The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier he has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes voluptuous, but rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It contains touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. The following well-known stanza has, perhaps, never been excelled : Her feet beneath her petticoat, But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. This 'Ballad,' and the fine lines on Detraction which follow it, are the only poems that our space will allow us to introduce from this spirited writer. A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, At Charing Cross, hard by the way And there did I see coming down Vorty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Our landlord looks like nothing to him: 1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whitsunday. No grape that's kindly ripe could be Her finger was so small, the ring And to say truth (for out it must), Her feet beneath her petticoat, Is half so fine a sight. And this the very reason was, The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; By this time all were stol'n aside But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind. Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate? Where each meant more than could by both be said. That part of us ne'er knew that we did love: Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth From such sweet raptures as to joy did move; Our thoughts as pure as the chaste morning's breath, Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale; Much less could'st have it from the purer fire; Thou hast no correspondence had in heaven, And th' elemental world, thou see'st is free. Curst be th' officious tongue that did address I must forbear her sight, and so repay In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream; And in one year outlive Methusalem. Cartwright, Cleveland, Lovelace and Crashaw close the long list of English miscellaneous poets who have occupied our attention during the last four lectures. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, one of Ben Jonson's sons of the muses, was born at Cirencester, Gloucestershire, in 1611. He received his early education at the free school of his native place, whence he removed to Westminster school, and in 1628 entered Christ College, Oxford. Having remained at Oxford until he had taken his master's degree, he entered into orders, and soon became a very popular preacher in the university. In 1643 he was chosen junior proctor of the university and reader in metaphysics; and was at that time in the habit of studying sixteen hours a day. Toward the close of the same year he unfortunately caught a malignant fever then prevalent at Oxford, and died on the twenty-third of December, 1643, in his thirty-third year. The king, who was at that time at Oxford, went into mourning for Cartwright's death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of that period. It is difficult to conceive, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he should have obtained such extensive applause and reputation. His pieces are generally short, occasional productions, addressed to ladies and noblemen, or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson; or slight amatory effusions, not distinguished either for elegance or fancy. Admiration of his genius, his youthful virtues, his learning, and his devoted loyalty to the king, seemed to have mainly contributed to his popularity; and his premature death doubtless renewed and deepened the impression of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have cultivated poetry in his youth; for he was only twentysix years old when Ben Jonson died, and previous to that period the veteran poet paid him the compliment to remark, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' The following effusions are both witty and pretty, but possess no higher merit: THE DREAM. I dream'd I saw myself lie dead, And that my bed my coffin grew, Silence and sleep this strange sight bred, But, wak'd, I found I liv'd anew. Looking next morn on your bright face, Mine eyes bequeath'd mine heart fresh pain; A dart rush'd in with every grace, And so I kill'd myself again : O eyes, what shall distressed lovers do, TO CUPID. Thou, who didst never see the light, So captivate her sense, so blind her eye, That still she love me, yet she ne'er know why. Thou who dost wound us with such art, We see no blood drop from the heart, And, subt❜ly cruel, leav'st no sign To tell the blow or hand was thine; O gently, gently wound my fair, that she May thence believe the wound did come from thee! TO A LADY VAILED. So love appear'd, when, breaking out his way Was seen, but what might cause men to adore: As 'tis but only poetry revived. Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods And twigs at last did shoot up into gods; Where, then, a shade darkeneth the beauteous face, May I not pay a reverence to the place? So, under water, glimmering stars appear, As those (but nearer stars) your eyes do here; So deities darkened sit, that we may find A better way to see them in our mind. No bold Ixion, then, be here allow'd, Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue |