Or quick designs of France! Why not repair And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade The world to his great master, and you'll find Thus let us value things: and since we find O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care Description of Castara. Like the violet which, alone, For she's to herself untrue, Folly boasts a glorious blood, Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will Where vice is enthron'd for wit. O'er that darkness, whence is thrust She her throne makes reason climb, SIR JOHN SUCKLING. SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1608-1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-day Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm. He dreamt of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state to James I., and comptroller of the household to Charles I. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy; and at sixteen he had entered on public life! His first appearance was as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served one campaign. On his return, he entered warmly into the cause of Charles I., and raised a troop of horse in his support. He intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Strafford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial, he fled to France, but a fatal accident took place by the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling, learning the circumstance, drew on his boots hurriedly, to pursue him; a rusty nail, or (according to another account) the blade of a knife, had been concealed in the boot, which wounded him, and produced mortification, of which he died. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some private letters. poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier, Suckling has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes too voluptuous, but are rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It has touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. One well-known verse has never been excelled Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light; But oh! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight!* His *Herrick, who had no occasion to steal, has taken this image from Suckling, and spoiled it in the theft Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep Like Sir Fretful Plagiary, Herrick had not skill to steal with taste. Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning. [SONG.-'Tis now, since I sat down before.] Tis now, since I sat down before (Time strangely spent!) a year, and more ; Made my approaches, from her hand And did already understand The language of her eyes; Proceeded on with no less art, I thought to undermine the heart When this did nothing, I brought down A thousand thousand to the town, I then resolv'd to starve the place To draw her out, and from her strength, I drew all batteries in: And brought myself to lie at length, When I had done what man could do, And smil'd at all was done. I sent to know from whence, and where, A spy inform'd, Honour was there, And did command in chief. arch, march (quoth I); the word straight give, Let's lose no time, but leave her; That giant upon air will live, And hold it out for ever. To such a place our camp remove I hate a fool that starves for love, A Ballad upon a Wedding. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, At Charing Cross, hard by the way And there did I see coming down Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Our landlord looks like nothing to him: * But wot you what? the youth was going The parson for him staid : The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, Her finger was so small, the ring And, to say truth (for out it must), Is half so fine a sight. * Her cheeks so rare a white was on, Who sees them is undone; For streaks of red were mingled there, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Her mouth so small, when she does speak, But she so handled still the matter, Passion, oh me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride : The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, When all the meat was on the table, And this the very reason was, The company were seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. Constancy. Out upon it, I have lov'd Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen in her place. Song. I prithee send me back my heart, Yet now I think on't, let it lie, For thou'st a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie, Oh love! where is thy sympathy, But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, Song. Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, If of herself she will not love, The devil take her. The Careless Lover. Never believe me if I love, Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove ; And she's extremely handsome too; I fairly will forego it. This heat of hope, or cold of fear, When I am hungry I do eat, A gentle round fill'd to the brink, Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall, I visit, talk, do business, play, Song. Hast thou seen the down in the air, When wanton blasts have tost it! Or the ship on the sea, When ruder winds have crost it? Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride, Oh! so fickle; oh! so vain ; oh! so false, so false is she! Detraction Execrated. Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Where each meant more than could by both be said. Much less could'st have it from the purer fire; Thou hast no correspondence had in heaven, The plot is complicated and obscure, and the characters are deficient in individuality. It must be read, like the Faery Queen, for its romantic descriptions, and its occasional felicity of language. The versification is that of the heroic couplet, varied, like Milton's Lycidas, by breaks and pauses in the middle Whence hadst thou, then, this, talking monster? even of the line. Curst be th' officious tongue that did address May it one minute taste such happiness, Deserving lost unpitied it lament! I must forbear her sight, and so repay In grief, those hours' joy short'ned to a dream; JOHN CHALKHILL. A pastoral romance, entitled Thealma and Clearchus, was published by Izaak Walton in 1683, with a title-page stating it to have been written long since by JOHN CHALKHILL, Esq., an acquaintant and friend of Edmund Spenser.' Walton tells us of the author, that he was in his time a man generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging in his behaviour; a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent; and, indeed, his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Thealma and Clearchus' was reprinted by Mr Singer, who expressed an opinion that, as Walton had been silent upon the life of Chalkhill, he might be altogether a fictitious personage, and the poem be actually the composition of Walton himself. A critic in the Retrospective Review,* after investigating the circumstances, and comparing the Thealma with the acknowledged productions of Walton, comes to the same conclusion. Sir John Hawkins, the editor of Walton, seeks to overturn the hypothesis of Singer, by the following statement:- Unfortunately, John Chalkhill's tomb of black marble is still to be seen on the walls of Winchester cathedral, by which it appears he died in May 1679, at the age of eighty. Walton's preface speaks of him as dead in May 1678; but as the book was not published till 1683, when Walton was ninety years old, it is probably an error of memory.' The tomb in Winchester cannot be that of the author of Thealma, unless Walton committed a further error in styling Chalkhill an acquaintant and friend' of Spenser. Spenser died in 1599, the very year in which John Chalkhill, interred in Winchester cathedral, must have been born. We should be happy to think that the Thealma was the composition of Walton, thus adding another laurel to his venerable brow; but the internal evidence seems to us to be wholly against such a supposition. The poetry is of a cast far too high for the muse of Izaak, which dwelt only by the side of trouting streams, and among quiet meadows. The nomme de guerre of Chalkhill must also have been an old one with Walton, if he wrote Thealma; for, thirty years before its publication, he had inserted in his Complete Angler' two songs, signed 'Jo. Chalkhill.' The disguise is altogether very unlike Izaak Walton, then ninety years of age, and remarkable for his unassuming worth, probity, and piety. We have no doubt, therefore, that Thealma is a genuine poem of the days of Charles or James I. The scene of this pastoral is laid in Arcadia, and the author, like the ancient poets, describes the golden age and all its charms, which were succeeded by an age of iron, on the introduction of ambition, avarice, and tyranny. * Retrospective Review, vol. iv., page 230. The article appears to have been written by Sir Egerton Brydges, who contributed largely to that work. [The Witch's Care.] Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock, * Next unto his view She represents a banquet, usher'd in Had a more wanton eye, that here and there Or whether some fantastic form it were, By his still working thoughts; so fix'd upon 137 [The Priestess of Diana.] As the wind gave it being:-so sweet an air * A hundred virgins there he might espy Was blest with the sweet words that came from her. [The Votaress of Diana.] Clarinda came at last And fring'd about with gold: white buskins hide WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT (1611-1643) was one of Ben Jonson's adopted sons of the muses, and of his works Jonson remarked- My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' Cartwright was a favourite with his contemporaries, who loved him living, and deplored his early death. This poet was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had squandered away a patrimonial estate. In 1638, after complet ing his education at Oxford, Cartwright entered into holy orders. He was a zealous royalist, and was imprisoned by the parliamentary forces when they arrived in Oxford in 1642. In 1643, he was chosen junior proctor of the university, and was also reader in metaphysics. At this time, the poet is said to have studied sixteen hours a day! Towards the close of the same year, Cartwright caught malignant fever, called the camp disease, then pre valent at Oxford, and died December 23, 1643. The king, who was then at Oxford, went into mourning for Cartwright's death; and when his works were published in 1651, no less than fifty copies of encomiastic verses were prefixed to them by the wits and scholars of the time. It is difficult to conceive, from the perusal of Cartwright's poems, why he should have obtained such extraordinary applause and reputation. His pieces are mostly short, occasional productions, addresses to ladies and noblemen, or to his brother poets, Fletcher and Jonson, or slight amatory effusions not distinguished for elegance or fancy. His youthful virtues, his learning, loyalty, and admiration of genius, seem to have mainly contributed to his popularity, and his premature death would renew and deepen the impression of his worth and talents. Cartwright must have cultivated poetry in his youth: he was only twentysix when Ben Jonson died, and the compliment quoted above seems to prove that he had then been busy with his pen. He mourned the loss of his poetical father in one of his best effusions, in which he thus eulogises Jonson's dramatic powers: But thou still puts true passion on; dost write With the same courage that tried captains fight; Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things; Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care, Big without swelling, without painting fair. To a Lady Veiled. So Love appear'd, when, breaking out his way Such doubtful light had sacred groves, where rods Thus looks the country virgin, whose brown hue |