Let Venus have thy graces, her resign'd, To Hyrcan tygres, and to ruthles beares. SONNET. CARE-CHARMER Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night, To modell forth the passions of the morrow: With streames of milke, and hunny dropt from trees, Not that the earth did gage Unto the husband-man Her voluntary fruites, free without fees: Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile, Th' eternall flowring spring Wherein liv'd every thing, And whereon th' heavens perpetually did smile, Not for no ship had brought From forraine shores, or warres or wares ill sought. But onely for that name, That idle name of wind: That idoll of deceit, that empty sound Call'd Honor, which became The tyran of the minde: And so torments our nature without ground, Was not yet vainly found: Nor were his hard lawes knowne to free-borne hearts. But golden lawes like these Which Nature wrote. That's lawfull which doth please! Then amongst flowres and springs Making delightfull sport, Sate lovers without conflict, without flame, And nymphs and shepheards sings Mixing in wanton sort Whisp'rings with songs, then kisses with the same Which from affection came: The naked virgin then Her roses fresh reveales, Which now her vaile conceales, The tender apples in her bosome seene, And oft in rivers cleere The lovers with their loves consorting were. Honor, thou first didst close The spring of all delight: Denying water to the amorous thirst; Thou taught'st faire eyes to lose The glory of their light, Restrain'd from men, and on themselves reverst. Thou in a lawne didst first Those golden haires incase, Late spred unto the wind; Thou mad'st loose grace unkind, Gav'st bridle to their words, art to their pace. O Honour it is thou That mak'st that stealth, which love doth free allow. It is thy worke that brings Our griefes, and torments thus: But thou fierce lord of Nature and of Love, The quallifier of kings, What doest thou here with us That are below thy power, shut from above? Goe and from us remove, Trouble the mighties sleepe, Let us neglected, base, Live still without thy grace, And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keepe; Let's love, this life of ours Can make no truce with time that all devours. Let's love, the sun doth set, and rise againe, But when as our short light Comes once to set, it makes eternall night. AN ODE. Now each creature joyes the other, (Babling guest of rocks and hils,) My lives florish is decayed, That depended on her eyes: But her will must be obeyed, And well he ends for love who dies. MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Harsull, Warwickshire, in 1563;-the descendant of an "ancient and worthy" family. "In his tender age he was blessed with a forwardness of genius, a sweetness of aspect, temper and deportment;" and when only ten years old was placed as page to "some person of honour." His mind appears to have had an early bias towards poetry, and it is recorded of him that while yet a child, he was anxious to know what "kind of creatures those Poets were"-beseeching his tutor "of all things to make him one." He studied at Oxford; and afterwards probably held some post in the army of Elizabeth. In 1593, he first appeared before the world as an author; a collection of "Pastorals," was soon followed by the "Barons Wars." In 1613, he published the first part of the Poly-olbion; and the second part in 1622; and in 1626, the addition of Poet Laureat was affixed to his name. In 1631, he "exchanged his laurel for a crown of glory," and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His monument, it is said, was erected by the Countess of Dorset, and his epitaph was written either by Ben Jonson or Quarles-both of whom were his personal friends. The epitaph is a fine model of this style of composition. "Doe pious marble, let thy Readers know Of the numerous works of Drayton—including Congratulatory Odes, Divine Odes, Elegies, Fables, Legends, Heroical Epistles, and Historical Poems-there are but two that have maintained their popularity-Nymphidia, or the Court of Fayrie, and the Poly-olbion. The Nymphidia, which Dr. Anderson characterises as a fine "Prelude to the Witch's Cauldron in Macbeth-forgetting that Drayton flourished long after the retirement of the great Bard-is manifestly founded on the Midsummer Night's Dream. It is one of the most spirited and fanciful compositions in the language66 a master-piece in the grotesque kind." The Poly-olbion he has himself described as a strange Herculean toil "--but it exhibits the writer's large and accurate knowledge as an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer; and although somewhat too heavy for the general reader, burthened as it is by the nature of the subject and the measure employed, it presents frequent examples of the rich fancy of the Poet, and is written throughout with untiring vigour and freshness. It is a topographical register in verse, containing descriptions of the several parts of England, interspersed with episodes concerning the Roman Conquest, the coming of the Saxons, the influx of the Danes, &c. &c., and intermixed with accounts of our Island rivers, mountains, forests, castles, &c. &c., and biographical sketches of our great men. The volume consists of thirty "songs," the first eighteen of which were illustrated by notes of the learned Selden, accompanied by maps, representing the various cities, woods, &c. by figures of men and women. The poem must be read for information rather than pleasure; to peruse it, indeed, from beginning to end would be a task almost as difficult as the "Herculean toil" of the writer. If his knowledge is so acute and accurate as to have rendered him "an authority" among geographers and historians, his learning has not rendered his work valuable to the lovers of that less rugged lore which is studied by the heart. Some of the lesser poems of Drayton, however, are full of fire; they have a bold and lofty tone; and flow as freely as if the Poet was unconscious of the restraints which rhyme and measure imposed upon him—while the versification is exceedingly correct and harmonious. Among his "sonnets" may be found some of the most perfect in the language. Although invariably containing in each fourteen lines, he appears to have been aware that they were not formed upon the rules to which it is understood the sonnet is subjected, and gave to them the title of Ideas. In a manuscript note on the Life of Daniel, Coleridge says, "A noble epitaph, more sweet and rhythmetical than Jonson commonly is, and more robust and dignified than Quarles." HERE then I cannot choose but bitterly exclaime Against those fools that all antiquity defame, Because they have found out, some credulous ages laid Slight fictions with the truth, whilst truth or rumour staid; And that one forward time (perceiving the neglect A former of her had) to purchase her respect, With toys then trimm'd her up, the drowsy world t' allure, And lent her what it thought might appetite procure To man, whose mind doth still varietie pursue; And therefore to those things whose grounds were very true, |