Whereat full oft I smiled, To see how all these three, From boy to man, from man to boy, Would chop and change degree. And musing thus, I think The case is very strange, That man from weal to live in woe Doth ever seek to change. Whereat I sighed and said: "Farewell, my wonted joy; Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me To every little boy; And tell them thus from me, Their time most happy is, If, to their time, they reason had For many have been harmed by speech, Our wealth leaves us at death; Our kinsmen at the grave; But virtues of the mind unto The heavens with us we have. Wherefore, for virtue's sake, I can be well content, The sweetest time of all my life To deem in thinking spent. Thomas, Lord Vaux. Thomas, Lord Vaux (circa 1510-1557) of Harrowden, in Northamptonshire, was Captain of the Isle of Jersey under Henry VIII. The following lines were first printed in "The Paradise of Dainty Devices," 1576. In neatness and literary skill they are far above most of the contemporary productions. OF A CONTENTED MIND. When all is done and said, In the end thus shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss, That bath a quiet mind; And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content The sweetest time in all his life, In thinking to be spent. The body subject is To fickle Fortune's power, And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour: And Death in time doth change When as the mind, which is divine, Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; Anne Askew. If her poetry be not of the first order, Anne Askew (burned at the stake, 1546) deserves to be enrolled among the poets for showing that she could practise, in a heroic death, what she had preached in verse. She was cruelly tortured by the minions of Henry VIII. for denying the real presence in the eucharist. Prevailed on by Bonner's menaces to make a seeming recantation, she qualified it with some reserves, which did not satisfy that zealous prelate. She was thrown into Newgate, and there wrote her poem of "The Fight of Faith." She was condemned to be burned alive; but being so dislocated by the rack that she could not stand, she was carried to the stake in a chair, and there burned. Pardon had been offered her if she would recant; this she refused, and submitted to her fate with the utmost intrepidity. FROM "THE FIGHT OF FAITH." Like as the arméd knight, Appointed to the field, With this world will I fight, And faith shall be my shield. Faith is that weapon strong, Which will not fail at need; My foes therefore among Therewith will I proceed. Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knock, To them wilt thou attend, Undo, therefore, the lock, And thy strong power send. More enemies now I have Than hairs upon my head; Let them not me deprave, Not oft I use to write In prose, nor yet in rhyme; Yet will I show one sight, That I saw in my time: I saw a royal throne, Where Justice should have sit; But in her stead was one Of moody, cruel wit. Absorpt was rightwisness, Sucked up the guiltless blood. Then thought I,-Jesus, Lord, When thou shalt judge us all, Hard is it to record On these men what will fall! Yet, Lord, I thee desire, For that they do to me, Let them not taste the hire Of their iniquity. Sir Edward Dyer. Born in the reign of Henry VIII. (circa 1540–1607), Dyer lived till some years after King James's accession to the English throne. He was a friend of Sir Philip Sidney, who, in his verses, celebrates their intimacy. Dyer was educated at Oxford, and was employed in several foreign embassies by Elizabeth. He studied chemistry, and was thought to be a Rosicrucian. Puttenham, in his "Art of English Poesie" (1589), commends "Master Edward Dyer for elegy most sweet, solemn, and of high conceit." The popular poem, "My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is," with additions, is credited in some collections to William Byrd (1543-1623), an eminent composer of sacred music, and who published in 1588 a volume of "Psalms, Sonnets," etc. Both Byrd and Joshua Sylvester seem to have laid claim to the best parts of Dyer's poem. A collection of Dyer's writings was printed as late as 1872. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. My mind to me a kingdom is! Such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That earth affords or grows by kind: Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely pomp, no wealthy store, No shape to feed a loving eye; I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soon do fall; I see that those which are aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear. Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway; Some have too much, yet still do crave: I laugh not at another's loss; I grudge not at another's gain; I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, Their wisdom by their rage of will; Their treasure is their only trust, A cloaked craft' their store of skill: But all the pleasure that I find Is to maintain a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease; I neither seek by brites to please, 1 A hidden craftiness. George Gascoigne. Gascoigne (circa 1535-1577), besides being notable as one of the earliest English dramatists, was one of the earliest writers of English blank verse. He was a native of Essex, became a lawyer, was disinherited by his father, took foreign military service in Holland under the Prince of Orange, and displayed great bravery in action. His best known work is "The Steel Glass," a satire in rather formal blank verse. THE LULLABY. Sing lullabies, as women do, With which they charm their babes to rest; And lullaby can I sing too, As womanly as can the best. First lullaby my youthful years, Next lullaby my gazing Eyes, To show the furrows in my face. And lullaby my wanton Will, Let Reason's rule now rein thy thought, Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought. Thus lullaby, my Youth, mine Eyes, But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. 1 Again. With lullaby now take your leave, With lullaby your dreams deceive: And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby. Edmund Spenser. The circumstances which prevent our reading Chaucer with that facility which is indispensable to pleasure, arise from the time in which he lived. But a poet of far greater genius, not more than ten years older than Shakspeare, and who lived when English literature had passed into its modern form, deliberately chose, by adopting Chaucer's obsolete language, to place similar obstacles in the way of studying his works. Edmund Spenser (circa 1553-1599), the son of a gentleman of good family, but of small estate, was a native of London. Educated at Cambridge, he began, almost from the moment of his leaving the university, to publish poems. His first book, "The Shepherd's Calendar," helped to popularize pastoral poetry in England. His sonnets are still among the best in the language. The patronage of Sidney and the friendship of the Earl of Leicester obtained for him the appointment of Secretary to Grey, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Thus he was fated to spend many years of his life in Ireland, in various official posts, among a race of people with whom he had but few interests in common. Not the romantic beauty of Kilcolman Castle, in County Cork, with its three thousand surrounding acres of forfeited lands of the Earls of Desmond, granted to him by Queen Elizabeth, could compensate the poet for the loss of more familiar if less lovely English scenes; and a prevailing melancholy and discontent may be observed in most of his allusions to his own life-story. In 1590 Sir Walter Raleigh persuaded him to accompany him to England, and presented him to Queen Elizabeth, who accepted the dedication of that marvellously beautiful poem, "The Faery Queene," of which the first three books were just finished. During a second visit to London, in 1595, the fourth, fifth, and sixth books were published, together with a re-issue of the preceding books. Of the remaining six books needed to complete the work, only one canto and a fragment of another canto exist. Spenser had long been on ill terms with his Irish neighbors. In those days Ireland was not a residence propitious for a literary student in quest of tranquillity. In 1598 insurrections broke out, and as Spenser was Sheriff of the County of Cork for that year, he was rendered by his office a conspicuous mark for the enmity of the insurgents. They attacked and burned Kilcolman, and his infant child perished in the flames. These were evils too terrible to be borne by one of Spenser's sensitive temperament. He returned to England, and at the beginning of the next year died of a broken heart, and in extreme indigence. Of Spenser, as a poet, Campbell says: "We shall nowhere find more airy and expansive images of visionary things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer flush in Wake now, my Love, awake; for it is time! The merry lark her matins sings aloft, Ah! my dear Love, why do ye sleep thus long, For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, My Love is now awake out of her dreams, More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. Help quickly her to dight: But first come ye fair Hours, which were begot, Do make and still repair. And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen,3 Some graces to be seen: Redbreast. First English "rudduc," from "rude," red. * Goddesses of the changing seasons of the year or day. In Greek mythology they were three Eunomia, Good Order; Dike, Natural Justice; and Eirene, Peace. 3 The Graces-Aglaia, Radiant Beauty; Euphrosyne, Cheerful Sense; Thalia, Abounding Joy. And as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. Now is my Love all ready forth to come, Fit for so joyful day: The joyful'st day that ever sun did see! Her beauty to disgrace. O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse, Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, Hark! How the minstrels 'gin to shrill aloud When they their timbrels smite, As if it were one voice: "Hymen, Io Hymen, Hymen," they do shout, And evermore they "Hymen, Hymen" sing, Lo! where she comes along with portly' pace, 1 Of good carriage. 2 A name of Diana, sister of Phoebus; the Moon, sister of the Sun. The word means "the pure shining one." So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been; Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, And being crowned with a garland green, So far from being proud. Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, There dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity, The which the base affectious do obey, Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing, Open the temple-gates unto my Love, With trembling steps and humble reverence 1 Saw. Wheuso ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces. Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluya sing, |