Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 23

Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little s.p.a.ce, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth show his pleasant face: So must we hope to see G.o.d's face, At last in heaven on high, When we have changed this mortal place For immortality.

And of such haps and heavenly joys As then we hope to hold, All earthly sights, and worldly toys, Are tokens to behold.

The day is like the day of doom, The sun, the Son of man; The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb, Wherein we rest till than.

The rainbow bending in the sky, Bedcck'd with sundry hues, Is like the seat of G.o.d on high, And seems to tell these news: That as thereby He promised To drown the world no more, So by the blood which Christ hath shed, He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime, And overcast the skies, Are like to troubles of our time, Which do but dim our eyes.

But as such dews are dried up quite, When Phoebus shows his face, So are such fancies put to flight, Where G.o.d doth guide by grace.

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, Which cries against the rain, Both for her hue, and for the rest, The devil resembleth plain: And as with guns we kill the crow, For spoiling our relief, The devil so must we o'erthrow, With gunshot of belief.

The little birds which sing so sweet, Are like the angels' voice, Which renders G.o.d His praises meet, And teach[1] us to rejoice: And as they more esteem that mirth, Than dread the night's annoy, So much we deem our days on earth But h.e.l.l to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain, G.o.d grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain, In heaven to have a place, When we may still enjoy that light, Which never shall decay: Lord, for thy mercy lend us might, To see that joyful day.

[1] 'Teach:' _for_ teacheth.

GOOD-NIGHT.

When thou hast spent the ling'ring day In pleasure and delight, Or after toil and weary way, Dost seek to rest at night; Unto thy pains or pleasures past, Add this one labour yet, Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast, Do not thy G.o.d forget,

But search within thy secret thoughts, What deeds did thee befall, And if thou find amiss in aught, To G.o.d for mercy call.

Yea, though thou findest nought amiss Which thou canst call to mind, Yet evermore remember this, There is the more behind:

And think how well soe'er it be That thou hast spent the day, It came of G.o.d, and not of thee, So to direct thy way.

Thus if thou try thy daily deeds, And pleasure in this pain, Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, And thine shall be the gain:

But if thy sinful, sluggish eye, Will venture for to wink, Before thy wading will may try How far thy soul may sink, Beware and wake,[1] for else thy bed, Which soft and smooth is made, May heap more harm upon thy head Than blows of en'my's blade.

Thus if this pain procure thine ease, In bed as thou dost lie, Perhaps it shall not G.o.d displease, To sing thus soberly: 'I see that sleep is lent me here, To ease my weary bones, As death at last shall eke appear, To ease my grievous groans.

'My daily sports, my paunch full fed, Have caused my drowsy eye, As careless life, in quiet led, Might cause my soul to die: The stretching arms, the yawning breath, Which I to bedward use, Are patterns of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse;

'And of my bed each sundry part, In shadows, doth resemble The sundry shapes of death, whose dart Shall make my flesh to tremble.

My bed it safe is, like the grave, My sheets the winding-sheet, My clothes the mould which I must have, To cover me most meet.

'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, To worms I can compare, Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh, And leave the bones full bare: The waking c.o.c.k that early crows, To wear the night away, Puts in my mind the trump that blows Before the latter day.

'And as I rise up l.u.s.tily, When sluggish sleep is past, So hope I to rise joyfully, To judgment at the last.

Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, Thus will I hope to rise, Thus will I neither wail nor weep, But sing in G.o.dly wise.

'My bones shall in this bed remain My soul in G.o.d shall trust, By whom I hope to rise again From, death and earthly dust.'

[1] 'Wake:' watch.

THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET.

This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Suss.e.x, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of 'Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the ill.u.s.trious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters them- selves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell 'a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never s.h.i.+nes.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates'

appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in h.e.l.l, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'--

'Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, _His wither'd fist still knocking at Deaths door;_ Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief--the shape and messenger of Death.'

Politics diverted Sackville from poetry. This is deeply to be regretted, as his poetic gift was of a very rare order. In 1566, on the death of his father, he was promoted to the t.i.tle of Lord Buckhurst. In the fourteenth year of Elizabeth's reign he was employed by her in an emba.s.sy to Charles IX. of France. In 1587 he went as an amba.s.sador to the United Provinces.

He was subsequently made Knight of the Garter and Chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he became Lord High Treasurer of England. In March 1604 he was created Earl of Dorset by James I., but died suddenly soon after, at the council table, of a disease of the brain. He was, as a statesman, almost immaculate in reputation. Like Burke and Canning, in later days, he carried taste and literary exact.i.tude into his political functions, and, on account of his eloquence, was called 'the Bell of the Star-Chamber.' Even in that Augustan age of our history, and in that most brilliantly intellectual Court, it may be doubted if, with the sole exception of Lord Bacon, there was a man to be compared to Thomas Sackville for genius.

ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES.

And first, within the porch and jaws of h.e.l.l, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain:

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear, Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wis.h.i.+ng for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look, Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair; 'Stoin'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell Revenge, gnas.h.i.+ng her teeth for ire; Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or Veng'd by death to be.

When fell Revenge, with b.l.o.o.d.y foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another set we met; When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:

His face was lean, and some deal pined away And eke his hands consumed to the bone; But what his body was I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast:

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, G.o.d wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his feres, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brus.h.i.+ng up the briers; His knuckles k.n.o.b'd, his flesh deep dinted in With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But he is up, and to his work yrun; But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath; Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel's ease, the still night's fere was he, And of our life in earth the better part; Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be; Without respect, esteeming equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad, Old Age we found: His beard all h.o.a.r, his eyes hollow and blind; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him a.s.sign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life:

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint.

Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past.

And fresh delights of l.u.s.ty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek!

But, an the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast cannot return again, This one request of Jove yet prayed he That in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, As eld, accompanied with her loathsome train, Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, He might a while yet linger forth his life,

And not so soon descend into the pit; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, With reckless hand in grave doth cover it: Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had ne'er into the world been brought:

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast--as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone-- He would have mused, and marvell'd much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain, And knows full well life doth but length his pain:

Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled,[1] and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door; Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.