Upon the floor, as if he swam for life; A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat, His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played; Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude, In this confusion; they adore his staff, And think it Neptune's trident; and that he SONG: PACK CLOUDS AWAY. To give my love good-morrow, Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! Give my fair love good-morrow! To give my love good-morrow, SEARCH AFTER GOD. I sought thee round about, O thou, my God! In thine abode : I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou he?" She answered me, "I am not." I inquired of creatures all, In general, Contained therein: they with one voice proclaim That none amongst them challenged such a name. I asked the seas and all the deeps below, I asked the reptiles and whatever is Even from the shrimp to the leviathan But in those deserts which no line can sound, I asked the air if that were he; but lo! I from the towering eagle to the wren If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such; Offended with my question, in full choir, Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they Said, "We obey The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear Could see or hear, What in the world I might descry or know Above, below; With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by him were made." I asked the world's great universal mass, Which with a mighty and strong voice replied, "I am not he, O man! for know that I By him on high Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated And swayed by him by whom I was created." I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery there Deceived each ear; In the thronged city there was selling, buying, In the country, craft in simpleness arrayed; "Vain is my search, although my pains be great; Where my God is there can be no deceit." A scrutiny within myself I then Even thus began: "O man, what art thou?" What more could I say Than dust and clay, Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, That cannot last; Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn, Formed from that earth to which I must return? I asked myself what this great God might be That fashioned me? I answered: The all-potent, sole, immense,— Surpassing sense; Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, Lord over all; The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. He is the well of life, for he doth give Both breath and being; he is the Creator Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims, names. And now, my God, by thine illumining grace, Thy glorious face (So far forth as it may discovered be) Methinks I see; And though invisible and infinite To human sight, Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest, Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God, most kind! Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, Thou God, most just! Remit all our offences, we entreat, Most good! most great! Grant that our willing, though unworthy, quest May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. SONNET: TO PRINCE HENRY. God gives not kings the style of gods in vain, Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane; Thomas Nash. Nash (circa 1564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Summer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1592. He was also concerned with Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was the Churchill of his day, and famed for his satires. He speaks of his life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodigally conspired against good hours." SPRING. Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo. The palm and May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, King James J. of England. James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566-1625), the only offspring of Mary, queen of Scots, by her second husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnley), was a prolific author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with the verses of some contemporary poets of fame. It is noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, Charles I., all wrote poetry. THE COMING OF WINTER. Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure: Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on apace. Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn! THE DECAY OF SUMMER. Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, therefore; So fair a summer look for nevermore: All good things vanish less than in a day; Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear. What! shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed? Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year; Sir Henry Wotton. Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambassador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost of Eton. He wrote a short poem "in praise of angling," and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discoverer of Milton's transcendent genius, he showed his superior literary culture. Of the famous little poem, "The Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a dozen texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, indeed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. The Reliquiæ Wottoniana, in which the poem was first published, appeared in 1651, some twelve years after Wotton's death; but much earlier MS. copies are in existence: thus one, In the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, apparently of date 1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little reflection will show that the former is the preferable word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt it as the more authentic reading. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. More by your number than your light,- You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,— What are you when the Rose is blown? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,-what's your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise ? So when my Mistress shall be seen THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will! Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame or private breath: Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great: Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ;— This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all. John Lilly. Lilly (circa 1554–1601) was a native of Kent. His principal work was a prose romance called "Euphues." The name of the book has passed, as an abstract term, into our language; but the book itself is no longer read, and the euphuistic method of expression is chiefly known to us in these days by caricatures. Lilly wrote nine plays, in which some songs occur. The following is from his play of "Campaspe," 1584. CUPID AND CAMPASPE. Cupid and my Campaspe played He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With these the crystal of his brow, Henry Constable. Born about 1560, and educated at Oxford, Constable published, in 1584, "Diana, or the excellent conceitful sonnets of H. C." The volume was reprinted for the Roxburghe Club in 1818. The following is from "England's Helicon," first published in 1600. DIAPHENIA. Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, Heigh-ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are belovéd of their dams; How blest were I if thou would'st prove me! Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power; For dead, thy breath to life might move me. Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expresséd, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king: Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me! Joseph Hall. Hall (1574-1656), bishop successively of Exeter in 1627, and of Norwich in 1641, is remembered chiefly for his prose theological works, written in the reigns of James and Charles. His only poems were a collection of Satires, composed at Cambridge University before his twenty-third year. They were condemned to be burnt in 1599, by an order of Bishop Bancroft. Hall's satire on the amatory poets of his day, of which we give a specimen, is coarse, but apt and pithy. ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER. My time, my flesh, my life, and I- Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death! Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss! What state? Attendance of each glorions spirit. How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above, Oh, let these wings that way alone ON LOVE POETRY. SATIRE III., Book II. Great is the folly of a feeble brain O'erruled with love and tyrannous disdain : It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best, Careth the world thou love, thou live, or die? Be she all sooty-black or berry-brown, She's white as morrow's milk or flakes new-blown : John Marston. Marston, a rough but vigorous satirist and dramatic writer, produced his "Malcontent," a comedy, prior to 100. He was educated at Oxford, became lecturer at the Middle Temple, and died in 1633. He wrote eight plays, and three books of Satires, called "The Scourge of Villany." THE SCHOLAR AND HIS SPANIEL. I was a scholar: seven useful springs Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man; Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept. Stood banding factions, all so strongly propped, TO DETRACTION I PRESENT MY POESIE. Foul canker of fair virtuous action, Vile blaster of the freshest blooms on earth, Envy's abhorréd child, Detraction, I here expose to thy all-tainting breath The issue of my brain: snarl, rail, bark, bite; Know that the Genius which attendeth on That in the basest sort scorns critic's rage, My spirit is not puffed up with fat fume A partial praise shall never elevate Dr. John Donne. Donne (1573-1631) was born in London, and as a child was a prodigy of learning. He became Chaplain in Ordinary to James I., and Dean of St. Paul's. Much against the wishes of his devoted wife, he accompanied Sir Robert Drury on an embassy to Paris. While there, Donne |