Which here enamels everything, Thus sung they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. COURAGE, MY SOUL! A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE RESOLVED SOUL AND Courage, my soul! now learn to wield And show that nature wants an art To conquer one resolvéd heart. Pleasure. Welcome, the creation's guest, Soul. Lord of earth, and heaven's heir! I sup above, and cannot stay Soul. Soul. Soul. Thou in fragrant clouds shalt show A soul that knows not to presume Soul. See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born), And in its little globe's extent How it the purple flower does slight, Shines with a mournful light, Because so long divided from the sphere. Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away; Yet receiving in the day; Dark beneath, but bright above; Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go; How girt and ready to ascend; Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.1 How vainly men themselves amaze, Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen 1 This poem is printed as a translation in Marvell's works; but the original Latin is obviously his own. Here is a speci men of it: . "Alma Quies, teneo te! et te germana Quietis When we have run our passion's heat Only that she might laurel grow: What wondrous life is this I lead! Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, The mind, that ocean where each kind To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Such was that happy garden-state, How well the skilful gardener drew, How could such sweet and wholesome hours Thomas Stanley. Stanley (1625-1678) edited schylus, wrote a creditable "History of Philosophy," and, in 1651, published a volume of verse. He was educated at Oxford, and spent part of his youth in travelling. His poems, though de formed by the conceits fashionable at the time, give signs of a rich and genuine poetical vein. THE DEPOSITION. Though when I loved thee thou wert fair Thou art no longer so; Those glories, all the pride they wear, Unto opinion owe: Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine, And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye Love's fires thus mutual influence return; Then, proud Celinda, hope no more Charles Cotton. The friend of good old Izaak Walton, Cotton (16301687) was a cheerful, witty, and accomplished man, but improvident in worldly matters. His father, Sir George, left him the encumbered estate of Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove. Cotton was thenceforth always in money difficulties, and died insolvent. To get money, he translated several works from the French and Italian, and among them Montaigne's Essays. He made a discreditable travesty of Virgil, remarkable only for its obscenity. But some of his verses show a genuine vein. NO ILLS BUT WHAT WE MAKE. FROM "CONTENTATION: DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON." There are no ills but what we make By giving shapes and names to things; That causes all our sufferings. O fruitful grief, the world's disease! We call that sickness which is health, That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent. But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, And not what Heaven has done undo By an unruly appetite. The world is full of beaten roads, That where one walks secure 'tis odds Untrodden paths are then the best, It is content alone that makes on the great fire. His "Absalom and Achitophel" is regarded as one of the most powerful of modern satires. His "Religio Laici" exhibits the poet convulsed with religious doubts. After the death of Charles II. Dryden became a Roman Catholic, had his children brought up in that faith, and lived and died in it. Macaulay calls him an "illustrious renegade." Scott takes a less uncharitable view of his motives. When William and Mary ascended the throne Dryden lost his laureateship, and thenceforth became a bookseller's hack. For translating Virgil into English verse he received £1200; for his "Fables," about £250. After a life of literary toil, productive of many splendid works, but dishonored by some which it were well for his memory if they could be annihilated, Dryden let fall his pen. He died at sixty-eight, and his body was buried in Westminster Abbey. In terms of extreme exaggeration, Johnson says of him that "he found the English language brick, and left it marble." Dryden was sixty-six years old when he wrote his "Alexander's Feast," one of the finest lyrics in all literature. "I am glad," he wrote to his publisher, "to hear from all hands that my Ode is esteemed the best of all my poetry by all the town. I thought so myself when I writ it; but being old, I mistrusted my own judgment." Let it be added in Dryden's behalf that he had the grace to submit with meekness to Collier's severe criticism of the moral defects of his plays. Undoubtedly, the recollection of them caused him many bitter regrets. His prose style is excellent. "In his satire," says Scott, "his arrow is always drawn to the head, and flies directly and mercilessly to his object." John Dryden. One of the most celebrated of English poets, Dryden 1031-1700) was born in Northamptonshire, of Puritan rents. He received his school education at Westminster, under Dr. Busby, of birchen memory; his college ucation, at Cambridge. When Cromwell died, he wrote adatory stanzas to his memory; but this did not preVent his greeting Charles II., at his restoration, with a intatory poem, entitled "Astræa Redux." Dryden's eerings in religion, politics, criticism, and taste exhibit A mind under the dominion of impulse. His marriage, which took place in 1665, was not a happy one, though le seems to have been warmly susceptible of domestic flection. In 1668 he succeeded Sir William Davenant a poet-laureate. For many years he had supported Limself by writing for the stage. He wrote some tweny eight plays. His tragedies are stilted and ineffective; while his comedies are execrably impure and licentious, not to be palliated even by the laxity of that corrupt and shameless age. He lacked some of the greatst elements of poetic genius, and in moral carnestness as sadly deficient. His "Annus Mirabilis" is a poem ALEXANDER'S FEAST. AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. St. Cecilia, a Roman lady born about A.D. 295, and bred in the Christian faith, was married to a Pagan nobleman, Valerianus. She told her husband that she was visited nightly by an angel, whom he was allowed to see after his own conversion. They both suffered martyrdom. The angel by whom Cecilia was visited is referred to in the closing lines of Dryden's "Ode," coupled with a tradition that he had been drawn down to her from heaven by her melodies. In the earliest traditions of Cecilia there is no mention of skill in music. The great Italian painters fixed her position as its patron saint by representing her always with symbols of harmony-a harp or organ-pipes. Then came the suggestion adopted in Dryden's "Ode," that, the organ was invented by St. Cecilia. The practice of holding Musical Festivals on Cecilia's Day (the 22d of November) began to prevail in England at the close of the 17th century. I. 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned): Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, A dragon's fiery form belied the god, When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of IV. Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again: And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The Master saw the madness rise; Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, And weltering in his blood; With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. CHORUS. Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. V. The mighty Master smiled to see That love was in the next degree: |