Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy owl of night; Ashamed and fearful to appear They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm, At the first opening of thine eye, The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way. At thy appearance, grief itself is said To shake his wings, and rouse his head, A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look. At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. All the world's bravery that delights our eyes Thou the rich dye on them bestowest, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; The virgin lilies in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light! FROM THE 'ODE TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.' From words, which are but pictures of the thought, The thirsty soul's refreshing wine. Who to the life an exact piece would make, Much less content himself to make it like The real object must command Each judgment of his eye, and motion of his hand. From these and all long errors of the way, Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last. The barren wilderness he past, Did on the very border stand Of the blest promis'd land, And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit, But life did never to one man allow Time to discover worlds, and conquer too; Nor can so short a line sufficient be To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea: 1 Lord Bacon. The work he did we ought t' admire, For who on things remote can fix his sight, 7. [From the Discourses by Way of Essays.] ON SOLITUDE. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, Hail, the poor muse's richest manor seat! Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Here nature does a house for me erect, Who those fond artists does despise Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Ah wretched, and too solitary he Who loves not his own company! He'll feel the weight of 't many a day Unless he call in sin or vanity To help to bear't away. O Solitude, first state of human-kind! As soon as two (alas!) together join'd, The god himself, through countless ages thee Thee, sacred Solitude alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light, Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see I should at thee too, foolish city, If it were fit to laugh at misery, Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, EDMUND WALLER. [EDMUND WALLER was born, March 3, 1605, at Coleshill in Warwickshire. At seventeen years of age he was elected member of parliament for Agmondesham. He married early, and lost his wife soon; after her death he paid court to Lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter of the Earl of Leicester. He protracted his unsuccessful suit, celebrating the lady under the title of Sacharissa, until in 1639 she married the Earl of Sunderland. In 1640 he entered parliament again, and made himself remarkable by his opposition to the King's measures, but when the Civil War became imminent he took the Royalist side. · In 1643 he was arrested as one of the leaders of a plot against the Parliament, and having with difficulty preserved his life, proceeded to France on his release. After some years he returned to England and made his peace with Cromwell; at the Restoration he eagerly laid his homage at the feet of Charles II. He was made Provost of Eton, and sat in several parliaments after the Restoration. He died of dropsy at Beaconsfield, in Buckinghamshire, on the 21st of October, 1687. His poems, first published in 1645, were very frequently reprinted during his life-time, and always with additions.] The reputation of Waller has suffered greater fluctuation of fortune than that of any other English poet. In his youth, he was outshone by the last great Elizabethans, his contemporaries; during the Civil Wars he gradually rose to be considered second only to Cowley. After the Restoration, and when that writer was in his grave, Waller found himself still more popular, and when he died, at a very great age, the wits and critics; with Thomas Rymer at their head, exalted him to the first place in the English Parnassus. Until the end of the century it was tacitly admitted that Waller was the greatest English poet. The juster sense of Addison and of Pope curtailed these extravagant honours, while leaving to Waller the praise of unrivalled sweetness. In the hands of Gray, Johnson and Cowper, Waller sank gradually back |