Richard Alison. Little is known of Alison. He published in 1590 "A Plaine Confutation of a Treatise of Brownism, entitled 'A Description of the Visible Church;'" and, in 1606, "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke, apt for Instruments and Voyces;" from which the following little poems are taken. HOPE. FROM AN HOURE'S RECREATION IN MUSICKE." In hope a king doth go to war, In hope just men do suffer wrong; CHERRY-RIPE. There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lovely laughter shows, Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Robert Southwell. The reign of Elizabeth includes, among other signs of the times, the hanging of a poet of rare purity and spir ituality for his devotion to the Roman Catholic religion. Robert Southwell (1560-1595) was born near Norwich, England. He was educated at Paris for two years before he went to Rome, and was received, at the age of seven teen, into the order of Jesuits. From Rome he was sent as a missionary to England, and was attached to the household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who perished in the Tower. Southwell shared the fate of all priests who could be found and seized at that time in England. In 1592 he was sent to prison, and during three years was subjected to the tortures of the rack no less than ten times. At length, in 1595, the Court of King's Bench condemned him as being a Catholic priest; he was drawn to Tyburn on a hurdle, was hanged, and had his heart burnt in sight of the people. A good man and a noble, of gentle disposition and blameless life, his fate reflects deepest infamy on his brutal and heartless persecutors. Southwell exhibits a literary culture far above that of some poets of larger fame, and, as he was only thirtyfive at the time of his execution, he probably had not reached the maturity of his powers. LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. Love mistress is of many minds, But few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit, She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill; She offereth joy, but bringeth grief, A kiss, where she doth kill. Her watery eyes have burning force, Her floods and flames conspire; Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, And sighs but fan the fire. A honey shower rains from her lips, Sweet lights shine in her face; She hath the blush of virgin mind, The mind of viper's race. She makes thee seek, yet fear to find; To find, but naught enjoy; In many frowns, some passing smiles She yields to more annoy. She letteth fall some luring baits, Now sweet, now sour, for every taste TIMES GO BY TURNS. The loppéd tree in time may grow again, The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; Times go by turns and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her time hath equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, Nor hap so hard but may in time amend. Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The well that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crossed, Few all they need, but none have all they wish; Unmeddled' joys here to no man befall, Who least hath some, who most have never all. 1 Unmixed joys. LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Michael Drayton. Drayton (circa 1563-1631) was of humble parentage, and from his earliest years showed a taste for poetry. He is one of the most voluminous of the rhyming tribe. Pope somewhere speaks of "a very mediocre poet, one Drayton." The slight is undeserved. Drayton's works extend to above one hundred thousand verses. The work on which his fame rested in his own day is the 'Polyolbion," a minute chorographical description of England and Wales. Most of his principal pieces were published before he was thirty years of age. His spirit ed "Ballad of Agincourt" has been the model for many similar productions; and there is much playful grace in the fairy fancies of "Nymphidia." May not Drake have taken a hint from it in his "Culprit Fay ?" A PARTING. Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part: Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. And, taking many a fort Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French General lay With all his power, Which, in his height of pride King Henry to deride, To the King sending; Which he neglects the while Their fall portending. And, turning to his men, Yet have we well begun; By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he, Or on this earth lie slain: Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell: No less our skill is Than when our Grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, how hot they were They now to fight are gone: That with the cries they make Well it thine age became, Struck the French horses With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather: None from his fellow starts, But, playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, Arms were from shoulder sent, This while our noble King, And many a deep wound rent Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, With his brave brother Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet, in that furious fight, Scarce such another! Warwick in blood did wade; Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon St. Crispin's day To England to carry :- Oh, when shall Englishmen Christopher Marlowe. Marlowe (1564-1593) ranks among the most eminent of the Elizabethan dramatists. He was the son of a shoemaker in Canterbury. After graduating at Cambridge, he became a writer for the stage and an actor. In 1587, he was known as the author of "Tamburlaine the Great." Other plays followed; and for a time Marlowe and Shakspeare were competitors. This splendid rivalry, and all it might have led to, was, however, cut short in 1593, when Marlowe, still not thirty years of age, received a stab in a brawl in some inn at Deptford, and died from its effects. The pastoral song, to which a reply, supposed to be by Raleigh, was written, is among the few specimens we have of Marlowe's non-dramatic verse. In some versions of it the following stanza (coming next before the last) is contained; but it is believed to have been inserted by Izaak Walton, and presents a very unshepherd-like image: "Thy silver dishes for thy meat, Shall, on an ivory table, be Yet will I call on HIM!-Oh spare me, Lucifer!— And see a threatening arm-an angry brow! Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon. true, that And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy-buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing ANSWER TO THE SAME.1 If all the world and Love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 1 Archbishop Trench is of opinion that the evidence which ascribes this to Raleigh is insufficient. |