TALK XXVII.

ON THE SINGERS OF THE GOLDEN AGE OF POETRY--DONNE, WOTTON, WITHER, HERBERT AND HERRICK.

IN speaking of the dramatic poets, we have noted how many of the play-writers wrote beautiful little lyrics, which we find occurring in their plays; as the Spring song of Thomas Nash (p. 132), or the Labor song of Thomas Dekker, which we have read. If you have ever opened a volume of Shakspeare's plays, I think you could not fail to be caught by the beauty of the lyrics scattered through the book; Ariel's melodious lay in the Tempest:

"Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands,

Court'sied when you have, and kissed
The wild waves whist."

Or the spirited serenade from Cymbeline:

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at the springs,

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their pretty eyes;
With everything that pretty is, my lady, sweet, arise;
Arise! Arise!"

Ben. Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Webster, Marston, and dramatists of lesser rank, all studded their plays with songs, some of them so musical and so fanciful that they are often like jewels shining out in a heap of rubbish, for many of these plays are only the rubbish of literature, redeemed by an occasional fine line, or by one of these beautiful lyrics. There are also many poets not dramatic, but purely lyric,

who sang like larks in this sky. I could count you a score or two through the period covered by the reigns of Elizabeth, James and Charles I. The mention of half a score must content us, and I propose to group together in this talk the principal lyric poets from the time of Spenser to that of Milton.

John Donne comes first on my list. Early in life he was secretary to an earl, and while in this position he Born 1573. fell in love with the earl's niece and married her Died 1631. clandestinely, which so offended the lady's family, and especially her father, that he had the poet turned out from office and actually imprisoned him in the Tower. He was released, however, and won enough renown later to make his stupid old father-in-law ashamed of himself, for Donne became one of the most distinguished preachers of his time, and was made finally the Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral. His marriage turned out very happily. His wife seems to have been romantically devoted to him, and once when he was to go on a journey she formed the design of going with him in the disguise of his page, but was discovered before she could carry out her plan. She died before Donne reached the height of his success, and he grieved for her all his life after.

Donne has been put at the head of the "metaphysical poets," who gained that title from Dr. Johnson, because, as he says, they "were men of learning, and to show their learning was their sole endeavor," so that, instead of writing poetry, they only wrote verses, and often "such verses as stood the test of the finger better than the ear." Johnson's criticism is only occasionally true of the best of these poets, though these best sometimes deserve the worst that he says of them.

For instance, in one poem Donne compares his heart to a mirror shattered into pieces by love, and goes on to prove that as the pieces of broken glass show a hundred lesser faces, "so his broken heart could feel lesser passions, but

In

never one great love like that his lady inspired." another Ode to a Flea which has bitten both himself and his beloved, he talks about their blood being wedded in the black temple of the "insect's body !" If this is metaphysical poetry, the less we have of it the better. But Donne was not always so absurd. Here is something in a better veina quaint good-bye song on going away for a short absence. We will fancy he wrote it to console Mrs. Donne, when he went on the journey from which she was prevented from accompanying him as a page:

66 Sweetest love, I do not go

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter home for me,

But, since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death * to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day.
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way;
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.

*

Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part
And thy fears fulfill

But think that we

Are but laid aside to sleep,

They, who one another keep

Alive, ne'er parted be."

Near Donne in point of time is Wotton, a politician of the Born 1568, time of James I. For the following familiar song, Died 1639. alone, he deserves to be remembered:

That is, by absence, which is "feigned death."

"How happy is he, born or taught,
Who serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
"Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath.

"Who hath his life from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed
Nor ruin make oppressors great.

"This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet has all."

George Wither was a most voluminous writer of prose, as well as poetry. He took the Puritan side in the polit- Born 1588. ical troubles, which came in the reign of Charles I, Died 1667. and wrote satires in verse and tracts in prose on the part of the Roundheads. His zeal got him two or three times imprisoned, and once he was in close danger of losing his life. At this time, Sir John Denham, a royalist, who was also a poet, interceded for Wither, saying that he wanted him. spared, that there might be in England one poet accounted worse than he (Denham). This witty intercession of his brother poet probably saved Wither's life.

His published works number almost one hundred. Among so much prose and verse, satires, hymns, love songs, etc., there must be much worthless stuff. Yet there are some which place Wither among the very best of the singers. I have cnosen his rhymes on Christmas because they have such a spirited ring, and give such a vivid picture of a jovial Englist Christmastide:

"Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every part with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Around your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

"Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning,
Their ovens they with baked meats choke
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die
We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

"Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor;

Young men and maids, and girls and boys,

Give life to one another's joys,

And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

"Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth,

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.

The country folks themselves advance

With crowdy-muttons out of France,

And Jack shall pipe, and Gill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.

"Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With droppings of the barrel.

And those that hardly all the year

Have bread to eat, or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

"Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errants, And if they hap to fail in these