SIR ROBERT AYTON-ALEXANDER HUME. Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, [They strangle her, kneeling. Sir Robert Ayton. A Scottish courtier and poet, Ayton (1570-1638) enjoyed, like Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel, and of acquaintance with English poets. He was born in Fifeshire. Ben Jonson seemed proud of his friendship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him (Jonson) dearly. An edition of Ayton's poems was published as late as 1871. ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I loved thee once, I'll love no more; Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, When new desires had conquered thee, Yea, it had been a sin to go Since we are taught no prayers to say Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging to a beggar's door. Alexander Hume. Hume (circa 1560-1609) was a minister of the Scotch Kirk in the latter half of the seventeenth century. He published in Edinburgh, in 1599, a collection of "Hymus, or Sacred Songs," of which now only three copies are known to exist. The "Story of a Summer Day" has some precious passages, showing an original vein, but it is much too long. Campbell and Trench have both abridged it, and the same liberty has been taken in the following version. Hume died in 1609. THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY. O perfect Light, which shaid' away Another o'er the night, Thy glory, when the day forth flies, The shadow of the earth anon Appears a clearer sky; Which soon perceive the little larks, The lapwing, and the snipe, And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks, O'er meadow, moor, and stripe. # The dew upon the tender crops, From tops of mountains scales; Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapors take the vales. The ample heaven, of fabric sure, Or clearest polished glass. 1 Perfect of the verb to sched, or shed; German, scheiden, to part, or separate from one another. All laborers draw home at even, And can to other say, "Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Which sent this summer day!" Thomas Heywood. The dates of this writer's birth and death are unknown. He is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise his ready pen down to the year 1640. He lived in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. He had, as he informs his readers, "an entire hand, or at least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote, also, several prose works, besides attending to his businesss as an actor. Of his plays only twenty-three have come down to us; and among the best is "The Woman killed with Kindness." He seems to have been a man of genius; and his "Search after God" is a very noble poem, showing that, in his higher moods, the true spirit of poesy animated the humble playwright. FANTASIES OF DRUNKENNESS. FROM "THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER." This gentleman and I Passed but just now by your next neighbor's honse, fered Of ships and storms at sea; when, suddenly, All fall to work, and hoist into the street, gling Upon the floor, as if he swam for life; THOMAS HEYWOOD. A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat, His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played; Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude, In this confusion; they adore his staff, And think it Neptune's trident; and that he SONG: PACK CLOUDS AWAY. To give my love good-morrow, Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! Give my fair love good-morrow! To give my love good-morrow, SEARCH AFTER GOD. I sought thee round about, O thou, my God! In thine abode : I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thon he ?" She answered me, "I am not." I inquired of creatures all, In general, 37 Contained therein: they with one voice proclaim That none amongst them challenged such a name. I asked the seas and all the deeps below, I asked the reptiles and whatever is Even from the shrimp to the leviathan But in those deserts which no line can sound, I asked the air if that were he; but lo! I from the towering eagle to the wren If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such; Offended with my question, in full choir, Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they Said, "We obey The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear Could see or hear, What in the world I might descry or know Above, below; With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by him were made." I asked the world's great universal mass, Which with a mighty and strong voice replied, "I am not he, O man! for know that I By him on high Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated And swayed by him by whom I was created." I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery there Deceived each ear; In the thronged city there was selling, buying, In the country, craft in simpleness arrayed; "Vain is my search, although my pains be great; Where my God is there can be no deceit." A scrutiny within myself I then Even thus began: "O man, what art thou?" What more could I say Than dust and clay, Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, That cannot last; Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn, Formed from that earth to which I must return? I asked myself what this great God might be That fashioned me? I answered: The all-potent, sole, immense,Surpassing sense; Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, Lord over all; The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. He is the well of life, for he doth give Both breath and being; he is the Creator Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims, names. And now, my God, by thine illumining grace, Thy glorious face (So far forth as it may discovered be) Methinks I see; And though invisible and infinite To human sight, Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest, Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God, most kind! Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, Thou God, most just! Remit all our offences, we entreat, Most good! most great! Grant that our willing, though unworthy, quest May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. SONNET: TO PRINCE HENRY. God gives not kings the style of gods in vain, Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane; Thomas Nash. Nash (circa 1564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Summer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1592. He was also concerned with Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was the Churchill of his day, and famed for his satires. He speaks of his life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodigally conspired against good hours." SPRING. Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo. The palm aud May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, King James J. of England. James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566–1625), the only offspring of Mary, queen of Scots, by her second husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnley), was a prolific author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with the verses of some contemporary pocts of fame. It is noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, Charles I., all wrote poetry. THE COMING OF WINTER. Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure: Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on apace. Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face? SIR HENRY WOTTON. Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn! Good Lord, deliver us! THE DECAY OF SUMMER. Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, therefore; So fair a summer look for nevermore: All good things vanish less than in a day; Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year; pear. What! shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed? Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year; Sir Henry Wotton. Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambassador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost of Eton. He wrote a short poem "in praise of angling," and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discov erer of Milton's transcendent genius, he showed his superior literary culture. Of the famous little poem, "The Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a dozen texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, indeed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. The Reliquiæ Wottoniana, in which the poem was first published, appeared in 1651, some twelve years after Wotton's death; but much earlier MS. copies are in existence: thus one, in the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, apparently of date 1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little reflection will show that the former is the preferable word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt it as the more authentic reading. 339 ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, More by your number than your light,- You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,— What are you when the Rose is blown? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,-what's your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise? So when my Mistress shall be seen THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will! Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame or private breath: Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great: Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ;— |