Page images
PDF
EPUB

This is going rather too far. We cheerfully acknowledge Lord Cochrane to be a bold and skilful seaman; and, having said this, we stop.

Mrs. Graham is an agreeable writer; and the volume before us may be perused both with profit and pleasure; it embraces every topic, from the sublime elevation of political truth to the humblest detail of domestic life. Although the work of a female traveller, it is, upon the whole, free from sentimental affectation: sometimes, indeed, the delicate hand and neat crow-quill is employed in producing a sample of fine writing, which, however, soon gives place to the plain sensible recital of facts. The Chinese fire-works are only let off now and then.

Specimens of the earlier English Poets. 12mo.-
London. 1824.

WE regard the attention which has lately been given to the earlier English poets as indicative of considerable improvement in the public taste. It is not many years since they were treated with total neglect, and the very existence of the greater part of their works was scarcely better known in England than in China. A few literary men, however, whose taste was not formed in the trammels of conventional criticism, have succeeded in attracting notice to these fountains of pure and genuine poesy; and many of the majestic bards of the "olden time," now receive the meed of popular admiration which they so well deserve.

The volume before us is a very laudable endeavour to extend the acquaintance of the general reader with the works of our earlier poets. The compiler is evidently a man well acquainted with the ancient literature of his country, and fully capable of appreciating its value. Upwards of seventy pages, at the commencement of the volume, are occupied by a selection from the works of Marlowe, consisting of his poem of Hero and Leander, and some fine extracts from his Doctor Faustus. Of Hero and Leander, "Ben Jonson, a man conscious enough of his own abilities, was often heard to say, that it was more fit for admiration than parallel." Faustus is an astonishing specimen of dramatic power, and contains some passages probably unequalled except by some of the finest parts of Shakspeare. The story is generally known. The following extract exhibits the termination of his career as delineated by

VOL. I. PART II.

1

FF

Marlowe, his covenant with the prince of darkness expiring at twelve o'clock.

(The clock strikes eleven.)

Oh! Faustus,

FAUSTUS, solus.

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.
Fair Nature's eye! rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day! or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul,
O lentè, lentè, currite noctis equi!

The stars move still-time runs the clock will strike,
The devil will come and Faustus must be damned.
Oh! I'll leap up to heaven!-who pulls me down?
(Distractedly.)

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament.
One drop will save me. Oh! my Christ!

(Attempts to pray.)
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him-Oh! spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'tis gone! and see

A threat'ning arm, an angry brow!

Mountains and hills! come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! No
Then will I headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth! Oh no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reign'd at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon lab'ring cloud.

(The clock chimes the half hour.)
Oh! half the hour is past, 'twill all be past anon.—
Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sins,
Impose some end to my incessant pain!
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years
A hundred thousand and at last be sav'd.
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Curs'd be the parents that engendered me-
No, Faustus! curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven,
(The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes! it strikes! Now body! turn to air
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell,

O soul! be chang'd into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean-ne'er be found.

(Thunder.) Enter the DEVILS.
Oh! mercy, heav'n, look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books! oh, Mephostophilis! [Exeunt.

What must be thought of the state of the public taste, when such writers as Marlowe were neglected for Colley Cibber and Aaron Hill?

The poems of Sir Walter Raleigh succeed the selection from Marlowe, and of these we shall select one equally singular and beautiful. It is called the "Soul's Farewell," and there is a tradition that it was written by Raleigh just before his death, and in the immediate contemplation of that event. It has been shewn, however, that it was in existence more than twenty years before. But the "legend," to use the words of Mr. Campbell, ❝is so highly interesting to the fancy," that we cannot help wishing it true, and are half angry with those careful enquirers who come with their facts and dates to call us from the bright regions of romance into the sober walk of history.

66

THE FAREWELL.

?

"Go, Soul, the Body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand ;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give them all the lie.

"Go, tell the Court it glows,

And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good, but does no good.
If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.

"Tell Potentates, they live

Acting, but Oh! their actions
Not lov'd, unless they' give;
Nor strong, but by their factions.
If Potentates reply,

Give Potentates the lie.

FF 2

"Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate:
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie,

"Tell those that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending
Who in their greatest cost

Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

"Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it is but motion;
Tell Flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

"Tell Age it daily wasteth;

Tell Honour how it alters; Tell Beauty that it blasteth; Tell Favour that she falters And as they do reply, Give

every one the lie.

"Tell Wit how much it wrangles

In fickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And if they do reply,
Then give them both the lie.

"Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is pretension;

Tell Charity of coldness;
Tell Law it is contention :
And if they yield reply,
Then give them still the lie.

"Tell Fortune of her blindness;
Tell Nature of decay;
Tell Friendship of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay:

And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.

1

"Tell Arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming;

Tell Schools they lack profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming :
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.

"Tell Faith it's fled the city;

Tell how the Country erreth;
Tell Manhood, shakes off pity;
Tell Virtue, least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

"So, when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing;

Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing;

Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the Soul can kill!"

The next place in the work is devoted to Crashaw, whom Milton imitated, and from whom he borrowed some of his best images, and then declared the author unworthy of notice. We have only room to extract his translation of the 137th Psalm, which, as the present editor observes, is remarkably fine.

"On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,
There we sat, and there we wept;

Our harps that now no music understood,
Nodding on the willows slept,

While unhappy captiv'd we,

Lovely Sion! thought on thee.

"They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast
Would have a song carv'd to their ears

In Hebrew numbers, then, O cruel jest!
When harps and hearts were drown'd in tears:
Come, they cry'd, come sing and play,

One of Sion's songs to-day.

"Sing! play! to whom, ah! shall we sing or play,
If not, Jerusalem, to thee?

Ah, thee, Jerusalem! ah! sooner may

This hand forget the mastery

Of music's dainty touch, than I

The music of thy memory!

« PreviousContinue »