Part 64 (1/2)

The swift approach of endless night Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; They awake the rest with dying cries, And darkness doubles the affright.

The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear.

Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice Pierces this chaos of confused noise; As brighter lightning cuts a way, Clear and distinguished through the day: With less complaints the Zoan temples sound When the adored heifer's drowned, And no true marked successor to be found: While health, and strength, and gladness does possess The festal Hebrew cottages; The bless'd destroyer comes not there, To interrupt the sacred cheer, That new begins their well-reformed year.

Upon their doors he read and understood G.o.d's protection writ in blood; Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, And though he pa.s.sed by it in haste, He bowed, and wors.h.i.+pped as he pa.s.sed The mighty mystery through its humble sign.

XVII.

The sword strikes now too deep and near, Longer with its edge to play, No diligence or cost they spare To haste the Hebrews now away, Pharaoh himself chides their delay; So kind and bountiful is fear!

But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, Is but like fire struck out of stone, So hardly got, and quickly gone, That it scarce outlives the blow.

Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, Rage and revenge their place possess'd: With a vast host of chariots and of horse, And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, The travelling nation he pursues, Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews.

Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, 'The Egyptian G.o.ds, from Syrian magic free, Will now revenge themselves and me; Behold what pa.s.sless rocks on either hand, Like prison walls, about them stand!

Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, And in our injured justice they must find A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; Which shall with crimson gore New paint the water's name, and double dye the sh.o.r.e.'

XVIII.

He spoke; and all his host Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; A bidden wind bore his vain words away, And drowned them in the neighbouring sea.

No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, And with degenerous fear to die, Curse their new-gotten liberty: But the great Guide well knew he led them right, And saw a path hid yet from human sight: He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side Unloose their close embraces, and divide, And backwards press, as in some solemn show The crowding people do, (Though just before no s.p.a.ce was seen,) To let the admired triumph pa.s.s between.

The wondering army saw, on either hand, The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand.

They marched betwixt, and boldly trod The secret paths of G.o.d: And here and there, all scattered in their way, The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay Deserted on the sandy plain: The sun did with astonishment behold The inmost chambers of the opened main, For whatsoe'er of old By his own priests, the poets, has been said, He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed.

XIX.

Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, To the other sh.o.r.e at morning-dawn they came, And saw behind the unguided foe March disorderly and slow: The prophet straight from the Idumean strand Shakes his imperious wand; The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, The beckoning wand espy; Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, And with a murmuring wind Give the word march to all behind; The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, But with a joyful, louder noise, Answer their distant fellows' voice, And haste to meet them make, As several troops do all at once a common signal take.

What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, Which on the Chamian army fell, When on both sides they saw the roaring main Broke loose from his invisible chain?

They saw the monstrous death and watery war Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; In vain some backward and some forwards fly With helpless haste, in vain they cry To their celestial beasts for aid; In vain their guilty king they upbraid, In vain on Moses he, and Moses' G.o.d, does call, With a repentance true too late: They're compa.s.sed round with a devouring fate That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all.

GEORGE WITHER

This remarkable man was born in Hamps.h.i.+re, at Bentworth, near Alton, in 1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his 'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed translation.

In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch.

When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In 1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand.

Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some pa.s.sages in 'The Shepherd's Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is refres.h.i.+ng to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy.

FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.'

See'st thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs could heavens raise?

And the vapours that do breathe From the earth's gross womb beneath, Seem they not with their black steams To pollute the sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it unblemished, fair?

So, my w.i.l.l.y, shall it be With Detraction's breath and thee: It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy.

As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale; Poesy so sometimes drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 'Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do That she can dissolve them too.

If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power!

Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more: Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with Fame at last.

Let nought therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight: For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity.

But, alas! my Muse is slow; For thy pace she flags too low.

Yes, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipped of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a-muing.

But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did.