flere rests his lead upon the Lap of Earth & Youth to Fortune la to fame unknown:

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Hack! to the filling bells

Ios echocs dess and shouc. While ou the breeze our bariur floată Draped nithe weeds of wees

L. Huirtley higuren

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]




My course is run, my errand done;

Within these woods of Arcadie
But darker ministers of fate,

He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
Impatient, round the eternal throne,

And on the mountaine Parthenie,
And in the caves of vengeance, wait;

Upon the chrystall liquid brooke,
And soon mankind shall blench away

The Muses met him ev'ry day, Before the name of Attila.

That taught hiin sing, to write, and say.

When he descended downe to the mount, His personage seemed most divine,

A thousand graces one might count

Upon his lovely, cheerfull eine ;

To heare him speake and sweetly smile,
To you, my purse, and to noon other wight You were in Paradise the while.
Compleyn I, for ye be my lady dere !

A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,
For certes, but-yf ye make me hevy chere,

| A full assurance given by lookes,

Continuall comfort in a face, Me were as leaf be layde upon my bere,

The lineaments of Gospell bookes; For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye, —

I trowe that countenance cannot lie, Beeth hevy ageyne, or ellès mote I dye !

Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
Now voucheth sauf this day, or it be nyghte,

Was never eie did see that face,
That I of you the blissful soune may here,
Or see your colour lyke the sonné bryghte,

| Was never eare did heare that tong,

Was never minde did minde his grace,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere.
Ye be my lyfe ! ye be myn hertys stere ! +

That ever thought the travell long;
Quene of comfort and good companye !

But eies, and eares, and ev'ry thought,

Were with his sweete perfections caught. Beth hevy ageyne, or ellès mote I dye.

MATTHEW ROYDEN, Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyght

And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,




• "From this unique petition," says Mr. Gilman in his "River. side" Chaucer, there seems to have resulted an additional pension of forty marks a year, on the strength of which Chaucer took a lease of a house in the garden of St. Mary's Chapel, Westminster, for fifty-three years, at an annual rent of two pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence, the lease to be void on the poet's death." So that the practical results of this poetical plaint show that Chaucer well described one of his own characteristics in his description of the MARCHANT, among his Canterbury Pilgrims,

Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway!

"This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette (used)."

t guido.

• The Albion of Brutus, a descendant of Eneas.
King Henry IV. seems to be meant.


She hath a way to sing so clear,

His face ; the Print would then surpass Phæbus might wondering stop to hear.

All that was ever writ in brass. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,

But since he cannot, Reader, look
And nature charm, Anne hath a way ;

Not at his picture, but his book.
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway ;
To breathe delight Anne hath a way.


FROM "PROLOGUE" SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK AT THE OPEN. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth

ING OF THE THEATRE IN DRURY LANE, IN 1747. Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray,

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous

foes To soothe the heart Anne hath a way ;

First reared the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care,

Each change of many-colored life he drew,

Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;

Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, She hath a way,

And panting Time toiled after him in vain : Anne Hathaway ;

His powerful strokes presiding Truth impressed,

And unresisted Passion stormed the breast. To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.

DR SAMUEL JOHNSON. Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst,

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED The emerald mild, the ruby gay ;

MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway !

AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. She hath a way, with her bright eye,

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Their various lustres to defy, —

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look Anne hath a way;

While I confess thy writings to be such
She hath a way,

As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.

'T is true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Anne Hathaway ;

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

For silliest ignorance on these would light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; But were it to my fancy given

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven;

The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ; For, though a mortal made of clay,

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, Angels must love Anne Hathaway ;

And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. She hath a way so to control, To rapture, the imprisoned soul,

But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, And sweetest heaven on earth display,

Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
That to be heaven Anne hath a way;

I therefore will begin : Soul of the age !
She hath a way,

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage !
Anne Hathaway ;

My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way.

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further off, to make thee room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,

And art alive still, while thy book doth live, ON THE PORTRAIT + OF SHAKESPEARE. And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, This figure, that thou here seest put, I mean with great but disproportioned Muses : It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ;

For if I thought my judgment were of years, Wherein the Graver had a strife

I should commit thee surely with thy peers, With Nature to outdo the life :

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, 0, could he but have drawn his wit Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line. As well in brass, as he hath hit

And though thou had small Latin and less Greek,

From thence to honour thee I will not seek • This poem has sometimes, but without much reason, been For names ; but call forth thundering Eschylus, attributed to Shakespeare. The engraving by Martin Droeshout.

| Euripides, and Sophocles to us,


Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, | And stock reserved of every living kind,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,

So, in the compass of the single mind,
And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

That make all worlds. Great poet, 't was thy Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. To know thyself, and in thyself to be
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. Or the firm fatal purpose of the heart
He was not of an age, but for all tine!

Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the And all the Muses still were in their prime,

same, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own fame. Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines ! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,

| AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

DRAMATIC POET, W. SHAKESPEARE. Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please :

| What needs my Shakespeare for his honored

Wut non But antiquated and deserted lie,

bones, As they were not of nature's family.

The labor of an age in piled stones? Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? For though the poet's matter nature be,

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy Who casts to write a living line, must sweat

name? (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat

Thou in our wonder and astonishment Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,

Hast built thyself a livelong monument. And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;

For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ;

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart For a good poet's made as well as bom.

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face Thaco Dolnhin lines with

uce Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Lives in his issue, even so the race

Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly Dost make

brightly Dost make us marble with too much conceivshines

ing; In his well turned and true filed lines :

And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

MILTON Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James !

TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON. But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there!

The Muse's fairest light in no dark time, Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,

The wonder of a learned age ; the line Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage

Which none can pass ! the most proportioned

wit, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned, like night,

To nature, the best judge of what was fit;

The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen ; And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!


The voice most echoed by consenting men ;
The soul which answered best to all well said

By others, and which most requital made ;

| Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,

Returning all her music with his own ; The soul of man is larger than the sky, In whom, with nature, study claimed a part, Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark

And yet who to himself owed all his art : Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, Here lies Ben Jonson ! every age will look Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, With sorrow here, with wonder on his book. O'er the drowned hills, the human family, I


« VorigeDoorgaan »