Part 47 (2/2)

Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the b.u.t.t, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell.

But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field.

Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew: And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstasy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love.

You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Shew us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die: And though you thank G.o.d that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a -------- or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers Do make or cherish flowers; Where discontented things in sadness lie, And Nature grieves as I.

When I am parted from those eyes, From which my better day doth rise, Though some propitious power Should plant me in a bower, Where amongst happy lovers I might see How showers and sunbeams bring One everlasting spring, Nor would those fall, nor these s.h.i.+ne forth to me; Nature herself to him is lost, Who loseth her he honours most.

Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day; Whose blessed shapes I'll s.n.a.t.c.h and keep till when I do return and view again: So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devons.h.i.+re, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that n.o.bleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.

Browne began his poetical career early, and closed it soon. He published the first part of 'Britannia's Pastorals' in 1613, the second in 1616; shortly after, his 'Shepherd's Pipe;' and, in 1620, produced his 'Inner Temple Masque' which was then enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies'

edition of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive poetry.

SONG.

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is Time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one, and keep the other: Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, Beauty gone, you will repent you.

'Twill be said, when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh, then, fly all nice behaviour!

Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour.

SONG.

1 Shall I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me, And if such a woman move As I now shall versify; Be a.s.sured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

2 Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art.

In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

3 Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.

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