From The Cornhill Magazine.
ENGLISH LYRICAL POETRY.

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tails, its matter-of-fact lines. The poetartist who designs a vast work knows MR. PALGRAVE, in the introduction to that it cannot be of sustained excellence his admirable volume, the Golden Treas- throughout. If his eye roll in a fine ury of Songs and Lyrics, observes that frenzy at one part, it is certain to grow he is acquainted with no strict and ex- dim and sleepy at another; he cannot be haustive definition of lyrical poetry, and always sublime, and if he could his readhe is content to point out a few simple ers would grow weary. His imagination principles which have guided him in his must inevitably flag as he pursues a task work. We think that Mr. Palgrave is which requires time as well as genius, right, and that he has judged wisely in and the utmost he can do is to make his not giving a definition which must have coarser workmanship serve as a foil to proved at best partial and unsatisfactory. that which is more delicate. This has To say what lyrical poetry is not, is an been done with consummate art by Mileasy task, to express in a brief sentence ton, whose sense of fitness and congruity what it is, so that if the question be put is as remarkable as the lovely harmony the answer, like a reply in the Catechism, of his versification. Lyrical poetry, on may be instantly forthcoming, is well-the other hand, will not admit of aught nigh impossible. And the reason is that that is of inferior quality. Like the the lyric blossoms and may be equally sonnet, it should be perfect throughout beautiful and perfect under a variety of - in form, in thought, in the lovely marforms. The kind of inspiration that riage of pure words, in the melody that prompts it is to be found in the Ode and pervades the whole. The lyric at its in the Song, in the Elegy and in the Son-best-as in the songs of Shakespeare net. Its spirit is felt sometimes where it and some of the old dramatists, in the is least expected, its subtle charm is per-" Epithalamium" of Spenser, a poem of ceived occasionally in almost every kind almost unequalled loveliness, in the of poetry save the satirical and didactic. Like life, like light, like the free air of the mountains, the lyric is enjoyed, as it were, unconsciously. We brush the bloom off fruit when we handle it too roughly, and there is perhaps a danger lest, in attempting to criticise lyrical poetry, the critic, by his precision and careful attention to rules, should destroy some of its beauty. We have learnt, however, of late years what was not understood a century ago, that the critic's office is to follow the poet, not to require that the poet should follow him. The poet indeed, like all artists, must be obedient to law, but his genius is less likely to lead him astray than the critic's book-knowledge, and of the lyric poet especially it may be safely asserted that the lack of conventional restraint, the freedom to sing his own song to his own music, is essential to success. In building the lofty rhyme of the epic, in the long narrative poem, in the drama, in the satire, some of the material must necessarily be of a common-place order. No great poem but has its weak points, its prosaic de

pretty love-warblings of Herrick, in the artful music of Collins and of Gray, in the ethereal melody of Shelley, in the impassioned songs of Burns - belongs to the highest order of poetry. It is the noblest inspiration of the poetical mind, its choicest utterance, the expression of its profoundest feeling. With the exception of Shakespeare and Milton, each of whom, be it remembered, in addition to his dramatic or epic genius, is a supreme master of the lyric, the greatest poets of this country belong to the lyrical class. Moreover, the poems which live in the memory and which take most hold upon us, are essentially lyrical in character. Not that the most precious of our lyrics are generally the most popular. The finest literary work, no matter what the department may be, will never be the most sought after. It is for the appreciation of the few rather than for the delight of the many. Mr. Tupper has more readers than Spenser, Dr. Cumming than Jeremy Taylor, and there is many an essayist of the day whose writings are better known than the essays of Lord

Bacon. We are accustomed to regard, beauty of women, and his fine ear for

poetry as a kind of inspiration, and so no doubt it is. The gift, like the gift of wisdom, cannot be purchased. The poet, like all artists, may enlarge his range and perfect his skill by labour and intense study, but the power comes from Nature, and even when the power is possessed it can only be exercised at certain periods. Dr. Johnson indeed in alluding to this notion, as held by Gray, calls it a "fantastic foppery," but Johnson, it has been well said, "made poetry by pure effort of diligence as a man casts up his ledger;" in other words he was a clever versifier, not a poet, and the conditions upon which poetry is produced surpassed his comprehension.

music, was not likely to be wholly deficient in this branch of the poetical art. A delicious simplicity, a joyous humour, a skill of delineating character, a manly grasp of his subject - these are among the more prominent features of this great poet's work, but in much of it we may detect the spirit of the lyric poet, although the form of the lyric is wanting.

For our purpose, however, and indeed for any notice of English lyrical poetry that is not severely critical, the sixteenth century is the period in which it seems natural to commence our survey. With the splendid exception of Chaucer (for the works of Gower, Surrey, Wyatt, and others are comparatively of small account), it may be said that our poets performed their first achievements in that wonderfui age. And what they did, in the dawn of our poetical literature, remains a living power, so that their words and thoughts influence us and delight us still. The greatest poets then used the drama as the vehicle of their art, and the lyric, although largely employed, was generally made subordinate to the requirements of the dramatist. Not always,

Poetry is not a profession, and the poet who dreams of immortality cannot write as Dr. Johnson seems to have thought, and as Southey thought, a given number of lines a day. Verses written to order are as worthless as most prize poems. They may display ability, but genius never. The mechanical art of the verse-maker is, however, often mistaken for the noble labour of the poet, and in Johnson's time especially the one was constantly confounded with the other. however, and some of the loveliest lyrics We laugh at the old Cumberland dame who on hearing of Wordsworth's death exclaimed "Ay! it's a pity he's gane; but what then? I'se warn't the widow can carry on the business aw t' seame;" but something of the like feeling existed among the poetasters of the eighteenth century, and is perhaps not quite extinct even in our day.

of that age, although the work of dramatists, had no place in their dramas, while much sweet lyrical poetry is to be found in Elizabethan poets who never catered for the stage. If we ask the reader to spend a few minutes with us while we open some of these old poets, it is not from any doubt that the best which they have written is already familiar and The great age of Elizabeth—an age as beloved. Those who know it best, howremarkable for noble deeds as for noble ever, will be perhaps the best pleased to words may be taken by the student of refresh their memory, and that they may our poetry as the birthtime of the lyric. do so, allusion will often serve the purSome sweet snatches of lyrical verse were pose of quotation. Of course, the first produced indeed before that period, and name we think of is that of Shakespeare, in Chaucer, the first splendid name in our who is not only the greatest of dramatists literary annals, there may be frequently but stands in the front rank of lyrical poets. detected, under the narrative form, marks But of Shakespeare, simply because he is of the bounding spirit and sweetness so great and because his words are so well which delight us in a lyric poetry. Poets known to all who read the English tongue, indeed who sing of love can scarcely fail it is scarcely needful to say anything. to fall into the lyrical strain, and Chaucer, There is nothing in poetical literature with his healthy vigorous nature, his love more entirely lovely, more delicately fraof all outward beauty, especially of the 'grant, more dainty in form, more like

warm

And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no

music which once heard must be re- To rear him hillocks that shall keep him membered alway, than the songs or snatches of song scattered through the works of Shakespeare. They are as fresh as roses just bursting into bloom, as grateful as the perfume of violets, or the

scent of the sea when the wind blows the foam in our faces. And we are content to enjoy them without criticism as we enjoy the warmth of the sun or the soothing sound of running waters. There seems no art in these little pieces, which appear to fall from the poet like notes from a ird, so consummately is the art conaled.

'Full fathom five thy father lies;

nder the greenwood tree; "When icicles hang by the wall;"" When daisies pied and violets blue;" "Where the bee sucks;" "Fear no more the heat o' the sun;" " "Come away, come away, Death; " it is enough surely to quote in this way the first line of a Shakespearian song in order to recall it to the memory, and to convince a forgetful reader that the charm of musical song is as much one of Shakespeare's gifts, as the dramatic strength and the superlative imagination which enable him to see through the deeds of men.

Several of

harm;

But keep the wolf far hence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

This song is entitled by Mr. Palgrave "A Land Dirge," and with good judgment he places it on the same page with the sea dirge sung by Ariel. A lovely little song of somewhat similar character by Beaumont and Fletcher might have aptly followed these two famous pieces.

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear,
Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

In their lyrics these twin-poets approach sometimes very near to Shakespeare -so near indeed that it might seem as if they had caught the very echo is correct in his judgment that, while as of his verse; and we think that Hazlitt dramatists they rank in the second class, the Elizabethan dramatists show an ear and descriptive poets. If we may judge they belong to the first order as lyrical for melody, and a knowledge of lyrical from the Faithful Shepherdess, Fletcher's form which gives an abiding vitality to their verse. Webster, one of the most genius as a lyrist surpassed that of Beaumont, and it is infinitely sad that so lovely powerful, although far from the most a lyrical drama should be deformed by pleasing, of Shakespeare's contemporagross coarseness and by passages which, ries, throws his grim strength into trage viewed simply from the artist's standingdy which sometimes borders on the gro-point, are out of place in such a poem. tesque. He heaps horror upon horror with a vehemence of language which enchains the reader while it appals him, but this gloomy poet does now and then venture upon a lyrical strain, sad indeed, according to his wont, but at the same time beautiful. Here, for instance, are ten quaint lines worthy almost of Shakespeare:

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

Coleridge wished that Beaumont and Fletcher had written poems instead of plays. Had they done so, instead of pandering as they too often did to the corrupt tastes of the town, we might have had lyrics from these brother-poets worthy of a place with the youthful poems of Milton. There is a little poem ascribed to Beaumont, although it appears in a play of Fletcher's, which must have suggested the "Il Penseroso." So perfect is its beauty, so delicious its music, that it is not surprising it laid hold of Milton and prompted him to utter on a like subject his own beautiful thoughts.

Hence all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly;
There's nought in this life sweet,
Were men but wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome folded arms and fixèd eyes;
A sigh that piercing mortifies ;
A look that's fastened to the ground;
A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

It was Francis Beaumont also who wrote the lines on Life, which may remind the reader of similar but not more striking verses on the same topic.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on waters stood -
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to-night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring intomb'd in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past and man forgot.

Ben Jonson, whose learning has so encumbered his verse as in a measure to obscure his fame, had also a fine ear for music; and those who know him only as a dramatist have missed perhaps some of the finest traits in his poetical nature. As we read of Rare Ben, we picture to ourselves a coarse-grained, powerfullooking man, prodigious in waist, and boasting, like Falstaff, a mountain belly -a man who liked good cheer too well, whose love was licence, and who led the life of a town wit in a gross age, when the conscience of a playwright was not likely to be over-sensitive. London life he understood in all its varieties, and as the leader of the Apollo Club, we can picture him enjoying the same kind of honour which was bestowed some years later upon Dryden. Such a man, you might say, was not likely to babble of green fields, or to sing the sweet songs which are inspired by an open-air life, or by that faith in the beauty and purity of womanhood which is the reward of honest thought and generous aspirations. Nevertheless, this fine old dramatist,

man about town though he was, and far, it is to be feared, from a cleanly liver, had an eye for natural loveliness and a heart susceptible to the delicacy and grace of womanly charms, and of all that is lovely and of good report, which surprises and delights us as we read his lyrical poems. To know Ben Jonson at his best, as a man, if not as a poet, the reader should gain a familiar acquaintance with "The Forest" and with "Underwoods," under which headings are to be found the gems of his lyrical poetry as well as much of rare excellence in descriptive and rural verse. This tavern poet and town wit knew and loved nature well, and how charmingly he could sing of love might be proved by a variety of examples. Perhaps the song commencing with

Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine -
is Jonson's best; at all events it is the
one best known, and therefore we shall
not venture to quote it. Room, however,
must be found for one short and dainty
piece, which affords a favourable speci-
men of this poet's craft as a song-writer,
as well as of his hearty way of making
love. It is addressed to Celia, and al-
though imitated from Catullus, is not the
less original in tone. The man of genius,
when he attempts to imitate, generally
transforms:

Kiss me, sweet; the wary lover
Can your favours keep and cover
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kiss again! no creature comes;
Kiss and score up wealthy sums
On my lips, thus hardly sundered
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the other
Add a thousand, and so more,
Till you equal with the store
All the grass that Rumney yields,
Or the sands in Chelsea fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars that gild his streams
In the silent summer nights,
When youths ply their stolen delights;
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pined.

In another and nobler strain are the fine lines so often quoted and so quotable, containing, as they do, a world of meaning within briefest compass:

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be;

fice to satisfy most students of our early poetry. The writings of these men partake in large measure of the passion and turbulence of their lives, and the biography of poets has few sadder pages than those which record the careers of Marlowe and of Greene.

Marlowe, the famous author of Dr. Faustus, which suggested his incomparable work to the greatest of German poets, perished in a drunken quarrel; and Greene, after a brief, but grossly dissipated life, died miserably in abject poverty. Both these writers have left some striking pieces of lyric verse. Who does not know the madrigal

Come live with me and be my love

As a dramatist Ben Jonson deserves to be read, and not only read but studied, for his wit and humour, for his wonderful skill as an artist, for his masterly command of language, for the knowledge his works afford us of the age in which he lived; but we venture to think that his highest claim upon posterity rests on the pastoral and descriptive passages, and on the lovely specimens of lyrical verse to be found in the little volume of Marlowe, and the reply written by Sir that contains his poems. Truly does Walter Raleigh? Robert Greene has Hazlitt say that Jonson's "Discourse not written any piece popular like these; with Cupid" is "infinitely delicate and but several of his poems, though disfigpiquant, and without one single blem- ured by conceits, have the ring of true ish;" and truly, too, does Leigh Hunt poetry. Not one of them, however, has remark of his ode "To Cynthia," which been transferred by Mr. Palgrave to his has a place in almost every selection, Golden Treasury, and he has perhaps that it combines classic eloquence with rightly judged, so largely is the beauty a tone of modern feeling and a music like of Greene's verse mingled with impera serenade." No man, says Mr. Henry fections. Lodge, also a minor dramatist Morley, can be a dramatist in any real of the period, shows more of artistic sense of the word who cannot produce good lyrics a just assertion in the main, and one that assuredly holds good with regard to this great poet.

skill than his contemporary as a lyric poet. The best of his pieces appeared in England's Helicon, a collection of pastoral and lyric poems published at the close of Elizabeth's reign, and reprinted for the service of modern readers by Sir Egerton Brydges. This is but one among many selections of verse which appeared during the period, and the student who would make himself acquainted with the lyric poetry of the age will also read The Phoenix Nest, The Paradise of Dainty Devises (which, however, belongs rather to the reign of Queen Mary), and A Handful of Pleasant Delites. There is much in these selections that is only curious, but sometimes, and especially in the Helicon, a poetical gem will repay the reader for his toil. To the Helicon, Lodge and Breton are among the most important contributors; but here, too, will be found the great names of Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Philip Sidney, Marlowe, Spenser, and Shakespeare.

Sentimental, refined, melancholy in temperament and inclined to solitude, Drummond of Hawthornden led a very different life to that enjoyed by his friend Ben Jonson. In his verse there is a lack of vigour, but seldom a want of sweetness, and many of his short pieces deserve, in the quaint language of the age, to be called "sugared." His genius is essentially lyrical, and much that is of genuine beauty may be found among his poems. As a writer of sonnets, his rank among our early poets is a high one, but he has produced nothing that is of supreme excellence, and it is probable that he will be better remembered for his "Notes of Conversations " with Ben Jonson, than for his own work as a poet. Drummond is one of the few notable poets of that age who did not try his hand at the drama, which was as popular Breton is so little known in these days among men of letters as the novel is now. (he has no place in the best selections of A peculiar taste and special leisure are English poetry), that one short specimen needed for an adequate study of the of his skill as a lyric poet may be transminor Elizabethan dramatists, and it ferred to these pages. The following may be doubted whether a knowledge of lines, three hundred years old, remema few of the masterpieces of Ford, Web- ber, run almost as smoothly as if they ster, Marlowe, and Dekker will not suf-' had been written by a modern poet: