Suckling, the learning of Dryden, and he uses his native tongue in its unadorned simplicity, and without bestowing much attention upon the felicities of speech and the power of words, he interests the mind, and sometimes affects the heart, touching a chord in the very core of its feelings.
Hope, whose weak being ruined is,
Alike if it succeed, and if it miss;
Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound:
Vain shadow! which dost vanquish spite
Both, at full noon, and perfect night!
The stars have not a possibility
If things then from their end we happy call
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,
Tho' whilst thou shouldst but taste, devours it,
Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,
By classing it with legacies before!
The joys which we entire should wed.
Come deflour'd virgins to our bed:
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty custom's paid to thee.
For joy, like wine kept close, does better taste
It it take air before its spirits waste.
I'll sing of heroes, and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin my Muse! but lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of naught but love,
I broke them all and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing, sure, will do.
These, sure, said I, will me obey;
These, sure, heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with thundering Jove,
And all th' immortal powers but Love;
Love smil❜d, and from my enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love and soft desire.
Farewell, then, heroes, farewell kings,
And mighty numbers, mighty things;
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking, fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun, (and one would guess
By 's drunken, fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I:
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Liberal nature did dispense
To all things, arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws,
And some with horns or tusked jaws;
And some with scales and some with wings,
And some with teeth and some with stings,
Wisdom to man she did afford,
Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armor, has she assigned!
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armor can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond
More impassable is found?
And yet what flame, what lightning e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like porcupines from every part.
Who can, alas! their strength express
Arm'd when they themselves undress,
Cap a pe with nakedness.
Let us treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay:
Let us banish business, banish sorrow,"
To the gods belong to-morrow.
Thousand pretty ways we'll think upon
To mock our separation.
Alas! ten thousand will not do:
My heart will thus no longer stay,
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease:
Just as a bird that flies about,
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
Crashaw belongs to the same school of poetry with Cowper, and is like him affected with conceit; his poetry is frigid and harsh, but it is not without beauty and strength. "There is a prevalent harshness and strained expression in his verses; but there also many touches of beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his thoughts sometimes appears even in their distortion." There is a faint similitude between him and Milton, both in thought and style. Campbell says of him if it were not grown into a tedious and impertinent fashion to discover the sources of Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice some similarity between the speech of Satan, in the Sospetto di Herode of Marino, (which Crashaw has translated) and Satan's
Address to the Sun, in Milton. His translations have more merit than his original poetry, which is full of conceit: yet Pope borrowed from him, and did him the honor of acknowledging his obligations.
Portents before mine eyes, their powers advance?
And serve my purer sight, only to beat
Down my proud thought, and leave it in a trance?
Frown I, and can great Nature keep her seat?
And the gay stars lead on the golden dance;
Can his attempts above still prosperous be,
Auspicious still, in spite of hell and me?
He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose bright
And radiant scepter this bold hand should bear.
And for the never-fading fields of light,
My fair inheritance, he confines me here
To this dark house of shades, horror, and night,
To draw a long-lived death, where all my cheer
Is the solemnity my sorrow wears,
That mankind's torment waits upon my tears.
Dark, dusky man, he needs would single forth,
To make the partner of his own pure ray:
And should we, powers of Heaven, spirits of worth,
Bow our bright heads before a King of clay?
It shall not be, said I; and clomb the north,
Where never wing of angel yet made way.
What, though I miss'd my blow? yet I struck high,
And to dare something, is some victory.
Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest
Hell from me too, and sack my territories?
Vile human nature, means he not t' invest
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