Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 53

O busy folly! why do I my brain Perplex with the dull policies of Spain, Or quick designs of France? Why not repair To the pure innocence o' the country air, And neighbour thee, dear friend? Who so dost give Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we Arm against pa.s.sion with philosophy; And, by the aid of leisure, so control Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?

Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when We study mysteries of other men, And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shad (Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid, Kind Nature's housewifery,) contemplate all His stratagems, who labours to enthrall The world to his great master, and you'll find Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.

Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear A price for glory. Honour doth appear To statesmen like a vision in the night; And, juggler-like, works o' the deluded sight.

The unbusied only wise: for no respect Endangers them to error; they affect Truth in her naked beauty, and behold Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold, Or tall in little; so much him they weigh As virtue raiseth him above his clay.

Thus let us value things: and since we find Time bend us toward death, let's in our mind Create new youth, and arm against the rude a.s.saults of age; that no dull solitude O' the country dead our thoughts, nor busy care O' the town make us to think, where now we are, And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot His journey, though his steps we number'd not.

A DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

1 Like the violet which, alone, Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser's eye betray'd, For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i' the public view.

2 Such is her beauty, as no arts Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace; Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is n.o.blest, being good.

3 Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courts.h.i.+p meant; Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit; In her silence eloquent: Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.

4 She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands: Women's feet run still astray, If once to ill they know the way.

5 She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft Honour splits her mast: And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast: Virtue safely cannot sit, Where vice is enthroned for wit.

6 She holds that day's pleasure best, Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night: O'er that darkness, whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs l.u.s.t.

7 She her throne makes reason climb; While wild pa.s.sions captive lie: And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: All her vows religious be, And her love she vows to me.

JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH.

This distinguished man must not be confounded with John Hall, of whom all we know is, that he was born at Durham in 1627,--that he was educated at Cambridge, where he published a volume of poems,--that he practised at the bar, and that he died in 1656, in his twenty-ninth year. One specimen of John's verses we shall quote:--

THE MORNING STAR.

Still herald of the morn: whose ray Being page and usher to the day, Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play; Who sett'st a golden signal ere The dark retire, the lark appear; The early cooks cry comfort, screech-owls fear; Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth, Then falls asleep, while they are both To part without a more engaging oath: Steal in a message to the eyes Of Julia; tell her that she lies Too long; thy lord, the Sun, will quickly rise.

Yet it is midnight still with me; Nay, worse, unless that kinder she Smile day, and in my zenith seated be, I needs a calenture must shun, And, like an Ethiopian, hate my sun.

John's more celebrated namesake, Joseph, was born at Bristowe Park, parish of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicesters.h.i.+re, in 1574. He studied and took orders at Cambridge. He acted for some time as master of the school of Tiverton, in Devons.h.i.+re. It is said that the accidental preaching of a sermon before Prince Henry first attracted attention to this eminent divine. Promotion followed with a sure and steady course. He was chosen to accompany King James to Scotland as one of his chaplains, and subsequently attended the famous Synod of Dort as a representative of the English Church. He had before this, while quite a young man, (in 1597,) published, under the t.i.tle of 'Virgidemiarum,' his Satires. In the year 1600 he produced a satirical fiction, ent.i.tled, 'Mundus alter et idem;' in which, while pretending to describe a certain _terra australis incognita_, he hits hard at the existent evils of the actual world. Hall was subsequently created Bishop of Exeter, where he exposed himself to obloquy by his mildness to the Puritans. 'Had,' Campbell justly remarked, 'such conduct been, at this critical period, pursued by the High Churchmen in general, the history of a b.l.o.o.d.y age might have been changed into that of peace; but the violence of Laud prevailed over the milder counsels of a Hall, an Usher, and a Corbet.' Yet Hall was a zealous Episcopalian, and defended that form of government in a variety of pamphlets. In the course of this controversy he carne in collision with the mighty Milton himself, who, unable to deny the ability and learning of his opponent, tried to cover him with a deluge of derision.

Besides these pamphlets, the Bishop produced a number of Epistles in prose, of Sermons, of Paraphrases, and a remarkable series of 'Occasional Meditations,' which became soon, and continue to be, popular.

Hall, who had in his early days struggled hard with narrow circ.u.mstances and neglect, seemed to reach the climax of prosperity when he was, in 1641, created by the King Bishop of Norwich. But having, soon after, unfortunately added his name to the Protest of the twelve prelates against the authority of any laws which should be pa.s.sed during their compulsory absence from Parliament, he was thrown into the Tower, and subsequently threatened with sequestration. After enduring great privations, he at last was permitted to retire to Higham, near Norwich, where, reduced to a very miserable allowance, he continued to labour as a pastor, with unwearied a.s.siduity, till, in 1656, death closed his eyes, at the advanced age of eighty-two. Bishop Hall, if not fully competent to mate with Milton, was nevertheless a giant, conspicuous even in an age when giants were rife. He has been called the Christian Seneca, from the pith and clear sententiousness of his prose style. His 'Meditations,' ranging over almost the whole compa.s.s of Scripture, as well as an incredible variety of ordinary topics, are distinguished by their fertile fancy, their glowing language, and by thought which, if seldom profound, is never commonplace, and seems always the spontaneous and easy outcome of the author's mind. In no form of composition does excellence depend more on spontaneity than in the meditation. The ruin of such writers as Hervey, and, to some extent, Boyle, has been, that they seem to have set themselves elaborately and convulsively to extract sentiment out of every object which met their eye. They seem to say, 'We will, and we must meditate, whether the objects be interesting or not, and whether our own moods be propitious to the exercise, or the reverse.' Hence have come exaggeration, extravagance, and that shape of the ridiculous which mimics the sublime, and has been so admirably exposed in Swift's 'Meditation on a Broomstick.' Hall's method is, in general, the opposite of this. The objects on which he muses seem to have sought him, and not he them. He surrounds himself with his thoughts unconsciously, as one gathers burs and other herbage about him by the mere act of walking in the woods. Sometimes, indeed, he is quaint and fantastic, as in his meditation

'UPON THE SIGHT OF TWO SNAILS.'

'There is much variety even in creatures of the same kind. See these two snails: one hath a house, the other wants it; yet both are snails, and it is a question whether case is the better; that which hath a house hath more shelter, but that which wants it hath more freedom; the privilege of that cover is but a burden--you see if it hath but a stone to climb over with what stress it draws up that artificial load, and if the pa.s.sage proves strait finds no entrance, whereas the empty snail makes no difference of way. Surely it is always an ease and sometimes a happiness to have nothing. No man is so worthy of envy as he that can be cheerful in want.'

In a very different style he discourses

'UPON HEARING OF MUSIC BY NIGHT.'

'How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the daytime it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness: thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation. The gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation or of our own private affliction--it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O G.o.d, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable and my crosses cheerful!'

Hall fulfilled one test of lofty genius: he was in several departments an originator. He first gave an example of epistolary composition in prose,--an example the imitation of which has produced many of the most interesting, instructive, and beautiful writings in the language. He is our first popular author of Meditations and Contemplations, and a large school has followed in his path--too often, in truth, _pa.s.sibus iniquis_. And he is unquestionably the father of British satire. It is remarkable that all his satires were written in youth. Too often the satirical spirit grows in authors with the advance of life; and it is a pitiful sight, that of those who have pa.s.sed the meridian of years and reputation, grinning back in helpless mockery and toothless laughter upon the brilliant way they have traversed, but to which they can return no more. Hall, on the other hand, exhausted long ere he was thirty the sarcastic material that was in him; and during the rest of his career, wielded his powers with as much lenity as strength.

Perhaps no satirist had a more thorough conception than our author of what is the real mission of satire in the moral history of mankind; --_that_ is, to shew vice its own image--to scourge impudent imposture --to expose hypocrisy--to laugh down solemn quackery of every kind--to create blushes on brazen brows and fears of scorn in hollow hearts--to make iniquity, as ashamed, hide its face--to apply caustic, nay cautery, to the sores of society--and to destroy sin by shewing both the ridicule which attaches to its progress and the wretched consequences which are its end. But various causes prevented him from fully realising his own ideal, and thus becoming the best as well as the first of our satirical poets. His style--imitated from Persius and Juvenal--is too elliptical, and it becomes true of him as well as of Persius that his points are often sheathed through the remoteness of his allusions and the perplexity of his diction. He is very recondite in his images, and you are sometimes reminded of one storming in English at a Hindoo--it is pointless fury, boltless thunder. At other times the stream of his satiric vein flows on with a blended clearness and energy, which has commanded the warm encomium of Campbell, and which prompted the diligent study of Pope.

There is more courage required in attacking the follies than the vices of an age, and Hall shews a peculiar daring when he derides the vulgar forms of astrology and alchymy which were then prevalent, and the wretched fustian which infected the language both of literature and the stage.

Whatever be the merits or defects of Hall's satires, the world is indebted to him as the founder of a school which were itself sufficient to cover British literature with glory, and which, in the course of ages, has included such writers as Samuel Butler, with his keen sense of the grotesque and ridiculous--his wit, unequalled in its abundance and point--his vast a.s.sortment of ludicrous fancies and language--and his form of versification, seemingly shaped by the Genius of Satire for his own purposes, and resembling heroic rhyme broken off in the middle by shouts of laughter;--Dryden, with the ease, the _animus_, and the masterly force of his satirical dissections--the vein of humour which is stealthily visible at times in the intervals of his wrathful mood --and the occasional pa.s.sing and profound touches, worthy of Juvenal, and reminding one of the fires of Egypt, which ran along the ground, scorching all things while they pursued their unabated speed;--the spirit of satire, strong as death, and cruel as the grave, which became incarnate in Swift;--Pope, with his minute and microscopic vision of human infirmities, his polish, delicate strokes, d.a.m.ning hints, and annihilating whispers, where 'more is meant than meets the ear;'

--Johnson, with his crus.h.i.+ng contempt and sacrificial dignity of scorn; --Cowper, with the tenderness of a lover combined in his verse with the terrible indignation of an ancient prophet;--Wolcot, with his infinite fund of coa.r.s.e wit and humour;--Burns, with that strange mixture of jaw and genius--the spirit of a _caird_ with that of a poet--which marked all his satirical pieces;--Crabbe, with his caustic vein and sternly-literal descriptions, behind which are seen, half-skulking from view, kindness, pity, and love;--Byron, with the clever Billingsgate of his earlier, and the more than Swiftian ferocity of his later satires;--and Moore, with the smartness, sparkle, tiny splendour, and minikin speed of his witty shafts. In comparison with even these masters of the art, the good Bishop does not dwindle; and he challenges precedence over most of them in the purpose, tact, and good sense which blend with the whole of his satiric poetry.

SATIRE I.

Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, When world and time were young, that now are old, (When quiet Saturn sway'd the mace of lead, And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred;) Time was, that whiles the autumn fall did last, Our hungry sires gaped for the falling mast Of the Dodonian oaks; Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree, But there was challenge made whose it might be; And if some nice and liquorous appet.i.te Desired more dainty dish of rare delight, They scaled the stored crab with clasped knee, Till they had sated their delicious eye: Or search'd the hopeful thicks of hedgy rows, For briary berries, or haws, or sourer sloes: Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all, They lick'd oak-leaves besprint with honey fall.

As for the thrice three-angled beech nutsh.e.l.l, Or chestnut's armed husk, and hide kernel, No squire durst touch, the law would not afford, Kept for the court, and for the king's own board.

Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone; The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none.

Their only cellar was the neighbour brook: None did for better care, for better look.

Was then no plaining of the brewer's 'scape, Nor greedy vintner mix'd the stained grape.

The king's pavilion was the gra.s.sy green, Under safe shelter of the shady treen.

Under each bank men laid their limbs along, Not wis.h.i.+ng any ease, not fearing wrong: Clad with their own, as they were made of old, Not fearing shame, not feeling any cold.

But when by Ceres' huswifery and pain, Men learn'd to bury the reviving grain, And father Ja.n.u.s taught the new-found vine Rise on the elm, with many a friendly twine: And base desire bade men to delven low, For needless metals, then 'gan mischief grow.

Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days, Thriving in all as it in age decays.

Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise, And men grew greedy, discordous, and nice.

Now man, that erst hail-fellow was with beast, Wox on to ween himself a G.o.d at least.

Nor aery fowl can take so high a flight, Though she her daring wings in clouds have dight; Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea, Though Thetis' self should swear her safety; Nor fearful beast can dig his cave so low, As could he further than earth's centre go; As that the air, the earth, or ocean, Should s.h.i.+eld them from the gorge of greedy man.

Hath utmost Ind ought better than his own?

Then utmost Ind is near, and rife to gone, O nature! was the world ordain'd for nought But fill man's maw, and feed man's idle thought?

Thy grandsire's words savour'd of thrifty leeks, Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reeks Hot steams of wine; and can aloof descry The drunken draughts of sweet autumnitie.

They naked went; or clad in ruder hide, Or home-spun russet, void of foreign pride: But thou canst mask in garish gauderie To suit a fool's far-fetched livery.

A French head join'd to neck Italian: Thy thighs from Germany, and breast from Spain: An Englishman in none, a fool in all: Many in one, and one in several.

Then men were men; but now the greater part Beasts are in life, and women are in heart.

Good Saturn self, that homely emperor, In proudest pomp was not so clad of yore, As is the under-groom of the ostlery, Husbanding it in work-day yeomanry.

Lo! the long date of those expired days, Which the inspired Merlin's word foresays; When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings, Then one confusion another brings: Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days, Thriving in ill, as it in age decays.

SATIRE VII.

Seest thou how gaily my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side, And picks his glutted teeth since late noontide?

'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day?

In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphray.

Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier, And open house, haunted with great resort; Long service mix'd with musical disport.

Many fair younker with a feather'd crest, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host.

Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touch'd no meat of all this livelong day.

For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness; But could he have (as I did it mistake) So little in his purse, so much upon his back?

So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt, That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.

Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?

Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip; Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the new-found bravery.