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THOMAS MAY.

[Born, 1595. Died, 1650.]

THOMAS MAY, whom Dr. Johnson has pronounced the best Latin poet of England, was the son of Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield in Sussex. During the earlier part of his public life he was encouraged at the court of Charles the First, inscribed several poems to his majesty, as well as wrote them at his injunction, and received from Charles the appellation of "his poet." During this connection with royalty he wrote his five dramas, translated the Georgics and Pharsalia, continued the latter in English as well as Latin, and by his imitation of Lucan acquired the reputation of a modern classic in foreign countries. It were much to be wished, that on siding with the parliament in the civil wars, he had left a valedictory testimony of regret for the necessity of opposing, on public grounds, a monarch who had been personally kind to him. The change was stigmatized as ungrateful, and it was both sordid and ungrateful, if the account given by his enemies can be relied on, that it was owing to the king's refusal of the laureateship, or of a pension-for the story is told in different ways. All that can be suggested in May's behalf is, that no complimentary dedications could pledge his principles on a great question of public justice, and that the motives of an action are seldom traced with scrupulous truth, where it is the bias of the narrator to degrade the action itself. Cla

THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND.

FAIR Rosamond within her bower of late
(While these sad storms had shaken Henry's state,
And he from England last had absent been)
Retired herself; nor had that star been seen
To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace
The woods or walks adjoining to the place.
About those places, while the times were free,
Oft with a train of her attendants she
For pleasure walk'd; and like the huntress queen,
With her light nymphs, was by the people seen.
Thither the country lads and swains, that near
To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her.
Their jolly May-games there would they present,
Their harmless sports and rustic merriment,
To give this beauteous paragon delight.
Nor that officious service would she slight;
But their rude pastimes gently entertain.

Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see
The eclipse of beauty, and for ever be
Accursed by woeful lovers,-all alone
Into her chamber Rosamond was gone; ....
While thus she sadly mused, a ruthful cry
Had pierced her tender ear, and in the sound
Was named (she thought) unhappy Rosamond.

The Heir, C.; Antigone, T.; Julia Agrippina, T.; Cleopatra, T.; Old Couple, C.; to which may be added Julius Caesar, a tragedy, still in manuscript.

rendon, the most respectable of his accusers, is exactly in this situation. He begins by praising his epic poetry as among the best in our language, and inconsistently concludes by pronouncing that May deserves to be forgotten.

The parliament, from whatever motive he embraced their cause, appointed him their secretary and historiographer. In this capacity he wrote his Breviary, which Warburton pronounces "a just composition according to the rules of history." It breaks off, much to the loss of the history of that time, just at the period of the Self-denying Ordinance. Soon after this publication he went to bed one night in apparent health, having drank freely, and was found dead in the morning. His death was ascribed to his nightcap being tied too tightly under his chin. Andrew Marvel imputes it to the cheerful bottle. Taken together, they were no bad receipt for suffocation. The vampire revenge of his enemies in digging him up from his grave, is an event too notorious in the history of the Restoration. They gave him honourable company in this sacrilege, namely, that of Blake.

He has ventured in narrative poetry on a similar difficulty to that Shakspeare encountered in the historical drama, but it is unnecessary to show with how much less success. Even in that department, he has scarcely equalled Daniel or Drayton.

(The cry was utter'd by her grieved maid,
From whom that clew was taken, that betray'd
Her lady's life,) and while she doubting fear'd,
Too soon the fatal certainty appear'd:

For with her train the wrathful queen was there:
Oh! who can tell what cold and killing fear
Through every part of Rosamond was struck?
The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook,
And like an ivory statue did she show
Of life and motion reft. Had she been so
Transform'd in deed, how kind the Fates had been,
How pitiful to her! nay to the queen!
Even she herself did seem to entertain
Some ruth; but straight revenge return'd again,
And fill'd her furious breast. "Strumpet, (quoth she)
I need not speak at all; my sight may be
Enough expression of my wrongs, and what
The consequence must prove of such a hate.
Here, take this poison'd cup" (for in her hand
A poison'd cup she had) "and do not stand
To parley now: but drink it presently,
Or else by tortures be resolved to die!
Thy doom is set." Pale trembling Rosamond
Receives the cup, and kneeling on the ground,
When dull amazement somewhat had forsook
Her breast, thus humbly to the queen she spoke :
"I dare not hope you should so far relent,
Great queen, as to forgive the punishment

That to my foul offence is justly due.
Nor will I vainly plead excuse, to show
By what strong arts I was at first betray'd,
Or tell how many subtle snares were laid
To catch mine honour. These though ne'er so true,
Can bring no recompense at all to you,
Nor just excuse to my abhorred crime.
Instead of sudden death, I crave but time,

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No more,(replied the furious queen;) have done; Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone, And that a sterner death for thee remain." No more did Rosamond entreat in vain; But, forced to hard necessity to yield, Drank of the fatal potion that she held. And with it enter'd the grim tyrant Death: Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne, And pardon those that her destruction Haddoubly wrought. "Forgive, O Lord, (said she,) Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry queen! If you had spared my life, I might have been

In time to come the example of your glory;
Not of your shame, as now; for when the story
Of hapless Rosamond is read, the best
And holiest people, as they will detest
My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor,
And call unjust, the rage of Eleanor.
And in this act of yours it will be thought
King Henry's sorrow, not his love, you sought."
And now so far the venom's force assail'd
Her vital parts, that life with language fail'd.
That well-built palace where the Graces made
Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids play'd
And couch'd their shafts,whose structure did delight
Even nature's self, is now demolish'd quite,
Ne'er to be raised again; the untimely stroke
Of death that precious cabinet has broke,
That Henry's pleased heart so long had held.
With sudden mourning now the house is fill'd;
Nor can the queen's attendants, though they fear
Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbear.
By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade;
So crushed falls the lily's tender blade. . . . .

RICHARD CRASHAW.

[Born, 1615? Died, 1652.]

THIS poet fell into neglect in his own age. He was, however, one of the first of our old minor poets that was rescued from oblivion in the following century. Pope borrowed from him, but acknowledged his obligations. Crashaw formed his style on the most quaint and conceited school of Italian poetry, that of Marino; and there is a prevalent harshness and strained expression in his verses; but there are also many touches of beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his thoughts sometimes appears even in their distortion. If it were not grown into a tedious and impertinent fashion to discover the sources of Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice some similarity between the speech of Satan in the Sospetto di Herode of Marino (which Crashaw has translated) and Satan's address to the Sun in Milton. The little that is known of Crashaw's life exhibits enthusiasm, but it is not that of a weak or selfish mind. His private character was amiable; and we are told by the earliest editor of his "Steps to the Temple," that he was skilled in music, drawing, and engraving. His father, of whose writings an account is given in the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a preacher at the Temple church, London. His son, the poet, was born in London, but at what time is uncertain. He was educated at the Charterhouse through the bounty of two friends, Sir Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From

SOSPETTO

arts.

thence he removed to Cambridge, where he became a fellow, and took a degree of master of There he published his Latin poems, in one of which is the epigram from a scripture passage, ending with the line, so well known,

Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit, "The modest water saw its God, and blush'd:" and also his pious effusions, called "Steps to the Temple." The title of the latter work was in allusion to the church at Cambridge, near his residence, where he almost constantly spent his time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered to the universities, he preferred ejection and poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. He soon after embraced the Catholic religion, and repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he had no great transition to make to catholicism; and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he had witnessed, together with his admiration of the works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still more easily account for his conversion. Cowley found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recommendation to Italy, where he became a secretary to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. Soon after the latter appointment he died, about the year 1652.

D'HERODE. LIB. I.

BELOW the bottom of the great abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things;
The world's profound heart pants; their placed is
Mischief's old master, close about him clings

A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks; these loathsome strings
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties,
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.....

W

From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing air
This mortal enemy to mankind's good,
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair
The fields of Palestine with so pure a flood;
There does he fix his eyes, and there detect
New matter to make good his great suspect.

He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark
Set the contending sons of heaven on fire:
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark
Sybils' divining leaves; he does inquire
Into the old prophecies, trembling to mark
How many present prodigies conspire

To crown their past predictions, both he lays
Together, in his ponderous mind both weighs.

Heaven's golden-winged herald, late he saw
To a poor Galilean virgin sent;

How low the bright youth bow'd,and with what awe
Immortal flowers to her fair hand present.
He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth by his devotion, who began
Betimes to be a saint, before a man.

He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour
Of the icy north, from frost-bound Atlas' hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour
Gladding the Scythian rocks, and Libyan sands.
He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure
Winter's sad face, and through the flowery lands

Of fair Engaddi's honey-sweating fountains, With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the mountains.

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night,
The heaven-rebuked shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light,
Amazed the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not; mad with spite,
He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay

Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heaven and earth.

He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase,
Make proud the ruby portals of the east.
He saw the temple sacred to sweet peace,
Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast
He saw the falling idols all confess
A coming Deity. He saw the nest

Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst, Touch'd with the world's true antidote to burst.

He saw Heaven blossom with a new-born light, On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed (Nor ask'd leave of the sun,) by day as night. By whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) raised

Three kings (or what is more) three wise men

went

Westward, to find the world's true orient...

That the great angel-blinding light should shrink
His blaze, to shine in a poor shepherd's eye.
That the unmeasured God so low should sink,
As pris'ner in a few poor rags to lie.
That from his mother's breast he milk should drink,
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair family,
That a vile manger his low bed should prove,
Who in a throne of stars thunders above.

That he whom the sun serves, should faintly peep
Through clouds of infant flesh: that he the old
Eternal Word should be a child and weep:
That he who made the fire should fear the cold:
That Heaven's high Majesty his court should keep
In a clay cottage, by each blast controll'd:

That glory's self should serve our griefs and fears,
And free eternity submit to years.

And further, that the law's eternal Giver
Should bleed in his own law's obedience;
And to the circumcising knife deliver
Himself, the forfeit of his slave's offence.
That the unblemish'd Lamb, blessed for ever,
Should take the mark of sin, and pain of sense.
These are the knotty riddles, whose dark doubt
Entangles his lost thoughts past getting out:
While new thoughts boil'd in his enraged breast,
His gloomy bosom's darkest character
Was in his shady forchead seen express'd.
The forehead's shade in grief's expression there,
Is what in sign of joy among the blest,
The face's lightning, or a smile is here.

Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest, A desperate Oh me! drew from his deep breast.

Oh me! (thus bellow'd he ;) oh me! what great
Portents before mine eyes their powers advance ?
And serve my purer sight, only to beat
Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance?
Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat?
And the gay stars lead on their golden dance;
Can his attempts above still prosperous be,
Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me?

He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose bright

And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear.
And for the never-fading fields of light,
My fair inheritance, he confines me here
To this dark house of shades, horror, and night,
To draw a long-lived death, where all my cheer
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears,

That mankind's torment waits upon my tears.
Dark dusky man, he needs would single forth,
To make the partner of his own pure ray:
And should we powers of Heaven, spirits of worth,
Bow our bright heads before a king of clay?
It shall not be, said I; and clomb the north,
Where never wing of angel yet made way.

What though I miss'd my blow? yet I struck high, And to dare something, is some victory.

*Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.-MILTON.

Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest
Hell from me too, and sack my territories?
Vile human nature, means he not t' invest
(0 my despite!) with his divinest glories?
And rising with rich spoils upon his breast,
With his fair triumphs fill all future stories?
Must the bright arms of heaven rebuke these eyes?
Mock me, and dazzle my dark mysteries?

Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves
Of stars that gild the morn in charge were given?
The nimblest of the lightning-winged loves?
The fairest, and the first-born smile of Heaven?
Look in what pomp the mistress planet moves,
Rev'rently circled by the lesser seven;

Such and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes
Oppress'd the common people of the skies.

Ah, wretch! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes
Where dawning hope no beam of comfort shows?
While the reflection of thy forepast joys
Renders thee double to thy present woes.
Rather make up to thy new miseries,
And meet the mischief that upon thee grows.
If hell must mourn, heaven sure shall sympathize.
What force cannot effect, fraud shall devise.

And yet whose force fear I have I so lost
Myself? my strength too with my innocence?
Come, try who dares, heaven, earth, whate'er dost
A borrow'd being, make thy bold defence. [boast
Come thy Creator too, what though it cost
Me yet a second fall? we'd try our strengths.
Heavens saw us struggle once: as brave a fight
Earth now shall see, and tremble at the sight.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

[Born, 1605. Died, 1654.]

THE mother of this poet, who was daughter to Lord Morley, is reported to have written the famous letter of warning, in consequence of which the gunpowder plot was discovered. His father, who had been suspected of a share in Babington's conspiracy, and who had owed his release to his being godson to Queen Elizabeth, was a second time imprisoned, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the agents in the gunpowder plot; but by Lord Morley's interest was pardoned, on condition of confining himself to Worcestershire, of which county he lived to write a voluminous history.

The family were catholics; and his son, the poet, was sent to St. Omer's, we are told, with a view to make him a Jesuit, which he declined. The same intention never failed to be ascribed to all English families who sent their children to that seminary. On his return from the Continent he lived chiefly with his father, who was his

CUPIO DISSOLVI.

THE Soul which doth with God unite,
Those gayeties how doth she slight

Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!
How violent are her throes till she
From envious earth deliver'd be,

Which doth her flight restrain !
How doth she doat on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so-dreaded axe,

And every murdering pain!

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame's more precious breath;
And every gaudy circumstance
That doth the pomp of life advance,
At the approach of death!

preceptor. Of the subsequent course of his life. nothing more seems to be on record than his marriage and his literary works. The latter consisted of effusions entitled Castara, the poetical name of his mistress; the Queen of Arragon, a tragi-comedy; a History of Edward IV.; and Observations upon History.

Habington became a poet from the courtship of the lady whom he married, Lucy, daughter to Lord Powis. There is no very ardent sensibility in his lyrics, but they denote a mind of elegant and chaste sentiments. He is free as any of the minor poets of his age from the impurities which were then considered as wit. He is indeed rather ostentatiously platonic, but his love language is far from being so elaborate as the complimentary gallantry of the preceding age. A respectable gravity of thought, and succinct fluency of expression, are observable in the poems of his later life.

The cunning of astrologers
Observes each motion of the stars,
Placing all knowledge there:
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.

The wandering pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind,
Still gazing on the pole.
The politician scorns all art
But what doth pride and power impart,
And swells the ambitious soul.

But he whom heavenly fire doth warm And 'gainst these powerful follies arm, Doth soberly disdain

All these fond human mysteries

A's the deceitful and unwise

Distempers of our brain.

He as a burden bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away
On every idle cause:
But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or die,

Regardless of th' applause.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great,

And treachery of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul t' enthrone Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fear,

To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear.

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?

And when thou shalt my soul refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the dross?

THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

LIKE the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade;
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd,

For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.
Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace,
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.
She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands:
And so innocent, that ill,
She nor acts, nor understands

Women's feet run still astray
If once to ill they know the way

She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft honour splits her mast:
And retir'dness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthron'd for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast
Sweetly spends a winter's night.

O'er that darkness whence is thrust,
Prayer and sleep oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me.

TO CASTARA, INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER.
WHY doth the stubborn iron prove

So gentle to th' magnetic stone?
How know you that the orbs do move;
With music too? since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.

"Tis not thy virtues, each a star
Which in thy soul's bright sphere do shine,
Shooting their beauties from afar,

To make each gazer's heart like thine;
Our virtues often meteors are.

"Tis not thy face, I cannot spy,
When poets weep some virgin's death,
That Cupid wantons in her eye,

Or perfumes vapour from her breath,
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'er

So vain as in that to delight:

Which, balance it, no weight doth bear,

Nor yet is object to the sight,

But only fills the vulgar ear.

Nor yet thy fortunes: since I know
They, in their motion like the sea
Ebb from the good, to the impious flow:
And so in flattery betray,

That raising they but overthrow.
And yet these attributes might prove
Fuel enough t'inflame desire;
But there was something from above,
Shot without reason's guide, this fire.
I know, yet know not, why I love.

SONG.

FROM "THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON."
A Tragi-Comedy.

NOT the Phoenix in his death,

Nor those banks where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yield a perfume like her breath.
But O! marriage makes the spell,
And 'tis poison if I smell.

The twin-beauties of the skies,
(When the half-sunk sailors haste
To rend sail, and cut their mast,)
Shine not welcome, as her eyes.

But those beams, than storms more black,
If they point at me, I wrack.

Then for fear of such a fire,

Which kills worse than the long night
Which benumbs the Muscovite,

I must from my life retire.

But O no! for if her eye

Warm me not, I freeze, and die.

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