like zeal and purity, but his strength was not equal to his self-imposed tasks, and he died at the early age of thirty-nine. His principal production is entitled, The Temple, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations. It was not printed till the year after his death, but was so well received, that Walton says twenty thousand copies were sold in a few years after the first impression. The lines on Virtue Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, are the best in the collection; but even in them we find, what mars all the poetry of Herbert, ridiculous conceits or coarse unpleasant similes. His taste was very inferior to his genius. The most sacred subject could not repress his love of fantastic imagery, or keep him for half a dozen verses in a serious and natural strain. Herbert was a musician, and sang his own hymns to the lute or viol; and indications of this may be found in his poems, which have sometimes a musical flow and harmonious cadence. It may be safely said, however, that Herbert's poetry alone would not have preserved his name, and that he is indebted for the reputation he enjoys, to his excellent and amiable character, embalmed in the pages of good old Walton, to his prose work, the Country Parson, and to the warm and fervent piety which gave a charm to his life and breathes through all his writings. 'For if I should,' said he, Yet let him keep the rest- Matin Hymn. I cannot ope mine eyes But thou art ready there to catch My mourning soul and sacrifice, Then we must needs for that day make a match. My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things, or all of them in one? My God, what is a heart? That thou should'st it so eye and woo, As if that thou hadst nothing else to do? Indeed, man's whole estate Amounts (and richly) to serve thee; He did not heaven and earth create, That this new light which now I see Sunday. O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone The which he doth not fill. On which heaven's palace arched lics: Which parts their ranks and orders. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; More plentiful than hope. This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his ; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those Who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Whose drops of blood paid the full price, Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week-days trail on ground, Mortification. How soon doth man decay! When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way: They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death. When boys go first to bed, Sleep binds them fast; only their breath Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death. When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath In company; That music summons to the knell, Which shall befriend him at the house of death. When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move That dumb enclosure maketh love When age grows low and weak, Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath When he would speak; A chair or litter shows the bier, Which shall convey him to the house of death. Man, ere he is aware, Hath put together a solemnity, And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die, WILLIAM HABINGTON. WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1654) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. He tells us himself (in his preface) that, if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment, he says finely, that when love builds upon the rock of chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. Twenty years before his death, he published his poems, consisting of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled descriptionplacid, tender, and often elegant-but studded with conceits to show his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if Heaven were Blackfriars, and each star a confectionerwe are astonished to find one who could ridicule the madness of quaint oaths,' and the fine rhetoric of clothes,' in the gallants of his day, and whose sentiments on love were so pure and noble, fall into such absurd and tasteless puerilities. [Epistle to a Friend.] (Addressed to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq.') I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet Or quick designs of France! Why not repair And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade The world to his great master, and you'll find Thus let us value things: and since we find O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care Description of Castara. Like the violet which, alone, For she's to herself untrue, Folly boasts a glorious blood, Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will Women's feet run still astray, Where vice is enthron'd for wit. O'er that darkness, whence is thrust She her throne makes reason climb, SIR JOHN SUCKLING. SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1608-1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-day Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm. He dreamt of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state to James I., and comptroller of the household to Charles I. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy; and at sixteen he had entered on public life! His first appearance was as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served one campaign. On his return, he entered warmly into the cause of Charles I., and raised a troop of horse in his support. He intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Strafford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial, he fled to France, but a fatal accident took place by the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling, learning the circumstance, drew on his boots hurriedly, to pursue him; a rusty nail, or (according to another account) the blade of a knife, had been concealed in the boot, which wounded him, and produced mortification, of which he died. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some private letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier, Suckling has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes too voluptuous, but are 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 has touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. One well-known verse has never been excelled Her feet beneath her petticoat, But oh! she dances such a way, *Herrick, who had no occasion to steal, has taken this image from Suckling, and spoiled it in the theft Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep Like Sir Fretful Plagiary, Herrick had not skill to steal with taste. Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning. [SONG.-'Tis now, since I sat down before.] 'Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent !) a year, and more; Made my approaches, from her hand And did already understand The language of her eyes; Proceeded on with no less art, My tongue was engineer; I thought to undermine the heart By whispering in the ear. When this did nothing, I brought down A thousand thousand to the town, I then resolv'd to starve the place To draw her out, and from her strength, And brought myself to lie at length, When I had done what man could do, The enemy lay quiet too, And smil'd at all was done. I sent to know from whence, and where, A spy inform'd, Honour was there, And did command in chief. March, march (quoth I); the word straight give, er; Let's lose no time, but leave her That giant upon air will live, And hold it out for ever. To such a place our camp remove As will no siege abide ; I hate a fool that starves for love, Only to feed her pride. A Ballad upon a Wedding. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, At Charing Cross, hard by the way There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest. But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid : Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance, as did the maid. The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, Her finger was so small, the ring Her cheeks so rare a white was on, Who sees them is undone ; The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Her mouth so small, when she does speak, But she so handled still the matter, * Passion, oh me! how I run on ! I trow, besides the bride : Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, When all the meat was on the table, And this the very reason was, The company were seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride: But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. * Constancy. Out upon it, I have lov'd Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place. Song. I prithee send me back my heart, Yet now I think on't, let it lie, For thou'st a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie, Oh love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever! But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, Song. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale! Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute! Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't! Prithee, why so mute! Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, If of herself she will not love, The Careless Lover. Never believe me if I love, Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove; And she's extremely handsome too; I fairly will forego it. This heat of hope, or cold of fear, When I am hungry I do eat, A gentle round fill'd to the brink, Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall, I visit, talk, do business, play, Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Where each meant more than could by both be said. |