« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
It has been supposed (and not without every appearance of good reason) that this pensive strain, “ most musical, most melancholy,” gave the first suggestion of the spirited introduction to Milton's • Il Penseroso.'
“Hence, vain deluding joys,
The same writer thus moralises on the life of man, in a set of similes, as apposite as they are light and elegant :
“ Like to the falling of a star,
The flight is past, and man forgot.” “ The silver foan which the wind severs from the parted wave” is not more light or sparkling than this: the dove's downy pinion is not softer and smoother than the verse. We are too ready to conceive of the poetry of that day, as altogether oldfashioned, meagre, squalid, deformed, withered and wild in its attire, or as a sort of uncouth monster, like “ grim-visaged, comfortless despair,” mounted on a lumbering, unmanageable Pegasus, dragon-winged and leaden-hoofed; but it as often wore a sylph-like form with Attic vest, with fairy feet, and the butterfly's gaudy wings. The bees were said to have come, and built their hive in the mouth of Plato when a child ; and the fable might be transferred to the sweeter accents of Beaumont and Fletcher! Beaumont died at the age of five-and-twenty. One of these writers makes Bellario the Page say to Philaster, who threatens to take his life
" 'Tis not a life;
But here was youth, genius, aspiring hope, growing reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer-pride, or like "the lily on its stalk green,” which makes us repine at fortune and almost at nature, that seems to set so little store by their greatest favour. ites. The life of poets is, or ought to be (judging of it from the light it lends to ours,) a golden dream, full of brightness and sweetness,“ lapt in Elysium;" and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision, by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like a vapour, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals has run out. Fletcher too was prematurely cut off by the plague. Raphael died at four-and-thirty, and Correggio at forty. Who can help wishing that they had lived to the age of Michael Angelo and Titian? Shakspeare might have lived another half century, enjoying fame and repose, “now that his task was smoothly done," listening to the music of his name, and better still, of his own thoughts, without minding Rymer's abuse of “the tragedies of the last age.”
His native stream of Avon would then have flowed with softer murmurs to the ear, and his pleasant birthplace, Stratford, would in that case have worn even a more gladsome smile than it does, to the eye of fancy !-Poets, however, have a sort of privileged after-life, which does not fall to the common lot; the rich and mighty are nothing but while they are living ; their power ceases with them: but “the sons of me. mory, the great heirs of fame,” leave the best part of what was theirs, their thoughts, their verse, what they most delighted and prided themselves in, behind them—imperishable, incorruptible, immortal !—Sir John Beaumont (the brother of our dramatist), whose loyal and religious effusions are not worth much, very feelingly laments his brother's untimely death in an epitaph upon him :
" Thou shouldst have followed me, but Death (to blame)
Thy Muse, the hearer's Queen, the readers Love,
Beaumont's verses addressed to Ben Jonson at the Mermaid
merry meetings at the Mermaid.]
Methinks the little wit I had is lost
* So in Rochester's epigram :
" Sternhold and Hopkins had great qualms
Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown
I shall not in this place repeat Marlowe's celebrated song, • Come live with me and be my love, nor Sir Walter Raleigh's no less celebrated answer to it (they may both be found in Walton's Complete Angler,' accompanied with scenery and remarks worthy of them); but I may quote, as a specimen of the high and romantic tone in which the poets of this age thought and spoke of each other, the · Vision upon the Conceipt of the Faëry Queen,' understood to be by Sir Walter Releigh :
“Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
A higher strain of compliment cannot well be conceived than this, which raises your idea even of that which it disparages in the comparison, and makes you feel that nothing could have torn the writer from his idolatrous enthusiasm for Petrarch and his Laura's tomb, but Spenser's magic verses and diviner · Faëry Queen'—the one lifted above mortality, the other brought from the skies!
The name of Drummond of Hawthornden is in a manner entwined in cypher with that of Ben Jonson. He has not done himself or Jonson any credit by his account of their conversa.
tion; but his sonnets are in the highest degree elegant, harmonious, and striking. It appears to me that they are more in the manner of Petrarch than any others that we have, with a certain intenseness in the sentiment, an occasional glitter of thought, and uniform terseness of expression. The reader may judge for himself from a few examples.
"I know that all beneath the moon decays,
But that, alas ! I both must write and love."
“Fair moon, who with thy cold and silver shine
This is the eleventh sonnet: the twelfth is full of vile and forced conceits, without any sentiment at all; such as calling the sun “the goldsmith of the stars,” “the enameller of the moon,” and “the Apelles of the flowers.” This is as bad as
* His mistress.