TO ALTHEA.-FROM PRISON. WHEN love with unconfined wings When flowing cups run swiftly round Our carelesse heads with roses bound, When (like committed linnets) I Stone walls doe not a prison make, ANDREW MARVELL was born on the 15th of November, 1620, at Kingston-uponHull, where his father was a dissenting minister. At the age of fifteen he was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge, and after a college life of five years, he went through most of the polite parts of Europe. In the course of travel he met with Milton; and Italy not unaptly witnessed the commencement of one of the most illustrious of friendships. In 1645 Marvell returned to England. During the eventful years which then followed, so silent are the records of his life, that we can only imagine the under current of his noble thoughts as they worked up into the arena of public action. One thing is certain-that in an age where wealth was never wanting to the unscrupulous, Marvell, a member of the popular and successful party, continued poor. Many of these years are certain to have been passed "Under the destiny severe Of Fairfax and the Starry Vere," as tutor of languages to their daughters. In 1652 the Lord President Bradshaw received a letter from Milton, introducing a gentleman "whose name is Mr. Marvell," as one of singular desert for the state to make use of, and in which the writer added, with a generous modesty, that in this recommendation he only performed his duty to the public, "laying aside those jealousies and that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me, by bringing in such a coadjutor." This application, however, proved for the time unsuccessful; but a coadjutor in service with this illustrious man Marvell shortly afterwards became-two wonderful servants to a master only more wonderful. The burgesses of Hull then turned admiring eyes to their accomplished fellow-citizen, and sent him, as their representative, into the House of Commons. Through the reign of Charles the Second, the most disgusting period of our history, Marvell, enduring unutterable temptations, realized the fables of Roman virtue. He was flattered and threatened, watched by spies, waylaid by ruffians, tempted by women and by gold. In vain! Still his formidable satires rang through the very halls of the court, were roared forth in almost every tavern, and in the remotest quarters of England held up the profligate and heartless crew of power to public scorn. Thus baffled, hate was the only resource of his enemies, and in their "desires" they were at last successful. On the 16th of August, 1678, without any previous illness or visible decay, Andrew Marvell died. The personal appearance of Marvell has been thus described by Aubrey:-"He was of a middling stature, pretty strong set, roundish face, cherry cheeked, hazel eyed, brown haired. In his conversation he was modest and of very few words." His genius was as varied as it was remarkable. In this volume he occupies a loved and respected place as an exquisite and tender poet-elsewhere he may stand in the first and very highest rank, facile princeps, as an incorruptible patriot, the best of controversialists, and the leading prose wit of England. His are the "first sprightly runnings" of that glorious stream of wit, which will bear upon it down to the latest posterity the names of Swift, Steele, and Addison. Before the time of Marvell, to be witty was to be forced, strained, and conceited. From him wit first came sparkling forth untouched with baser matter. It was like his personal character. Its main feature was an open clearness. Mean detraction or sordid jealousy never for an instant stained it. He turned aside in the midst of an exalted panegyric to Oliver Cromwell, to say the finest things that have ever been said of Charles I.— he left for a while his own wit in the Rehearsal Transposed, to praise the wit of Butler, his rival and political enemy. As a poet Andrew Marvell was true, and this is the grand point in poetry. He was not of the highest order, not perhaps in even a high order, but what he did was genuine. It is sweetness speaking out in sweetness. In the language there is nothing more exquisitely tender than the "Nymph complaining for the loss of her Fawn." Such poems as this and "the Bermudas” may live, and deserve to live, as long as the longest and the mightiest. Of as real a quality are the majority of the poems of Marvell. In a playful and fantastic expression of tender and voluptuous beauty, they are well nigh unrivalled. His fancy indeed sometimes overmasters him, but it is always a sweet and pleasant mastery. His strong love of the actual at times bursts forth, but his poetry still survives it, and will not be fairly clogged and over-laden with the body corporate. SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lye, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flow'rs, and gives them names: But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colours best become them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause, M M And, under her command severe, Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O then let me in time compound, Where I may see the glorys from some shade. Mean time, whilst every verdant thing That violets may a longer age endure. But O, young beauty of the woods, To kill her infants in their prime, Should quickly make the example yours; Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee. BERMUDAS. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride, What should we do but sing his praise, Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Thus sung they, in the English boat, THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. THE wanton troopers riding by, Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive |