"ALL-DARING DUST AND ASHES! ONLY YOU, OF ALL INTERPRETERS, READ NATURE TRUE."-CRASHAW.
FOND ARCHER, HOPE, WHO TAK'ST THINE AIM SO FAR,
"LET TO-MORROW'S NEW DROPS WASH OFF THE SWEAT OF THIS DAY'S SORROWS."-RICHARD CRASHAW.
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
[From a poem entitled "Music's Duel," founded on a Latin poem by
ER supple breast thrills out
Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,
And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill,
The pliant series of her slippery song;
Then starts she suddenly into a throng
Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys float
And roll themselves over her lubric throat
In panting murmurs, stilled out of her breast;
THAT STILL, OR SHORT OR WIDE, THINE ARROWS ARE."-CRASHAW.
"THE WORLD'S LIGHT SHINES: SHINE AS IT WILL, THE WORLD WILL LOVE ITS DARKNESS STILL."-CRASHAW.
66 RICH, LAZARUS, RICHER IN THOSE GEMS, THY TEARS,
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
That ever-bubbling spring; the sugared nest
Of her delicious soul, that there does lie
Bathing in streams of liquid melody;
Music's best seed-plot; where, in ripened airs,
A golden-headed harvest fairly rears
His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath
Which there reciprocally laboureth
In that sweet soil, it seems a holy quire
Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre;
Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes
Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swell their throats
In cream of morning Helicon,* and then
Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,
To woo them from their beds, still murmuring
That men can sleep while they their matins sing—
Most divine service+-whose so early lay
Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.
There might you hear her kindle her soft voice,
In the close murmur of a sparkling noise;
And lay the groundwork of her hopeful song,
Still keeping in the forward stream so long,
Till a sweet whirlwind-striving to get out-
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,
Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest,
Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky,
Winged with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.
She
opes the flood-gate, and lets loose a tide
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
On the waved back of every swelling strain,
Rising and falling in a pompous train,
* A mountain in Greece, whose fountains of Aganippe and Hippocrene
are sacred to Apollo and the Muses.
An allusion to the "matins," or morning service of the Roman Church
Prevents-used in its ancient sense of "anticipates."
THAN DIVES IN THE ROBES HE WEARS."-CRASHAW.
"A HAPPY SOUL THAT ALL THE WAY TO HEAVEN RIDES IN A SUMMER'S DAY."-RICHARD CRASHAW.
GIFTS ARE SCORNED WHERE GIVERS ARE DESPISED."-DRYDEN.
And while she thus discharges a shrill peal
Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal
With the cool epode* of a graver note;
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat
Would reach the brazen voice of War's hoarse bird;
Her little soul is ravished, and so poured
Into loose ecstacies, that she is placed
Above herself, Music's enthusiast.
[RICHARD CRASHAW, a poet of deep devotional feeling and wonderful
richness of expression, was born in London about 1625-the exact date is
uncertain-and died in Italy in 1650. His chief works are, "Steps to the
Temple,'
," "The Delights of the Muses," and a version of Marino's "Sos-
petto d'Herode."]
"LIGHT SUFFERINGS GIVE US LEISURE TO COMPLAIN; WE GROAN, BUT CANNOT SPEAK, IN GREATER PAIN."-DRYDEN,
[Designed as a portrait of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, one of the favourites of Charles II.]
OME of their chiefs were princes of the land;
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand:
A man so various, that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon:
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman, who could every hour employ,
With something new to wish, or to enjoy!
Railing and praising were his usual themes;
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes:
* Epode (Еñшdos), a lyric poem in which long and short stanzas alternate; here employed in the sense of "contrast.'
"THE NOBLE mind will DARE DO ANYTHING BUT LIE."-DRYDEN.
"GOD GIVES US WHAT HE KNOWS OUR WANTS REQUIRE, AND BETTER THINGS THAN THOSE WHICH We desire."-dryden.
LITTLE SOULS ON LITTLE SHIFTS RELY."-JOHN DRYDEN.
So over violent, or over civil,
That every man with him was god or devil.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art :
Nothing went unrewarded but desert.
Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late;
He had his jest, and they had his estate.
[JOHN DRYDEN, 1631-1701, a famous master of nervous, energetic, and manly verse, author of "Religio Laici," "The Hind and the Panther" (from which our extract is taken), "Annus Mirabilis," and numerous odes and plays, the satire of "Mac Flecknoe," and an English translation of Virgil.]
"LOVE'S POWER, WE SEE, IS NATURE'S SANCTION AND HER FIRST DECREE."-JOHN DRYDEN.
"HEAVEN MADE US AGENTS FREE TO GOOD OR ILL, AND FORCED IT NOT."-JOHN DRYDEN.
PARISH priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador),
For such on earth his blessed Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seemed; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see,
But sweet regards and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence unnate his tongue was armed;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charmed.
* Compare this description with Chaucer's, p. 4.
OUR LAND'S AN EDEN, AND THE MAIN'S OUR FENCE.' -DRYDEN.
"MONSTROUS FORMS IN SLEEP WE SEE, THAT NEITHER ARE, NOR WERE, NOR E'ER CAN BE."-DRYDEN.
"HOW BLESSED IS HE WHO LEADS A COUNTRY LIFE,
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky.
He taught the gospel rather than the law;
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds: but love, like heat,
Exalts the soul sublime, to seek her native seat,
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm pre-
pared;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before th' Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.
Wide was his parish; nor contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distressed :
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.
All this the good old man performed alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none,
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold.
But duly watched his flock, by night and day;
And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey:
And hungry sent the wary fox away.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered :
Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought
(A living sermon of the truths he taught);
UNVEXED WITH ANXIOUS CARES, AND Void of strife!"-DRYDEN.
"IT IS A PLEASING WAY, SOUND SENSE, BY PLAIN EXAMPLE, TO CONVEY."-JOHN DRYDEN.
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