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RICHARD CRASHAW.

[Born, 1615? Died, 1652.]

He

THIS poet fell into neglect in his own age. was, however, one of the first of our old minor poets that was rescued from oblivion in the following century. Pope borrowed from him, but acknowledged his obligations. Crashaw formed his style on the most quaint and conceited school of Italian poetry, that of Marino; and there is a prevalent harshness and strained expression in his verses; but there are also many touches of beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his thoughts sometimes appears even in their distortion. If it were not grown into a tedious and impertinent fashion to discover the sources of Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice some similarity between the speech of Satan in the Sospetto di Herode of Marino (which Crashaw has translated) and Satan's address to the Sun in Milton. The little that is known of Crashaw's life exhibits enthusiasm, but it is not that of a weak or selfish mind. His private character was amiable; and we are told by the earliest editor of his "Steps to the Temple," that he was skilled in music, drawing, and engraving. His father, of whose writings an account is given in the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a preacher at the Temple church, London. His son, the poet, was born in London, but at what time is uncertain. He was educated at the Charterhouse through the bounty of two friends, Sir Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From

thence he removed to Cambridge, where he became a fellow, and took a degree of master of arts. There he published his Latin poems, in one of which is the epigram from a scripture passage, ending with the line, so well known,

Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit,

"The modest water saw its God, and blush'd:"

and also his pious effusions, called “Steps to the Temple." The title of the latter work was in | allusion to the church at Cambridge, near his residence, where he almost constantly spent his time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered to the universities, he preferred ejection and poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. He soon after embraced the Catholic religion, and repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he had no great transition to make to catholicism ; | and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he had witnessed, together with his admiration of the works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still more easily account for his conversion. Cowley found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recommendation to Italy, where he became a secretary to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. Soon after the latter appointment he died, about the year 1632.

SOSPETTO D' HERODE.

BELOW the bottom of the great abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things;
The world's profound heart pants; there placed is
Mischief's old master, close about him clings
A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks; these loathsome strings
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

LIB. I.

He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark

Set the contending sons of heaven on fire:
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark
Sybils' divining leaves; he does inquire
Into the old prophecies, trembling to mark
How many present prodigies conspire

To crown their past predictions, both he lays
Together, in his ponderous mind both weighs.

Heaven's golden-winged herald, late he saw

How low the bright youth bow'd, and with what

awe

From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing air, To a poor Galilean virgin sent :
This mortal enemy to mankind's good,
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair
The fields of Palestine with so pure a flood;
There does he fix his eyes, and there detect
New matter to make good his great suspect.

Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.
He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth by his devotion, who began
Betimes to be a saint, before a man.

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He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour
Of the icy north, from frost-bound Atlas' hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour
Gladding the Scythian rocks, and Libyan sands.
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure
Winter's sad face, and through the flowery lands
Of fair Engaddi's honey-sweating fountains,
With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the
mountains.

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night,
The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light,
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spite,
He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay

Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heaven and earth.

He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase,
Make proud the ruby portals of the east.
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace,
Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast.
He saw the falling idols all confess
A coming Deity. He saw the nest

Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst,
Touch'd with the world's true antidote to burst.

He saw Heaven blossom with a new-born light,
On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed
The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright
The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed
(Nor ask'd leave of the sun), by day as night.
By whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) raised
Three kings (or what is more) three wise men went
Westward, to find the world's true orient.

That the great angel-blinding light should shrink
His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye.
That the unmeasured God so low should sink,
As pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie.
That from his mother's breast he milk should drink,
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family,

That a vile manger his low bed should prove,
Who in a throne of stars thunders above.

That he whom the sun serves, should faintly peep
Through clouds of infant flesh: that he the old
Eternal Word should be a child and weep:
That he who made the fire should fear the cold:
That Heaven's high Majesty his court should keep
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd:

That glory's self should serve our griefs and fears,
And free eternity submit to years.

And further, that the law's eternal Giver
Should bleed in his own law's obedience;
And to the circumcising knife deliver
Himself, the forfeit of his slave's offence.
That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed for ever,
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense.
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt
Entangles his lost thoughts past getting out :

While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged breast,
His gloomy bosom's darkest character
Was in his shady forehead seen express'd.
The forehead's shade in grief's expression there,
Is what in sign of joy among the blest,
The face's lightning, or a smile is here.
Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest,
A desperate Oh me! drew from his deep breast.
Oh me! (thus bellow'd he); oh me! what great
Portents before mine eyes their powers advance?
And serve my purer sight, only to beat
Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance?
Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat?
And the gay stars lead on their golden dance;
Can his attempts above still prosperous be,
Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me?

He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose bright

And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear.
And for the never-fading fields of light,
My fair inheritance, he confines me here
To this dark house of shades, horror, and night,
To draw a long-lived death, where all my cheer
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears,

That mankind's torment waits upon my tears.

Dark dusky man, he needs would single forth,
To make the partner of his own pure ray:

| And should we powers of Heaven, spirits of worth,
Bow our bright heads before a king of clay?
It shall not be, said I; and clomb the north,
Where never wing of angel yet made way.

What though I miss'd my blow yet I struck
And to dare something, is some victory*. [high,

Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest
Hell from me too, and sack my territories?
Vile human nature, means he not t' invest
(0 my despite !) with his divinest glories?
And rising with rich spoils upon his breast,
With his fair triumphs fill all future stories?
Must the bright arms of heaven rebuke these eyes?
Mock me, and dazzle my dark mysteries?

Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves
Of stars that gild the morn in charge were given?
The nimblest of the lightning-winged loves?
The fairest, and the first born smile of Heaven?
Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves,
Rev'rently circled by the lesser seven ;

Such and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes
Oppress'd the common people of the skies.

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And yet whose force fear I have I so lost Myself? my strength too with my innocence? Come, try who dares, heaven, earth, whate'er dost A borrow'd being, make thy bold defence. [boast

Come thy Creator too, what though it cost
Me yet a second fall? we'd try our strengths.
Heavens saw us struggle once: as brave a fight
Earth now shall see, and tremble at the sight.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

[Born, 1605. Died, 1654.]

THE mother of this poet, who was daughter to Lord Morley, is reported to have written the famous letter of warning, in consequence of which the gunpowder plot was discovered. His father, who had been suspected of a share in Babington's conspiracy, and who had owed his release to his being godson to Queen Elizabeth, was a second time imprisoned, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the agents in the gunpowder plot; but by Lord Morley's interest was pardoned, on condition of confining himself to Worcestershire, of which county he lived to write a voluminous history.

The family were catholics; and his son, the poet, was sent to St. Omer's, we are told, with a view to make him a Jesuit, which he declined. The same intention never failed to be ascribed to all English families who sent their children to that seminary. On his return from the Continent he lived chiefly with his father, who was his pre

TO CASTARA, INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER.
WHY doth the stubborn iron prove
So gentle to th' magnetic stone?
How know you that the orbs do move;
With music too? since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.

'Tis not thy virtues, each a star
Which in thy soul's bright sphere do shine,
Shooting their beauties from afar,

To make each gazer's heart like thine;
Our virtues often meteors are.
"Tis not thy face, I cannot spy,
When poets weep some virgin's death,
That Cupid wantons in her eye,
Or perfumes vapour from her breath,
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'er
So vain as in that to delight:
Which, balance it, no weight doth bear,
Nor yet is object to the sight,
But only fills the vulgar ear.

Nor yet thy fortunes: since I know
They, in their motion like the sea

Ebb from the good, to the impious flow:
And so in flattery betray,

That raising they but overthrow.

ceptor. Of the subsequent course of his life nothing more seems to be on record than his marriage and his literary works. The latter consisted of effusions entitled Castara, the poetical name of his mistress; the Queen of Arragon, a tragi-comedy; a History of Edward IV.; and Observations upon History.

Habington became a poet from the courtship of the lady whom he married, Lucy, daughter to Lord Powis. There is no very ardent sensibility in his lyrics, but they denote a mind of elegant | and chaste sentiments. He is free as any of the minor poets of his age from the impurities which were then considered as wit. He is indeed rather ostentatiously platonic, but his love language is far from being so elaborate as the complimentary gallantry of the preceding age. A respectable gravity of thought, and succinct fluency of expression, are observable in the poems of his later life.

And yet these attributes might prove
Fuel enough t'inflame desire;
But there was something from above,
Shot without reason's guide, this fire.
I know, yet know not, why I love.

CUPIO DISSOLVI.

THE Soul which doth with God unite,
Those gaieties how doth she slight
Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!

How violent are her throes till she
From envious earth deliver'd be,

Which doth her flight restrain!
How doth she doat on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And every murdering pain!

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame's more precious breath;
And every gaudy circumstance
That doth the pomp of life advance,
At the approach of death!

The cunning of astrologers
Observes each motion of the stars,

Placing all knowledge there :
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.

The wandering pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind,
Still gazing on the pole.
The politician scorns all art

But what doth pride and power impart,
And swells the ambitious soul.

But he whom heavenly fire doth warm,
And 'gainst these powerful follies arm,
Doth soberly disdain

All these fond human mysteries
As the deceitful and unwise
Distempers of our brain.

He as a burden bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away
On every idle cause:

But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or die,

Regardless of th' applause.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great,
And treachery of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul t'enthrone Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fear,

To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear.

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?

And when thou shalt my soul refine, That it thereby may purer shine, Shall I grieve for the dross?

SONG.

FROM THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON. A Tragi-Comedy.

Nor the Phoenix in his death,

Nor those banks where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yield a perfume like her breath.

But O! marriage makes the spell,
And 'tis poison if I smell.

The twin-beauties of the skies,
(When the half-sunk sailors haste
To rend sail, and cut their mast,)
Shine not welcome, as her eyes.

But those beams, than storms more black,
If they point at me, I wrack.

Then for fear of such a fire,

Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite,

I must from my life retire.

But O no! for if her eye

Warm me not, I freeze, and die.

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WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE.

[Born, 1619. Died, Jan. 11, 1689.]

I BELIEVE the only notice of this poet that is to be found is in Langbaine, who informs us that he was a physician at Shaftesbury, in Dorsetshire, in the reigns of Charles I. and II. He wrote a single tragi-comedy," Love's Victory," which was acted after the Restoration under the new title of "Wits led by the Nose, or the Poet's Revenge." His Pharonnida, an heroic poem, in five books, which Langbaine says has nothing to recommend it, is one of the most interesting stories that was ever told in verse, and contained so much amusing matter as to be made into a prose novel in the reign of Charles II. What Dr. Johnson said unjustly of Milton's Comus, that it was like gold hid under a rock, may unfortunately be applied with too much propriety to Pharonnida. Never perhaps was so much beautiful design in poetry marred by infelicity of execution his ruggedness of versification, abrupt transitions, and a style that is at once slovenly and quaint, perpetually interrupted in enjoying the splendid figures and spirited pas

sions of this romantic tablet, and make us catch them only by glimpses. I am well aware that from a story so closely interwoven a few selected passages, while they may be more than sufficient to exemplify the faults, are not enough to discover the full worth of Chamberlayne. His sketches, already imperfect, must appear still more so in the shape of fragments; we must peruse the narrative itself to appreciate the rich breadth and variety of its scenes, and we must perhaps accustom our vision to the thick medium of its uncouth style to enjoy the power and pathos of his characters and situations. Under all the defects of the poem, the reader will then indeed feel its unfinished hints affect the heart and dilate the imagination. From the fate of Chamberlayne a young poet may learn one important lesson, that he who neglects the subsidiary graces of taste has every chance of being neglected by posterity, and that the pride of genius must not prompt him to disdain the study of harmony and of style.

PHARONNIDA, BOOK II. CANTO III.

Argalia being brought before the Princess Pharonnida on a false accusation of murder, they fall in love with each other, although the Princess is obliged, with a reluctant heart, to condemn him on false evidence.

HIGH mounted on an ebon throne on which

Th' embellish'd silver show'd so sadly rich

As if its varied form strove to delight

Yet, though now depress'd

Even in opinion, which oft proves the best
Support to those whose public virtues we
Adore before their private guilt we see,
His noble soul still wings itself above

Passion's dark fogs; and like that prosperous dove

Those solemn souls which death-pale fear did fright, The world's first pilot, for discovery sent,

In Tyrian purple clad, the princess sate,
Between two sterner ministers of fate,
Impartial judges, whose distinguish'd tasks
Their various habit to the view unmasks.
One, in whose looks, as pity strove to draw
Compassion in the tablets of the law,
Some softness dwelt, in a majestic vest
Of state-like red was clothed; the other, dress'd
In dismal black, whose terrible aspect
Declared his office, served but to detect
Her slow consent, if, when the first forsook
The cause, the law so far as death did look.
Silence proclaim'd, a harsh command calls forth
Th' undaunted prisoner, whose excelling worth
In this low ebb of fortune did appear
Such as we fancy virtues that come near
The excellence of angels-fear had not
Rifled one drop of blood, nor rage begot
More colour in his cheeks-his soul in state,
Throned in the medium, constant virtue sat.

When all the floods that bound the firmament
O'erwhelm'd the earth, conscience' calm joys to
increase,

Returns, freight with the olive branch of peace.
Thus fortified from all that tyrant fear
O'erawed the guilty with, he doth appear.
Not all

His virtues now protect him, he must fall
A guiltless sacrifice, to expiate

No other crime but their envenom'd hate.
An ominous silence-such as oft precedes
The fatal sentence-while the accuser reads
His charge, possess'd the pitying court in which
Presaging calm Pharonnida, too rich

In mercy, heaven's supreme prerogative,
To stifle tears, did with her passion strive
So long, that what at first assaulted in
Sorrow's black armour, had so often been
For pity cherish'd, that at length her eyes
Found there those spirits that did sympathise

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