XIX. OLD AUTHORS. BEN JONSON. "O RARE Ben Jonson!" so said his cotemporaries, and those cotemporaries the greatest dramatic poets, the greatest poets of any age or clime. "O rare Ben Jonson!" says his tomb in Westminster Abbey ; "O rare Ben Jonson," echo we. But I doubt much whether our praises be not founded on very different qualities from those which were hailed with such acclaim by the marvelous assembly of wits who congregated at the "Mermaid." Hear what Beaumont, in his celebrated epistle to Jonson, says of that fair company. He writes to him from the country: "Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest With the best gamesters. What things have we seen So nimble, and so full of subtile flame, As if that every one, from whom they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life; then, when there hath been shown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past; wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were canceled; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Right witty; though but downright fools, mere wise." These men, admirable judges although they were, seem to have regarded with what we can not but think an over-admiration the art which wanted the crowning triumph of looking like nature, and the learning, which displayed rather than pervading, overlays and encumbers his finely-constructed but heavy and unwieldy plays. We of this age, a little too careless perhaps of learned labor, would give a whole wilderness of Catilines and Poetasters, and even of Alchemists and Volpones, for another score of the exquisite lyrics which are scattered carelessly through the plays and masques which-strange contrast with the rugged verse in which they are imbedded-seem to have burst into being at a stroke, just as the evening primrose flings open her fair petals at the close of the day. Lovelier songs were never written than these wild and irregular ditties. Here are some of them. HYMN TO DIANA, IN "CYNTHIA'S REVELS." Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Seated in thy silver car, State in wonted manner keep. Earth, let not thy envious shade Heaven to clear, when day did close. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever. Thou that mak'st a day of night, SONG, FROM THE SAME. Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears, List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not ours. (Like melting snow upon some craggy hill) Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil. L SONG OF NIGHT, IN THE MASQUE OF "THE VISION OF DELIGHT." Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud, It must have blood, and naught of phlegm; To all the senses here, And fall like sleep upon their eyes, CHORUS, FROM THE SAME. In curious knots and mazes so, And thus did Venus learn to lead The Idalian brawls, and so to tread As if the wind, not she, did walk, Nor pressed a flower, nor bowed a stalk. SONG, IN "THE MASQUE OF BEAUTY." So Beauty on the waters stood When Love had severed Earth from Flood! So, when he parted Air from Fire, He did with concord all inspire! And then a motion he them taught Which thought was yet the child of earth, SONG, FROM "THE SILENT WOMAN." (A lesson, dear ladies.) Still to be neat, still to be drest As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face Such sweet neglect more taketh me, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes all hearts do duty, Unto her beauty, And enamored do wish that they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Thorough swords, thorough seas wheresoever she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light Do but look on her hair, it is bright Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife! Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Ha' you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or have tasted the bag Or the hand in the fire? O so sweet is she! SONG. Oh! do not worship with those eyes, Oh! be not angry with those fires, For then my hopes will spill me. Nor spread them, as distract with fears, SONG TO CELIA. I should hardly perhaps have thought of inserting a song so familiar to every ear as the following, had I not, in turning over Jonson's huge volume, been reminded of a circumstance connected with it which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton talks of airs "married to immortal verse;" but it should seem that there is no marriage without an occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anacreontic, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume to a flower, was in an Independent chapel, where widely different words the words of a hymn-were adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, who said that he saw no reason why Satan should have all the best tunes; and I should not lightly impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, who understood human nature as well as most men. But in this instance, such is the force of association, that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the discrepancy, all the more for the impressive plainness and simplicity of the Presbyterian mode of worship, and the earnest eloquence of the white-haired preacher. The sermon was half over before I had recovered the tone of feeling proper to the place and the occasion. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Must surely be divine; But might I of Love's nectar sup I would not change for wine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, |