Like tidings to King Henry came Now God be with him, said our king, Sith 'twill no better be, I trust I have within my realm For brave Lord Percy's sake. This vow full well the king perform'd In one day fifty knights were slain, And of the rest of small account Did many thousands die, &c. At the same time that our poet shews a laudable partiality to his countrymen, he represents the Scots after a manner not unbecoming so bold and brave a people : Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, Whose armour shone like gold. His sentiments and actions are every way suitable to a hero. One of us two, says he, must die: I am an earl as well as yourself, so that you can have no pretence for refusing the combat: however, says he, it is pity, and indeed would be a sin, that so many innocent men should perish for our sakes; rather let you and I end our quarrel in a single fight: Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die : I know thee well, an earl thou art, * Impossible! for it was more than three times the distance. When these brave men had distinguished themselves in the battle, and in single combat with each other, in the midst of a generous parley, full of heroic sentiments, the Scotch earl falls; and with his dying words encourages his men to revenge his death, representing to them, as the most bitter circumstance of it, that his rival saw him fall: With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart Who never spoke more words than these, Lord Percy sees my fall. Merry-men, in the language of those times, is no more than a cheerful word for companions and fellow-soldiers. A passage in the eleventh book of Virgil's Æneid is very much to be admired, where Camilla, in her last agonies, instead of weeping over the wound she had received, as one might have expected from a warrior of her sex, considers only (like the hero of whom we are now speaking) how the battle should be continued after her death: Tum sic expirans, &c. Æn. xi. 820. A gathering mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes, She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain: Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed, DRYDEN. Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner; though our poet seems to have had his eye upon Turnus's speech in the last verse: Lord Percy sees my fall. Vicisti, et victum tendere palmas Ausonii videre En. xii. 936. The Latin chiefs have seen me beg my life. DRYDEN. Earl Percy's lamentation over his enemy is generous, beautiful, and passionate: I must only caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the style, which one may well pardon in so old a poet, prejudice him against the greatness of the thought: Then leaving life, Earl Percy took O Christ! my very heart doth bleed For sure a more renowned knight The beautiful line, Taking the dead man by the hand,' will put the reader in mind of Æneas' behaviour towards Lausus, whom he himself had slain as he came to the rescue of his aged father: At vero ut vultum vidit morientis, et ora, Ingemuit, miserans graviter, dextramque tedendit. The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead; Æn. x, 821. He griev'd, he wept, then grasp'd his hand and said, &c. DRYDEN. I shall take another opportunity to consider the other parts of this old song.-C. N° 71. TUESDAY, MAY 22, 1711. Scribere jussit amor. -OVID. Epist. iv. 10. Love bade me write. THE entire conquest of our passions is so difficult a work, that they who despair of it should think of a less difficult task, and only attempt to regulate them. But there is a third thing which may contribute not only to the ease, but also to the pleasure of our life; and that is refining our passions to a greater elegance than we receive them from nature. When the passion is Love, this work is performed in innocent, though rude and uncultivated minds, by the mere force and dignity of the object. There are forms which naturally create respect in the beholders, and at once inflame and chastise the imagination. Such an impression as this gives an immediate ambition to deserve, in order to please. This cause and effect are beautifully described by Mr. Dryden in the fable of Cymon and Iphigenia. After he has represented Cymon so stupid, that He whistled as he went, for want of thought; he makes him fall into the following scene, and shews its influence upon him so excellently, that it appears as natural as wonderful: It happen'd on a summer's holiday, That to the greenwood-shade he took his way; By which an alabaster fountain stood; Like Dian and her nymphs, when tir'd with sport, The dame herself the goddess well express'd, The fanning wind and purling streams continue her repose. And gaping mouth, that testified surprise; Then would have spoke, but by his glimm'ring sense But lest this fine description should be excepted against, as the creation of that great master Mr. Dryden, and not an account of what has really ever happened in the world, I shall give you verbatim the epistle of an enamoured footman in the country to his mistress. Their surnames shall not be inserted, because their passions demand a greater respect than is due to their quality. James is servant in a great family, and Elizabeth waits upon the daughter of one as numerous, some miles off her lover. James, before he beheld Betty, was vain of his strength, a rough wrestler, and quarrelsome cudgel-player; Betty a public dancer at may-poles, a romp at stoolball he always following idle women, she playing among the peasants: he a country bully, she a country coquette. But love has made her con |