My rival-image will be then thought blest, And laugh at me as dispossest; But thou, who (if I know thee right) I'th' substance dost not much delight, Wilt rather send again for me, Who then shall but my picture's picture be. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do But you have climbed the mountain's top, there st TENTANDA EST VIA. What shall I do to be forever known, And make the age to come my own? I shall, like beasts or common people, die, Whilst others great, by being born, are grown; In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie, Out of myself it must be strook. Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear? It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all, Hence, the desire of honors or estate, And all that is not above Fate! Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days, Come, my best friends, my books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite!' and teach me now Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo; He conquered th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage. 1 Aristotle was born at Stagyra, in Macedonia, near the mouth of the Strymon. He was the instructor of Alexander the Great. A HAPPY LIFE. PARAPHRASE FROM MARTIAL, BOOK X. Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see Let mirth and freedom make thy table good. last. MARK THAT SWIFT ARROW. Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, How it outruns thy following eye! Use all persuasions now, and try If thou canst call it back or stay it there, That way it went; but thou shalt find No track is left behind. Long did the Muses, banished slaves, abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Andrew Marvell. The friend of Milton, and his assistant in the Latin Secretaryship, Marvell (1620-1678) was born in Lincolnshire, and educated at Cambridge. His education was superior. He wrote both poetry and prose, and was Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible integrity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic religion, and as a political pamphleteer took a high rank. Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died sud Like Moses thou (tho' spells and charms with- denly-from the effects of poison, it was believed. There stand) Hast brought them nobly home, back to their Ab, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old: is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they reveal the genuine, high-hearted thinker. His Latin poems are his best. The familiar poem, "The Spacious Firmament on High," is confidently attributed by many to Marvell. That he was equal to it is evident; but the proofs are insufficient to authorize us to take from Addison what has so long been ascribed to him. The simplicity and directness of the style are Addisonian rather than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously in the Spectator, edited by Addison. The Spectator was begun in 1711, and Marvell died in 1678. If the piece was from his pen, what good reason was there, after his death, for withholding his name? It was in no spirit of boasting that, in a letter to one of his correspondents, Marvell wrote: "Disce, puer, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem ; FROM "THE WISH." This only grant me, that my means may lie Some honor I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone; Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.' Where the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, Emigrants supposed to be driven to expatriate themselves by the government of Charles I. From a small boat that rowed along Safe from the storms and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring 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. Thon 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; So the world excluding round, 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.' 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, To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, My soul into the boughs does glide: 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 deformed 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 There are no ills but what we make That causes all our sufferings. |