 
 Shakspeare, William<( r/. 1616, 
 I buried, 
 
 L 
 
 Sheffield, John, Duke C 6. 1649, 
 of Buckingham - id- 1720, 
 fb. 1594, 
 ! / 
 
 Shirley, James 
 
 I d. 1666, 
 
 L 
 
 fb. 1554, 
 
 I r/. 1586, 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip - ^ 
 
 Southwell, Robert 
 
 \buried, 
 
 rb. 1560, 
 
 J d. 1595, 
 
 I 
 
 Steward's manor,Rom- 
 ford, Essex. 
 
 London. 
 
 St. Leonard's church, 
 Foster Lane, 117. 
 
 Hayes, Devon. 
 
 Beheaded, Westmin- 
 ster. 
 
 S t. Margaret's church, 
 31, 51, 52. 
 
 Ditchley, Oxfordshire. 
 
 Woodstock Park, 91, 
 172. 
 
 Edinburgh, 104. 
 
 Aylesford, Kent, 
 London, 51, 55, 107. 
 Stratford upon Avon, 
 25, 36, 40, 43, 49, 
 55,73,80,81,91,96, 
 98, 110, 122, 126, 
 133, 134, 142,202. 
 
 London, 132. 
 
 London. 
 
 On the same day with 
 his wife, and was in- 
 terred with her in the 
 same grave, 48. 
 
 Penshurst, Kent. 
 
 Of a wound receiv- 
 ed before Zutphen. 
 Netherlands, 21 . 
 
 St. Paul's London. 
 
 St. Faith's Norfolk. 
 
 Executed at Tyburn, 
 a martyr to the Ca- 
 tholic faith, 38, 52. 
 
216 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 
 
 fi. 1553, 
 I d. 1598, 
 I buried^ 
 SpEifSER, Edmund - \ 
 
 Stanley, Thomas 
 
 -b. 1625, 
 
 d. 1678, 
 buried, 
 
 Strode, Dr. William 
 Suckling, Sir John 
 
 ^b. 1600, 
 Id. 1645, 
 
 ^b. 1608, 
 
 td. 1641, 
 
 fb. 1518, 
 
 Surrey, Henry Earl of-<( "^^ ^^^'^' 
 I 
 
 b. 1605, 
 
 Waller, Edmund 
 
 Wharton, Lucy, Mar- 
 chioness of 
 
 Cd. 1667, 
 <:b. 1654, 
 ^d 1706, 
 fb. 1558, 
 I 
 
 Wither, George - -{ 
 
 ' ^. 1667, 
 
 buried, 
 
 Wotton, Sir Henry 
 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas 
 
 L 
 
 J b. 1568, 
 
 \ d. 1639, 
 
 f6. 1503, 
 
 ! d. 1542, 
 ] buried, 
 
 L 
 
 East Smithfield,Lond . 
 King St. Westminister. 
 Westminster Abbey, 
 
 38, 44, 70, 105, 
 
 133, 140,156, 158, 
 
 182, 189. 
 Cumberlow Green, 
 
 Herts. 
 London, 
 St. Martin in the 
 
 Fields, 174. 
 London. 
 Oxford, 187. 
 Whitton, Middlesex. 
 London, 71. 
 Kenninghall, Norfolk, 
 beheaded on Tower 
 
 Hill, 94, 96, 124, 
 Framlingham .Suffolk. 
 Coleshill, Warwich- 
 
 shire. 
 Beaconsfield, 56. 
 
 London, 118. 
 
 Bentworth, Hamp- 
 shire. 
 
 London. 
 
 Savoy church. Strand, 
 23, 63, 74, 92, 138, 
 163, 195. 
 
 Broughton hall, Kent. 
 
 Eton, 44, 46. 
 
 Allington castle,Kent. 
 
 Sherburne, Dorset. 
 Conventual church, ib. 
 60,69,94, 102, 170. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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