Introductory material

SECOND PERIOD—FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)

WILLIAM HABINGTON Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. To his Noblest Friend, J. C., Esq. A Description of Castara

JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH Satire I. Satire VII.

RICHARD LOVELACE Song—To Althea, from Prison Song A Loose Saraband

ROBERT HERRICK Song Cherry-Ripe The Kiss: A Dialogue To Daffodils To Primroses To Blossoms Oberon's Palace Oberon's Feast The Mad Maid's Song Corinna's going a-Maying Jephthah's Daughter The Country Life

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE The Spring, a Sonnet—From the Spanish

ABRAHAM COWLEY The Chronicle, a Ballad The Complaint The Despair Of Wit Of Solitude The Wish Upon the Shortness of Man's Life On the Praise of Poetry The Motto—'Tentanda via est,' &c Davideis-Book II Life The Plagues of Egypt

GEORGE WITHER From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' The Shepherd's Resolution The Steadfast Shepherd From 'The Shepherd's Hunting'

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT From 'Gondibert'—Canto II From 'Gondibert'—Canto IV

DR HENRY KING Sic Vita Song Life

JOHN CHALKHILL Arcadia Thealma, a Deserted Shepherdess Priestess of Diana Thealma in Full Dress Dwelling of the Witch Orandra

CATHARINE PHILLIPS The Inquiry A Friend

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE Melancholy described by Mirth Melancholy describing herself

THOMAS STANLEY Celia Singing Speaking and Kissing La Belle Confidante The Loss Note on Anacreon

ANDREW MARVELL The Emigrants The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn On 'Paradise Lost' Thoughts in a Garden Satire on Holland

IZAAK WALTON The Angler's Wish

JOHN WILMOT, EARL or ROCHESTER Song Song

THE EARL OP ROSCOMMON From 'An Essay on Translated Verse'

CHARLES COTTON Invitation to Izaak Walton A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque

DR HENRY MORE Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia' Exordium of Third Part Destruction and Renovation of all things A Distempered Fancy Soul compared to a Lantern

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks

HENRY VAUGHAN On a Charnel-house On Gombauld's 'Endymion' Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist Picture of the Town The Golden Age Regeneration Resurrection and Immortality The Search Isaac's Marriage Man's Fall and Recovery The Shower Burial Cheerfulness The Passion Rules and Lessons Repentance The Dawning The Tempest The World The Constellation Misery Mount of Olives Ascension-day Cock-crowing The Palm-tree The Garland Love-sick Psalm civ The Timber The Jews Palm-Sunday Providence St Mary Magdalene The Rainbow The Seed Growing Secretly (Mark iv. 26) Childhood Abel's Blood Righteousness Jacob's Pillow and Pillar The Feast The Waterfall

DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT Hell Joseph's Dream Paradise Eve To the Memory of his Wife Imperial Borne Personified End

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES—

FROM ROBERT HEATH— What is Love? Protest of Love To Clarastella

BY VARIOUS AUTHORS— My Mind to me a Kingdom is The Old and Young Courtier There is a Garden in her Face Hallo, my Fancy The Fairy Queen

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SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

SECOND PERIOD—FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)

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WILLIAM HABINGTON.

This poet might have been expected to have belonged to the 'Spasmodic school,' judging by his parental antecedents. His father was accused of having a share in Babington's conspiracy, but was released because he was godson to Queen Elizabeth. Soon after, however, he was imprisoned a second time, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the Gunpowder-plot conspirators; but was pardoned through the interest of Lord Morley. His uncle, however, was less fortunate, suffering death for his complicity with Babington. The poet's mother, the daughter of Lord Morley, was more loyal than her husband or his brother, and is said to have written the celebrated letter to Lord Monteagle, in consequence of which the execution of the Gunpowder-plot was arrested.

Our poet was born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, on the very day of the discovery of the plot, 5th November 1605. The family were Papists, and William was sent to St Omers to be educated. He was pressed to become a Jesuit, but declined. On his return to England, his father became preceptor to the poet. As he grew up, instead of displaying any taste for 'treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' he chose the better part, and lived a private and happy life. He fell in love with Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis, and celebrated her in his long and curious poem entitled 'Castara.' This lady he afterwards married, and from her society appears to have derived much happiness. In 1634, he published 'Castara.' He also, at different times, produced 'The Queen of Arragon,' a tragedy; a History of Edward IV.; and 'Observations upon History.' He died in 1654, (not as Southey, by a strange oversight, says, 'when he had just completed his fortieth year,') forty-nine years of age, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip.

'Castara' is not a consecutive poem, but consists of a great variety of small pieces, in all sorts of style and rhythm, and of all varieties of merit; many of them addressed to his mistress under the name of Castara, and many to his friends; with reflective poems, elegies, and panegyrics, intermingled with verses sacred to love. Habington is distinguished by purity of tone if not of taste. He has many conceits, but no obscenities. His love is as holy as it is ardent. He has, besides, a vein of sentiment which sometimes approaches the moral sublime. To prove this, in addition to the 'Selections' below, we copy some verses entitled—

'NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.'—David.

When I survey the bright Celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that Night Doth like an Ethiop bride appear,

My soul her wings doth spread, And heavenward flies, The Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volume of the skies;

For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name.

No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast look, We shall discern In it, as in some holy book, How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror That far-stretch'd power, Which his proud dangers traffic for, Is but the triumph of an hour;

That, from the furthest North, Some nation may, Yet undiscover'd, issue forth, And o'er his new-got conquest sway,—

Some nation, yet shut in With hills of ice, May be let out to scourge his sin Till they shall equal him in vice;

And then they likewise shall Their ruin brave; For, as yourselves, your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires, Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires, And all the pride of life, confute;

For they have watch'd since first The world had birth, And found sin in itself accurst, And nothing permanent on earth.

There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,—the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion.

EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE W.E.

He who is good is happy. Let the loud Artillery of heaven break through a cloud, And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain Unmoved, and nobler comfort entertain, In welcoming the approach of death, than Vice E'er found in her fictitious paradise. Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past Delights, and raise our appetite to taste Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age, Where we are left to satisfy the rage Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral. The thought of this begets that brave disdain With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court, And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport. What should we covet here? Why interpose A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose Man's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth, And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth Of her own vanity, we're left so poor, The creature merely sensual knows more. The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds A gentle season, when the seas and winds Are silenced by a calm, and then brings forth The happy miracle of her rare birth, Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd, That view the architecture of her nest. Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow By age to dotage; while the sensitive Part of the world in its first strength doth live. Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain Deserves our study? Merchants plough the main And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more, By avarice in the possession poor. And yet that idol wealth we all admit Into the soul's great temple; busy wit Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites To show its superstition; anxious nights Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast Content with nature's courtesy doth rest. Let man then boast no more a soul, since he Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee, Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd Far higher than thy birth, I must commend, Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend. And though my fate conducts me to the shade Of humble quiet, my ambition paid With safe content, while a pure virgin fame Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name; No thought of glory swelling me above The hope of being famed for virtuous love; Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars, To purchase unsafe honour in the wars, Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race, And merits, well may challenge the highest place. Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread To greatness, you must sleep among the dead.

TO HIS NOBLEST FRIEND, J.C., ESQ.

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet I love the silence; I embrace the wit And courtship, flowing here in a full tide, But loathe the expense, the vanity, and pride. No place each way is happy. Here I hold Commerce with some, who to my care unfold (After a due oath minister'd) the height And greatness of each star shines in the state, The brightness, the eclipse, the influence. With others I commune, who tell me whence The torrent doth of foreign discord flow; Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow, Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell. The cross or prosperous fate of princes they Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay; And on each action comment, with more skill Than upon Livy did old Machiavel. 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 passion 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 Assaults 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 noblest, being good.

3 Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship 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 lust.

7 She her throne makes reason climb; While wild passions 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.