With as much zeal, devotion, piety, Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green! Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell, Epitaph on the Living Author. Here, stranger, in this humble nest, Here, in no sordid poverty, And no inglorious ease, The little earth, he asks, survey: Is he not dead, indeed? 'Light lie that earth,' good stranger, pray, 'Nor thorn upon it breed!' With flowers, fit emblem of his fame, With flowers of every fragrant name, Claudian's Old Man of Verona. Happy the man who his whole time doth bound Which both preserv'd his life, and gave him birth. The cold and heat winter and summer snows; A neighbouring wood, born with himself, he sees, Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, About the spacious world let others roam: HENRY VAUGHAN. HENRY VAUGHAN (1614-1695) published in 1651 a volume of miscellaneous poems, evincing considerable strength and originality of thought and copious imagery, though tinged with a gloomy sectarianism and marred by crabbed rhymes. Mr Campbell scarcely does justice to Vaughan, in styling him " one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit,' though he admits that he has 'some few scattered thoughts that meet our eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren heath.' As a sacred poet, Vaughan has an intensity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He was a Welshman (born in Brecknockshire), and had a dash of Celtic enthusiasm. He first followed the profession of the law, but afterwards adopted that of a physician. He does not seem to have attained to a competence in either, for he complains much of the proverbial poverty and suffering of poets As they were merely thrown upon the stage, In his latter days Vaughan grew deeply serious and devout, and published a volume of religious poetry, containing his happiest effusions. The poet was not without hopes of renown, and he wished the river of his native vale to share in the distinction When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, Early Rising and Prayer. [From Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems."] Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Three blessings wait upon them, one of which The Rainbow. [From the same.] Still young and fine, but what is still in view The Story of Endymion. [Written after reading M. Gombauld's Romance I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen From common frailty-the severe contempt Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle: these and more, Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Of frothy billows, and in one great name In the same piece find scatter'd philosophy, Timber. Sure thou didst flourish once, and many springs, And still a new succession sings and flies, THOMAS STANLEY, THOMAS STANLEY, the learned editor of Eschylus, and author of a History of Philosophy, appears early in this period as a poet, having published a volume of his verses in 1651. The only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knight, of Camberlow-Green, in Hertfordshire, he was educated at Pembroke college, Oxford; spent part of his youth in travelling; and afterwards lived in the Middle Temple. His poems, whether original or translated, are remarkable for a rich style of thought and expression, though deformed to some extent by the conceits of his age. The Tomb. When, cruel fair one, I am slain And, as a trophy of thy scorn, Nor can thy flame immortal burn, And when forsaken lovers come To view the spoils thy beauty made, Lest thy too cruel breath or name But if cold earth, or marble, must The pride of all thy victory Will sleep with me; And they who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast A faith so bright, As Time or Fortune could not rust; Have read thy story in my dust, And crown'd thy name With laurel verdant as thy youth, Whilst the shrill voice of Fame Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. This thou hast lost, For all true lovers, when they find And none will lay But such as would betray Thy faith to faiths as false as thine. Yet, if thou choose On such thy freedom to bestow, Affection may excuse, For love from sympathy doth flow. Note on Anacreon. [The following piece is a translation by Stanley from a poem by St Amant, in which that writer had employed his utmost genius to expand and enforce one of the over-free sentiments of the bard of Teios.] Let's not rhyme the hours away; Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, Nor his fiddle longer follow: Fie upon his forked hill, With his fiddle-stick and quill; And the Muses, though they're gamesome, Are a mere poetic madness: Pegasus is but a horse; He that follows him is worse. See, the rain soaks to the skin, * Make it rain as well within. Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, All night revel, rant, and quaff; Till the morn stealing behind us, At the table sleepless find us. When our bones (alas !) shall have A cold lodging in the grave; When swift death shall overtake us, We shall sleep and none can wake us. Drink we then the juice o' the vine Make our breasts Lyceus' shrine; Bacchus, our debauch beholding, By thy image I am moulding, Whilst my brains I do replenish With this draught of unmix'd Rhenish; By thy full-branch'd ivy twine; By this sparkling glass of wine; By thy Thyrsus so renown'd; By the healths with which th' art crown'd; By the feasts which thou dost prize; By thy numerous victories; By the howls by Monads made; By this haut-gout carbonade; By thy language cabalistic; By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick ; By this sweet, this fresh and free air; By thy goat, as chaste as we are; By the old man on the ass; By thy cousins in mix'd shapes; Knights of the deep bowl install us ; Never let it want for wine. Note to Moschus. [Stanley here translates a poem of Marino, in which that writer had in his eye the second idyl of Moschus.] Along the mead Europa walks, To choose the fairest of its gems, Which, plucking from their slender stalks, 1 1 When deathless Amaranth, this strife, And ivy enviously beholds, The Violet, by her foot opprest, Doth from that touch enamour'd rise, But, losing straight what made her blest, Hangs down her head, looks pale, and dies. Clitia, to new devotion won, Doth now her former faith deny, Sees in her face a double sun, And glories in apostacy. The Gillyflower, which mocks the skies, And richer scarlet from her cheeks. As represented now in fire. The Crocus, who would gladly claim Awak'd by this approaching morn, But for their kind death humbly call, The royal maid th' applause disdains Rais'd on a verdant thorny throne, SIR JOHN DENHAM. SIR JOHN DENHAM (1615-1668) was the son of the chief baron of exchequer in Ireland, but was educated at Oxford, then the chief resort of all the poetical and high-spirited cavaliers. Denham was wild and dissolute in his youth, and squandered away great part of his patrimony at the gaming-table. He was made governor of Farnham castle by Charles I.; and after the monarch had been delivered into the hands of the army, his secret correspondence was partly carried on by Denham, who was furnished with nine several ciphers for the purpose. Charles had a respect for literature, as well as the arts; and Milton records of him that he made Shakspeare's plays the closet-companion of his solitude. It would appear, however, that the king wished to keep poetry apart from state affairs: for he told Denham, 21 ་ The on seeing one of his pieces, that when men are young, and have little else to do, they may vent the overflowings of their fancy in that way; but when they are thought fit for more serious employments, if they still persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not the way to any better.' poet stood corrected and bridled in his muse. In 1648 Denham conveyed the Duke of York to France, and resided in that country some time. His estate was sold by the Long Parliament; but the Restoration revived his fallen dignity and fortunes. He was made surveyor of the king's buildings, and a knight of the bath. In domestic life the poet does not seem to have been happy. He had freed himself from his early excesses and follies, but an unfortunate marriage darkened his closing years, which were unhappily visited by insanity. He recovered, to receive the congratulations of Butler, his fellowpoet, and to commemorate the death of Cowley, in one of his happiest effusions. Cooper's Hill, the poem by which Denham is now best known, consists of between three and four hundred lines, written in the heroic couplet. The descriptions are interspersed with sentimental digressions, suggested by the objects around-the river Thames, a ruined abbey, Windsor forest, and the field of Runnymede. The view from Cooper's Hill is rich and luxuriant, but the muse of Denham was more reflective than descriptive. Dr Johnson assigns to this poet the praise of being the author of a species of composition that may be denominated local poetry, of which the fundamental subject is some particular landscape, to be poetically described, with the addition of such embellishments as may be supplied by historical retrospection or incidental meditation. Ben Jonson's fine poem on Penshurst may dispute the palm of originality on this point with the Cooper's Hill,' but Jonson could not have written with such correctness, or with such intense and pointed expression, as Denham. The versification of this poet is generally smooth and flowing, but he had no pretensions to the genius of Cowley, or to the depth and delicacy of feeling possessed by the old dramatists, or the poets of the Elizabethan period. He reasoned fluently in verse, without glaring faults of style, and hence obtained the approbation of Dr Johnson far above his deserts. Denham could not, like his contemporary, Chamberlayne, have described the beauty of a summer morning The morning hath not lost her virgin blush, By a full quire of feather'd choristers, Plaited with valleys, and emboss'd with hills Chamberlayne is comparatively unknown, and has never been included in any edition of the poets, yet every reader of taste or sensibility must feel that the above picture far transcends the cold sketches of Denham, and is imbued with a poetical spirit to which he was a stranger. "That Sir John Denham began a reformation in our verse,' says Southey, is one of the most groundless assertions that ever obtained belief in literature. More thought and more skill had been exercised before his time in the construction of English metre than he ever bestowed on the *Chamberlayne's Love's Victory.' subject, and by men of far greater attainments, and far higher powers. To improve, indeed, either upon the versification or the diction of our great writers was impossible; it was impossible to exceed them in the knowledge or in the practice of their art, but it was easy to avoid the more obvious faults of inferior authors and in this way he succeeded, just so far as not to be included in The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; nor consigned to oblivion with the "persons of qua lity" who contributed their vapid effusions to the miscellanies of those days. His proper place is among those of his contemporaries and successors who called themselves wits, and have since been entitled poets by the courtesy of England.'* Denham, nevertheless, deserves a place in English literature, though not that high one which has heretofore been assigned to him. The traveller who crosses the Alps or Pyrenees finds pleasure in the contrast afforded by level plains and calm streams, and so Denham's correctness pleases, after the wild imaginations and irregular harmony of the greater masters of the lyre who preceded him. In reading him, we feel that we are descending into a different scene-the romance is over, and we must be content with smoothness, regularity, and order. My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Though with those streams he no remembrance hold, The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil, * But his proud head the airy mountain hides *Southey's Cowper, vol. ii. p. 130. Which shade and shelter from the hil derives, The four lines printed in Italics have been praised by every critic from Dryden to the present day. [The Reformation-Monks and Puritans.] Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise, But my fix'd thoughts my wandering eye betrays. Viewing a neighbouring hill, whose top of late A chapel crown'd, till in the common fate Th' adjoining abbey fell. May no such storm Fall on our times, where ruin must reform ! Tell me, my muse, what monstrous dire offence, What crime could any Christian king incense To such a rage? Was't luxury or lust? Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just? Were these their crimes? They were his own much more; But wealth is crime enough to him that's poor, In empty, airy contemplation dwell; Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance Denham had just and enlightened notions of the duty of a translator. It is not his business alone, he says, to translate language into language, but poesy into poesy; and poesy is so subtle a spirit, that, in pouring out of one language into another, it will all evaporate; and if a new spirit be not added in the translation, there will remain nothing but a caput mortuum; there being certain graces and happinesses peculiar to every language, which give life and energy to the words.' Hence, in his poetical address to Sir Richard Fanshawe, on his translation of Pastor Fido,' our poet says- That servile path thou nobly dost decline |