And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 135 Where the rude axe with heavéd stroke- Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. That at her flowery work doth sing, 140 L 155 Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 160 To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, And I with thee will choose to live. SONNETS 170 175 ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, That I to manhood am arrived so near; Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even 5 10 To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow THE CAVALIER POETS THERE is no such charming group of men and poets in English literature as that which surrounds the throne of Charles I. Not one of them is great, but every one is delightful. They are all contemporaries of Milton; and just as his solemn and stately epics furnish a fitting close for the heroic age of English literature, so the light-hearted laughing songs of these poets, whom Milton, it must be confessed, heartily despised, are the last outpourings of the fountain of pure lyric verse that had flowed so freely since the days of Sidney and Spenser. In some ways, no doubt, the Cavalier songs are inferior to the Elizabethan. They have less passion, less imagination, less frequent flashes of dazzling poetry. On the other hand, they are as a rule less wild in flight, more modern in tone and manner, more carefully polished in style. They cover a wide range of subjects; the court, the camp, the grove are their familiar themes. And they entered at times into the temple and sang there with a fervor of devotion that has rarely been equaled in English poetry. The work of such men as Herbert and Vaughan is of itself sufficient to free the whole group from the charge sometimes made against them of being only the idle singers of roses, wine cups, and light loves. The short lyrics of this school of poets do not lend themselves easily to class-room study and critical analysis. Perhaps the best way to study these poems is simply to get them by heart. It is better to learn a song of Herrick's than the best definition of a lyric ever framed. And in no way can a perception of grace and charm and perfect art in poetry be more easily acquired than by an intimate acquaintance with the best songs of the best poets of this delightful group. TO HIS MISTRESS THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA You meaner beauties of the night, You common people of the skies, 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 shall raise? 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? So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind? 5 10 15 20 SIR HENRY WOTTON. ASK ME NO MORE Ask me no more where Jove bestows, |