SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS,

OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

SECOND PERIOD FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.
(CONTINUED.)

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

THIS poet might have been expected to have belonged to the 'Spasmodic school,' judging by his parental antecedents. His father was accused of having a share in Babington's conspiracy, but was released because he was godson to Queen Elizabeth. Soon after, however, he was imprisoned a second time, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the Gunpowder-plot conspirators; but was pardoned through the interest of Lord Morley. His uncle, however, was less fortunate, suffering death for his complicity with Babington. The poet's mother, the daughter of Lord Morley, was more loyal than her husband or his brother, and is said to have written the celebrated letter to Lord Monteagle, in consequence of which the execution of the Gunpowder-plot was arrested.

Our poet was born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, on the very day of the discovery of the plot, 5th November 1605. The family were Papists, and William was sent to St Omers to be educated. He was pressed to become a Jesuit, but declined. On his return to England, his father became preceptor to the poet. As he grew up, instead of displaying any taste for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' he chose the better part, and lived a private and happy life. He fell in love with Lucia,

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daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis, and celebrated her in his long and curious poem entitled 'Castara.' This lady he afterwards married, and from her society appears to have derived much happiness. In 1634, hé published 'Castara.' He also, at different times, produced The Queen of Arragon,' a tragedy; a History of Edward IV.; and 'Observations upon History.'

He died in 1645, when he had just completed his fortieth year, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip.

'Castara' is not a consecutive poem, but consists of a great variety of small pieces, in all sorts of style and rhythm, and of all varieties of merit; many of them addressed to his mistress under the name of Castara, and many to his friends; with reflective poems, elegies, and panegyrics, intermingled with verses sacred to love. Habington is distinguished by purity of tone if not of taste. He has many conceits, but no obscenities. His love is as holy as it is ardent. He has, besides, a vein of sentiment which sometimes approaches the moral sublime. To prove this, in addition to the 'Selections' below, we copy some verses entitled

'NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.'-David.

When I survey the bright

Celestial sphere,

So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear,

My soul her wings doth spread,
And heavenward flies,

The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volume of the skies;

For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame

So silent, but is eloquent

In speaking the Creator's name.

No unregarded star

Contracts its light

Into so small a character,

Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast look,

We shall discern

In it, as in some holy book,

How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror

That far-stretch'd power,

Which his proud dangers traffic for,

Is but the triumph of an hour;

That, from the furthest North,
Some nation may,

Yet undiscover'd, issue forth,
And o'er his new-got conquest sway,—

Some nation, yet shut in
With hills of ice,

May be let out to scourge his sin
Till they shall equal him in vice;

And then they likewise shall
Their ruin brave;

For, as yourselves, your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires,

And all the pride of life, confute;

For they have watch'd since first
The world had birth,

And found sin in itself accurst,

And nothing permanent on earth.

There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,— the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion.

EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE W. E.

He who is good is happy. Let the loud
Artillery of heaven break through a cloud,
And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain
Unmoved, and nobler comfort entertain,
In welcoming the approach of death, than Vice
E'er found in her fictitious paradise.

Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appetite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age,
Where we are left to satisfy the rage

Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral.

The thought of this begets that brave disdain
With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain
Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court,

And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? Why interpose

A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose
Man's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth
Of her own vanity, we 're left so poor,

The creature merely sensual knows more.
The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds.
Are silenced by a calm, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage; while the sensitive

Part of the world in its first strength doth live.

Folly what dost thou in thy power contain
Deserves our study? Merchants plough the main
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the possession poor.

And yet that idol wealth we all admit
Into the soul's great temple; busy wit
Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites
To shew its superstition; anxious nights
Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast
Content with nature's courtesy doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soul, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee,
Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd
Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd
Far higher than thy birth, I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition paid

With safe content, while a pure virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name;
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for virtuous love;
Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars,
To purchase unsafe honour in the wars,
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge the highest place.
Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread
To greatness, you must sleep among the dead.

TO HIS NOBLEST FRIEND, J. C., ESQ.

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet I love the silence; I embrace the wit And courtship, flowing here in a full tide, But loathe the expense, the vanity, and pride.