And that without expence, when others oft
With their undoings have their pleasures bought."
"Time has not been kind" to our author. His "lines" have indeed lived to those "full dayes, which other's muses give;" but, it has been a torpid and obscure existence in which they have dwelt. The young poet's hopes have failed-not indeed altogether-and we now feel a sensible and acute pleasure in thus attempting, in some degree, to accomplish his noble aspirations.
The allegorical portrait of Remembrance is in the style of his favorite Spenser, and is drawn with some sublime touches of imagination.
"Remembrance sate as portresse of this gate? A lady alwayes musing as she sate,
Except when sometime suddainely she rose,
And with a backe-bent eye, at length, she throwes Her hand to heaven: and in a wond'ring guize, Star'd on each object with her fixed eyes: As some way-faring man passing a wood (Whose waving top hath long a sea-marke stood) Goes jogging on, and in his minde nought hath, But how the primrose finely strew the path, Or sweetest violets lay downe their heads At some tree's roote on mossie feather-beds, Untill his heele receives an adder's sting, Whereat he starts, and backe his head doth fling. She never mark'd the sute he did preferre, But (carelesse) let him passe along by her."
Browne is not a poet, who by a few powerful strokes presents a striking picture to the mind, as if it had just started into life, and stood, as it were, panting, breathing, and wondering at its new-found existence. But, by a coacervation of characteristic particulars, he generally succeeds in producing a complete effect. Take the following instances.-Of a fisherman:
"Now as an angler, melancholy standing
Upon a greene bancke yeelding roome for landing, A wrigling yealow worme thrust on his hooke, Now in the midst he throwes, then in a nooke: Here pulls his line, there throws it in againe, Mending his croke and baite, but all in vaine, He long stands viewing of the curled streame; At last a hungry pike, or well-growne breame, Snatch at the worme, and hasting fast away, He, knowing it a fish of stubborne sway,
Puls up his rod, but soft, (as having skill) Wherewith the hooke fast holds the fishe's gill. Then all his line he freely yeeldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and downe doth swimme Th' insnared fish, here on the toppe doth scud, There underneath the banckes, then in the mud; And with his franticke fits so scares the shole, That each one takes his hide, or starting hole: By this the pike cleane wearied, underneath A willowe lyes, and pants (if fishes breathe) Wherewith the angler gently puls him to him, And least his hast might happen to undoe him, Layes downe his rod, then takes his line in hand, And, by degrees, getting the fish to land, Walkes to another poole: at length is winner."
Again, of a squirrel-hunt.
"Then, as a nimble squirrill from the wood, Ranging the hedges for his filberd-food,
Sits partly on a bough his browne nuts cracking, And from the shell the sweet white kernell taking, Till (with their crookes and bags) a sort of boyes, (To share with him,) come with so great a noyse, That he is forc'd to leave a nut nigh broke, And for his life leape to a neighbour oake;
Thence to a beech, thence to a row of ashes;
Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes, The boyes runne dabling through thicke and thin, One teares his hose, another breakes his shin; This, torne and tatter'd, hath with much adoe Got by the bryers; and that hath lost his shooe; This drops his hand; that head-long fals for haste; Another cryes behinde for being last:
With stickes and stones, and many a sounding hollow, The little foole, with no small sport, they follow, Whilst he, from tree to tree, from spray to spray, Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray."
Here waxt the windes dumbe (shut up in their caves) As still as mid-night were the sullen waves,
And Neptune's silver ever-shaking brest
As smooth as when the halcyon builds her nest. None other wrinckles on his face were seene Than on a fertile meade, or sportive greene,
Where never plow-share ript his mother's wombe To give an aged seed a living tombe, Nor blinded mole the batning earth e'er stir'd, Nor boyes made pit-fals for the hungry bird. The whistling reeds upon the water's side Shot up their sharp heads in a stately pride, And not a bynding ozyer bow'd his head, But on his roote him bravely carryed.
No dandling leafe plaid with the subtill ayre,
So smooth the sea was, and the skye so fayre."
And the following morning sketch may come under the same head.
"The muse's friend (gray-eyde Aurora) yet Held all the meadowes in a cooling sweat, The milke-white gossamores not upwards snow'd, Nor was the sharpe and usefull steering goad Laid on the strong-neckt oxe; no gentle bud The sun had dryde; the cattle chew'd the cud Low level'd on the grasse; no flyes quicke sting Inforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring To teare the passive earth, nor lash his taile About his buttockes broad; the slimy snayle Might on the wainscot, (by his many mazes Winding meanders and selfe-knitting traces) Be follow'd, where he stucke, his glittering slime Not yet wipt off. It was so earely time The carefull smith had in his sooty forge Kindled no coale; nor did his hammers urge His neighbour's patience; owles abroad did flye, And day as then might plead his infancy. Yet of faire Albion all the westerne swaines Were long since up, attending on the plaines, When Nereus' daughter with her mirthfull hoast Should summon them, on their declining coast."
The corresponding night-picture may take its station next, and hang uniformly with it in the reader's poetical gallery.
"The sable mantle of the silent night
Shut from the world the ever-joysome light. Care fled away, and softest slumbers please
To leave the court for lowly cottages.
Wilde beasts forsooke their dens on woody hils,
And sleightful otters left the purling rils ;
Rookes to their nests in high woods now were flung, And with their spread wings shield their naked young. When theeves from thickets to the crosse-wayes stir, And terrour frights the loanely passenger.
When nought was heard but now and then the howle Of some vile curre, or whooping of the owle.” Another night-piece, at least ends beautifully. "Now great Hyperion left his golden throne, That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declyning on the westerne shore The oriental hils blacke mantles wore, And thence apace the gentle twi-light fled, That had from hideous cavernes ushered All-drowsie night; who in a carre of jet, By steeds of iron-gray (which mainely swet Moist drops on all the world) drawn through the skye, The helpes of darknesse waited orderly.
Each river, every rill,
Sent up their vapours to attend her will.
These pitchy curtaines drew 'twixt earth and heaven, And as Night's chariot through the ayre was driven, Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepheard's song, And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue Talk'd to the eccho; satyres broke their dance, And all the upper world lay in a trance. Onely the curled streames soft chidings kept; And little gales that from the greene leafe swept Dry summer's dust, in fearefull whisp'rings stir'd, As loath to waken any singing bird."
He breaks out into the following poetical invocation in the beginning of the second book.
"Thrice sacred powers! (if sacred powers there be Whose milde aspect engyrland poesie)
Ye happy sisters of the learned spring,
Whose heavenly notes the woods are ravishing!
Brave Thespian maidens, at whose charming layes
Each mosse-thrumb'd mountaine bends, each current playes!
Piërian fingers! O ye blessed muses!
Who as a jem too deare the world refuses!
Whose truest lovers never clip with age,
O be propitious in my pilgrimage!
Dwell on my lines! and till the last sand fall, Run hand in hand with my weak pastorall! Cause every coupling cadence flow in blisses, And fill the world with envy of such kisses. Make all the rarest beauties of our clyme, That deigne a sweet looke on my younger ryme, To linger on each line's inticing graces,
As on their lovers' lips and chaste imbraces !"
There is a very agreeable enumeration of pastoral employments in the ensuing extract-the lines in italics are manifestly copied from a well-known and beautiful idea in the Arcadia, a work which our poet greatly admired.
"But since her stay was long: for feare the sunne Should finde them idle, some of them begunne
To leape and wrastle, others threw the barre, Some from the company removed are
To meditate the songs they meant to play, Or make a new round for next holiday:
Some tales of love their love-sicke fellowes told: Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold.
This, all alone was mending of his pipe:
That, for his lasse, sought fruits most sweet, most ripe. Here, (from the rest) a lovely shepheard's boy Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy
Would still endure, or else that age's frost
Should never make him thinke what he had lost. Yonder a shepheardesse knits by the springs, Her hands still keeping time to what she sings: Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands Were comforted in working. Neere the sands Of some sweet river sits a musing lad, That moanes the loss of what he sometimes had, His love by death bereft: when fast by him An aged swaine takes place, as neere the brim
Of's grave as of the river; shewing how
That as those floods, which passe along right now
Are follow'd still by others from the spring,
And in the sea have all their burying.'
These pastorals abound in similies—the following are no
unfavorable specimens.
"And as a lovely maiden, pure and chaste,
With naked iv'rie necke, and gowne unlac d
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