EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.

In the history of early English literature, we find little mention made of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are familiar to every lover of early English literature.

If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter poets and wits of his age.

Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe, visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year 1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in 1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his songs and fugitive pieces.

An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own impassioned admiration and love.

The cruel glances of the eyes of his mistress he deprecates in lines like these —

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,

For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,

If she behold me with a pleasing eye,

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one, and in sweet strains laments

The purest soul, that e’er was sent

Into a clayey tenement,

Informed this dust, but the weak mould

Could the great guest no longer hold,

The substance was too pure, the flame

Too glorious, that hither came.

Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat, where love is the pilot,”

but o’ercome with fear

Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.” Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion, and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.

It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”

The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles, perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,

“That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”

has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now believes with the poet Roscommon —

Immodest words admit of no defense,

A want of decency is want of sense.

My object in the preparation of this article being to rescue from oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim to a high rank among the earlier English poets.

We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same age and nation,

“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found oftentimes worth the carriage.”

It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.

In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.

This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress of language toward perfection.

But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits, sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough inharmonious verse.

But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.

That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,

Ask me why I bring you here

This firstling of the infant year.

And the one entitled The Compliment,

My dearest I shall grieve thee

When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s, commencing

Take, oh, take those lips away.

Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy bears comparison,

Who sees it, is undone

For streaks of red were mingled there

Such as are on a Catharine pear,

The side that’s next the sun.

In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.

But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.

THE SPRING.

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world, the youthful spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,

Welcome the coming of the longed for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;

Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.

The ox which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall; doth now securely lie

In open field, and love no more is made

By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade

Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only she doth carry

June in her eyes, her heart is January.

PERSUASION TO LOVE.

Think not, ’cause men flattering say

You’re fresh as April, sweet as May,

Bright as is the morning star,

That you are so; or though you are,

Be not therefore proud, and deem

All unworthy your esteem;

For being so, you lose the pleasure

Of being fair, since that rich treasure

Of rare beauty, and sweet feature,

Was bestowed on you by nature

To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin

There to be scarce, where she hath been

So prodigal of her best graces;

Thus common beauties, and mean faces

Shall have more pastime, and enjoy

The sport you loose by being coy.

Starve not yourself, because you may

Thereby make me pine away;

Nor let brittle beauty make

You, your wisest thoughts forsake.

For that lovely face will fail;

Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;

’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done

Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;

Most fleeting when it is most dear!

’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.

These curious locks, so aptly twined,

Whose every hair a soul doth bind,

Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow

White, and cold as winter’s snow.

That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,

Will prove his grave, and all the rest

Will follow, in the cheek then froze,

No lily shall be found, or rose.

And what will then become of all

Those who now you servants call?

Like swallow’s when your summer’s done

They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

Remain still firm, be provident,

And think before the summer’s spent

Of following winter; like the ant

See plenty hoard for time of scant.

Cull out amongst the multitude

Of lovers, seeking to intrude

Into your favor, one that may

Last for an age, not for a day.

For when the storms of time have moved

Waves on that cheek, now so beloved,

When a fair lady’s face has pined,

And yellow spread, where red once shined,

When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.

Love may return, but lovers never.

And old folks say, there are no pains

Like itch of love, in aged veins.

Oh, love me then, and now begin it,

Let us not loose a precious minute,

For time and age will work that rack,

Which time or age shall ne’er call back.

The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,

And eagles, change their aged plumes.

The faded rose, each spring receives

A fresh red tincture on her leaves:

But if your beauties once decay,

They never know a second May.

LIPS AND EYES.

In Celia’s face, a question doth arise

Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;

We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts

Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts

From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses

Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses

Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour

Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower.

Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,

In a sweet smile unlocked their pearly treasure;

And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace

Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.

If when the sun at noon displays

His brighter rays,

Thou but appear

He then all pale with shame, and fear,

Quencheth his light,

Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight

And grows more dim

Compared to thee, than stars to him,

If thou but show thy face again,

When darkness doth at midnight reign,

The darkness flies, and light is hurled

Round about the silent world.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me, why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year?

Ask me, why I send to you,

This primrose, all bepearled with dew?

I straight will whisper in your ears

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me, why this flower doth show

So yellow, green, and sickly too?

Ask me, why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break.

I must tell you, these discover

That doubts and fears beset your lover.

MURDERING BEAUTY.

I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,

Since ruin harbors there, in every place;

For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns

With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;

For if she dart (like lightning) through the air

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;

If she behold me with a pleasing eye

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.