66

RISE TO PREVENT THE SUN; SLEEP DOTH SIN'S GLUT,

SONNETS.

337

Die to themselves.

Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.

[WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE (see p. 24). The construction of the foregoing is the same as of the Italian sonnet-alternate rhymes, terminating with a couplet. Shakspeare wrote one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, some of which are equal to any in the language, but a mystery attaches to the object of their composition.]

"ON SETTLED POLES TURN SOLID JOYS, AND SUN-LIKE PLEASURES SHINE AT HOME."-COVENTRY PATMORE.

"SWEET ORDER HATH ITS DRAUGHT OF BLISS GRACED WITH THE PEARL OF GOD'S CONSENT."-PATMORE.

II. A COMPARISON AND A MORAL.

OOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

[WILLIAM DRUMMOND, of Hawthornden, born 1585, died 1649, was a
poet of graceful sentiment, and much force, eloquence, and purity of ex-
pression. His principal works are :-"Tears on the Death of Mœliades"
(Prince Henry), "Wandering Muses," "Flowers of Zion," and his "Son-
nets"-the latter remarkable for pathos, fancy, and harmonious versifica-

tion.]

AND HEAVEN'S GATE OPENS WHEN THE WORLD'S IS SHUT."-VAUGHAN.

"THEY ALL ARE GONE INTO A WORLD OF LIGHT, AND I ALONE SIT LINGERING HERE; . . . .

338

FRAIL LIFE! IN WHICH, THROUGH MISTS OF HUMAN BREATH

SONNETS.

THEIR VERY MEMORY IS FAIR AND BRIGHT, AND MY SAD THOUGHTS DOTH CLEAR."-VAUGHAN.

VENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose

bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

* Written on the occasion of the persecution of the Vaudois, inaugurated by the Church of Rome in 1625.

WE GROPE FOR TRUTH, AND MAKE OUR PROGRESS SLOW."-DAVENANT.

"AS ANGELS IN SOME BRIGHTER DREAMS CALL TO THE SOUL WHEN MAN DOTH SLEEP,

HUMBLE WE MUST BE, IF TO HEAVEN WE GO ;

SONNETS.

Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant ; * that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

JOHN MILTON. See p. 62.]

339

SO SOME STRANGE THOUGHTS TRANSCEND OUR WONTED THEMES, AND INTO GLORY PEEP."-VAUGHAN.

IV.-DEATH NOT THE CONQUEROR.

EATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; +

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure then from thee much more dost flow :
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

* Alluding to the tiara, or triple crown, worn by the Pope of Rome.
We may be reminded here of the fine thought of Henry Vaughan
(born 1621, died 1695):-

'Dear, beauteous death-the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere but in the dark-

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!"

HIGH IS THE ROOF THERE, BUT THE GATE IS LOW. -HERRICK.

THOSE SMALLEST THINGS OF NATURE LET ME KNOW,

One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And Death shall be no more-Death, thou shalt die !

[Dr. JOHN DONNE, born 1573, died 1631. This learned and metaphysical
writer overloads his poems with abstruse conceits, and clothes his thoughts
with a shroud of obscurity which is not easily penetrated. They contain,
however, many noble passages and pregnant sentiments, which may well
incline us to forgive the ruggedness of their versification. His principal
works are-his "Elegies,"
""The Pseudo-Martyr," and some remarkable
Sermons.]

"YET WE ARE NEITHER JUST NOR WISE, IF PRESENT MERCIES WE DESPISE; . . . . (GEORGE WITHER)

V. IN MEMORY OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.

IN vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,*
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require ;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine,
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,
To warm their little loves the birds complain;
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

[THOMAS GRAY. See p. 97. This beautiful sonnet was a tribute to the memory of his friend, Richard West.]

* "Amorous descant."-Milton.

RATHER THAN ALL MEN'S GREATEST ACTIONS DO."-COWLEY.

OR MIND NOT HOW THERE MAY BE MADE A THANKFUL USE OF WHAT WE HAD."-GEORGE WITHER.

ALL THINGS ARE WONDER SINCE THE WORLD BEGAN ;

|H, what a weary race my feet have run,

Since first I trod thy bank with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;

Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!

While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return to cheer my native road;
Yet still one joy remains-that not obscure
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature,
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

[THOMAS WARTON, D.D., born 1728, died 1790. An elegant critic, an accomplished scholar, and a graceful if somewhat feeble poet. He rendered some useful service to English literature. His "History of English Poetry," though incomplete, is not unworthy of the subject, nor of the occupant of the Chair of Poetry at Oxford.]

"FALSE WORLD, THOU LIEST: THOU CANST NOT LEND THE LEAST DELIGHT:-(QUARLES)

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea :
Listen! the mighty being is awake,

* One of the sweet Berkshire rivers; flows into the Thames.

THE WORLD'S a riddle, aND THE MEANING'S MAN."-HOLYDAY.

THY FAVOURS CANNOT GAIN A FRIEND, THEY ARE SO SLIGHT."-FRANCIS QUARLES.