through all the windings of romantic love, plots, escapes, and adventures, more time is required than the author's busy age could afford-we need hardly wonder that Chamberlayne was an unsuccessful poet. His works were almost totally forgotten, till, in our own day, an author no less remarkable for the beauty of his original compositions than for his literary research and sound criticism, Mr Campbell, in his Specimens of the Poets,' in 1819, by quoting largely from 'Pharonnida,' and pointing out the rich breadth and variety of its scenes,' and the power and pathos of its characters and situations, drew attention to the passion, imagery, purity of sentiment, and tenderness of description, which lay, like metals in the mine,' in the neglected volume of Chamberlayne. We cannot, however, suppose that the works of this poet can ever be popular; his beauties are marred by infelicity of execution; though not deficient in the genius of a poet, he had little of the skill of the artist. The heroic couplet then wandered at will, sometimes into a wilderness of sweets,' but at other times into tediousness, mannerism, and absurdity. The sense was not compressed by the form of the verse, or by any correct rules of metrical harmony. Chamberlayne also laboured under the disadvantage of his story being long and intricate, and his style such-from the prolonged tenderness and pathos of his scenes as could not be appreciated except on a careful and attentive perusal. Denham was patent to all-short, sententious, and perspicuous. The dissatisfaction of the poet with his obscure and neglected situation, depressed by poverty, breaks out in the following passage descriptive of a rich simpleton: How purblind is the world, that such a monster, A strong prophetic dream, The heart o' th' microcosm, about which is hurl'd The spangled curtains of the sky, within Chamberlayne, like Milton, was fond of describing the charms of morning. We have copied one passage in the previous notice of Denham, and numerous brief sketches, Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round, are interspersed throughout his works. For example Born high, that robs me of my liberty? Would I esteem this mercenary band, As those far more malignant powers that stand, Those doubtful paths, through all the shades of fear EDMUND WALLER. EDMUND WALLER (1605-1687) was a courtly and amatory poet, inferior to Herrick or Suckling in natural feeling and poetic fancy, but superior to them in correctness and in general powers of versification. The poems of Waller have all the smooth Edmund Waller. ness and polish of modern verse, and hence a high, perhaps too high, rank has been claimed for him as one of the first refiners and improvers of poetical diction. One cause of Waller's refinement was doubtless his early and familiar intercourse with the court and nobility, and the light conversational nature of most of his productions. He wrote for the world of fashion and of taste-consigning The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade. And he wrote in the same strain till he was upwards of fourscore! His life has more romance than his poetry. Waller was born at Coleshill, in Hertfordshire, and in his infancy was left heir to an estate of £3000 per annum. His mother was a sister of the celebrated John Hampden, but was a royalist in feeling, and used to lecture Cromwell for his share in the death of Charles I. Her son, the poet, was either a roundhead or a royalist, as the time served. He entered parliament and wrote his first poem when he was eighteen. At twenty-five, he married a rich heiress of London, who died the same year, and the poet immediately became a suitor of Lady Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the Earl of Leicester. To this proud and peerless fair one Waller dedicated the better portion of his poetry, and the groves of Penshurst echoed to the praises of his Sacharissa. Lady Dorothea, however, was inexorable, and bestowed her hand on the Earl of Sunderland. It is said that, meeting her long afterwards, when she was far advanced in years, the lady asked him when he would again write such verses upon her. When you are as young, madam, and as handsome, as you were then,' replied the ungallant poet. The incident affords a key to Waller's character. He was easy, witty, and accomplished, but cold and selfish; destitute alike of high principle and deep feeling. As a member of parliament, Waller distinguished himself on the popular side, and was chosen to conduct the prosecution against Judge Crawley for his opinion in favour of levying ship-money. His speech, on delivering the impeachment, was printed, and 20,000 copies of it sold in one day. Shortly afterwards, however, Waller joined in a plot to surprise the city militia, and let in the king's forces, for which he was tried and sentenced to one year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of £10,000. His conduct on this occasion was mean and abject. At the expiration of his imprisonment, the poet went abroad, and resided, amidst much splendour and hospitality, in France. He returned during the protectorate, and when Cromwell died, Waller celebrated the event in one of his most vigorous and impressive poems. The image of the commonwealth, though reared by no common hands, soon fell to pieces under Richard Cromwell, and Waller was ready with a congratulatory address to Charles II. The royal offering was considered inferior to the panegyric on Cromwell, and the king himself (who admitted the poet to terms of courtly intimacy) is said to have told him of the disparity. 'Poets, sire,' replied the witty, self-possessed Waller, 'succeed better in fiction than in truth.' In the first parliament summoned by Charles, Waller sat for the town of Hastings, and he served for different places in all the parliaments of that reign. Bishop Burnet says he was the delight of the house of commons. At the accession of James II. in 1685, the venerable poet, then eighty years of age, was elected representative for a borough in Cornwall. The mad career of James in seeking to subvert the national church and constitution was foreseen by this wary and sagacious observer: 'he will be left,' said he, like a whale upon the strand.' Feeling his long-protracted life drawing to a close, Waller purchased a small property at Coleshill, saying, 'he would be glad to die like the stag, where he was roused.' The wish was not fulfilled; he died at Beaconsfield on the 21st of October 1687, and in the churchyard of that place (where also rest the ashes of Edmund Burke) a monument has been erected to his memory. 6 The first collection of Waller's poems was made by himself, and published in the year 1664. It went through numerous editions in his lifetime; and in 1690 a second collection was made of such pieces as he had produced in his latter years. In a poetical dedication to Lady Harley, prefixed to this edition, and written by Elijah Fenton, Waller is styled the Maker and model of melodious verse. This eulogium seems to embody the opinion of Waller's contemporaries, and it was afterwards confirmed by Dryden and Pope, who had not sufficiently studied the excellent models of versification furnished by the old poets, and their rich poetical diction. The smoothness of his versification, his good sense, and uniform elegance, rendered him popular with critics as with the multitude; while his prominence as a public man, for so many years, would increase curiosity as to his works. Waller is now seldom read. The playfulness of his fancy, and the absence of any striking defects, are but poor substitutes for genuine feeling and the language of nature. His poems are chiefly short and incidental, but he wrote a poem on Divine Love, in six cantos. Cowley had written his 'Davideis,' and recommended sacred subjects as adapted for poetry; but neither he nor Waller succeeded in this new and higher walk of Waller's Tomb. the muse. Such an employment of their talents was graceful and becoming in advanced life, but their fame must ever rest on their light, airy, and occasional poems, dictated by that gallantry, adulation, and play of fancy, which characterised the cavalier poets. On Love. Anger, in hasty words or blows, Should some brave Turk, that walks among While her high pride does scarce descend So the tall stag, upon the brink He straight resumes his wonted care; On a Girdle. That which her slender waist confin'd On the Marriage of the Dwarfs. To him, for whom Heav'n seem'd to frame Thrice happy is that humble pair, As if the world held none but them. Like moving mountains topp'd with snow; Does to his Galatea seem. Ah! Chloris, that kind Nature thus A Panegyric to the Lord Protector. Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, Still as you rise, the state exalted too, The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys. Had you, some ages past, this race of glory If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword, You, that had taught them to subdue their focs, Above our neighbours our conceptions are ; But faultless writing is the effect of care. Our lines reform'd, and not compos'd in haste, Polish'd like marble, would like marble last. But as the present, so the last age writ: In both we find like negligence and wit. Were we but less indulgent to our faults, And patience had to cultivate our thoughts, Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage Would honour this than did the Grecian stage. [The British Navy.] When Britain, looking with a just disdain And now some months, encamping on the main, Others may use the ocean as their road, At Penshurst. While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer Of such stern beauty, plac'd those healing springs? I might, like Orpheus, with my num'rous moan Of just Apollo, president of verse; Highly concerned that the Muse should bring Thus he advis'd me: On yon aged tree Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea, 1 Sir Philip Sidney. Flies for relief unto the raging main, But from those gifts which Heav'n has heap'd on her. The Bud. Lately on yonder swelling bush, To the young flow'r my breath has done. If our loose breath so much can do, Say, Lovely Dream-a Song. Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face? Colours of this glorious kind Come not from any mortal place. In heav'n itself thou sure wert dress'd With that angel-like disguise; Thus deluded, am I blest, And see my joy with closed eyes. But, ah! this image is too kind To be other than a dream; Cruel Sacharissa's mind Ne'er put on that sweet extreme. Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine; Paint despis'd love in thy face, And make it t' appear like mine. Pale, wan, and meagre, let it look, Of Lethe, or from graves escape. Then to that matchless nymph appear, In whose shape thou shinest so; Softly in her sleeping ear With humble words express my wo. Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride, And, death resembling, equals all. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir'd; Suffer herself to be desir'd, And not blush so to be admir'd. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share Old Age and Death. The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; As they draw near to their eternal home. 1608. His father was of an ancient Catholic family, but having embraced the Protestant faith, he was disinherited, and had recourse, as a means of support, to the profession of a scrivener-one who draws legal contracts, and places money at interest. The firmness and the sufferings of the father for conscience' sake, tinctured the early feelings and sentiments of the son, who was a stern unbending champion of religious freedom. The paternal example may also have had some effect on the poet's taste and accomplishments. The elder Milton was distinguished as a musical composer, and the son was well skilled in the same soothing and delightful art. The variety and harmony of his versification may no doubt be partly traced to the same source. Coleridge styles Milton a musical, not a picturesque, poet. saying, however, is more pointed than correct. In the most musical passages of Milton (as the lyrics in 'Comus'), the pictures presented to the mind are as distinct and vivid as the paintings of Titian or The |