Can this be he who hither came "Alas! when evil men are strong "A recreant harp, that sings of fear The pair were servants of his eye They moved about in open sight, He knew the rocks which angels haunt He hath kenn'd them taking wing: On the blood of Clifford calls;-- First shall head the flock of war!" Alas! the fervent harper did not know That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed, Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred. INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER AT WOODSTOCK. SUCH was old Chaucer: such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony inform'd The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life; through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero; who in times Dark and untaught, began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land. MARK AKENSIDE. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. MERRY Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning, In everything That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Or hawk of the tower; Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; So courteous, so kind, Or hawk of the tower. JOHN SKELTON. EPIGRAM ON SIR FRANCIS DRAKE. BEN JONSON AN ODE TO HIMSELF. WHERE dost thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die: And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings? Or droop they as disgraced To see their seats and bowers by chatter ing pies defaced? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause Let this thought quicken thee; 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. Remain my pledge in heaven, as sent to Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learn- There didst thou vanquish shame and What hath he lost that such great grace hath won? Yoong yeeres for endless yeeres, and hope unsure Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure: A king gave thee thy name: a kingly minde Oh, happie race with so great praises run! In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy | Where, though I mourn my matchless loss That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio Dwell thou in endless light, discharged fell! Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time! Whose vertues, wounded by my worthlesse rime, Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. soul, Freed now from Nature's and from For tune's trust, While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll, And run the rest of my remaining dust. SIR HENRY WOTTON. TEARS WEPT AT THE GRAVE OF SIR ALBERTUS MORTON. SILENCE, in truth, would speak my sorrow best, For deepest wounds can least their feelings tell; Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest But time to bid him, whom I loved, farewell. O my unhappy lines! you that before Have served my youth to vent some wanton cries, And now, congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR, MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame; Strength to accent, "Here my Albertus While I confess thy writings to be such, lies!" This is the sable stone, this is the cave And womb of earth, that doth his corpse embrace: While others sing his praise, let me engrave These bleeding numbers to adorn the place. Here will I paint the characters of woe; Here will I pay my tribute to the dead; And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow, To humanize the flints whereon I tread. As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much; 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage; but these ways Were not the path I meant unto thy praise: For seeliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right, Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise: |