Ah! no, it is not dead, nor can it die, There thousand birds, all of celestial brood, Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die, Nor fearing savage beasts' more cruelty,Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack, And with vain vows do often call him back. But live thou there still, happy, happy spirit! And give us leave thee here thus to lament; Not thee, that dost the heaven's joy inherit, But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, Mourning in others our own miseries. The lady's paradise, peopled with houris, is perhaps rather in the Mahometan taste. It is, however, no slight honour to her, that Milton in the most perfect of all his works, his matchless "Ly cidas," had an eye upon her Elegy. Of this who can doubt, reading the following lines: "Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, Sank though he be beneath the watry floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; The bed of lillies compass'd about with roses and` violets, in which the disembodied soul reposes, like a new-born babe, a sweet and truly feminine idea of the lady, is changed by the poet into fresh groves and streams, and nectar pure. The thousand birds who sweetly carol night and day, become solemn troops and sweet societies occupied in heavenly music. For the immortal beauties kindling love, unallayed by jealousy, we have the communion of saints. In both, the originating ideas are the same-the figures only are various. The lady's are perhaps the most poetical, the poet's certainly the most orthodox. In Davison's "Poetical Rhapsody," printed in 1602, is a Poem, entitled "A Pastoral Dialogue in praise of Astrea," the poetical appellation of Queen Elizabeth, said to have been "made by the excellent lady, the Lady Mary Countess of Pembroke, at the Queen's Majesties being at her house." A Dialogue between Two Shepherds. THENOT AND PIERS. Thenot. I sing divine Astrea's praise, Piers. Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell Which much I doubt thou canst not well, Thou art so oft a liar. Thenot. If in my song no more I show Than heaven and earth and sea do know, Then truly I have spoken. Piers. Sufficeth not no more to name, But being no less, the like, the same Thenot. Then say, she is so good, so fair, Nor Woman's self denying. Piers. Compare may think where likeness holds, Nought like to her the earth enfolds : I thought to find you lying. Thenot. Soon as Astrea shews her face, Straight every ill avoids the place, Pieres. Nay, long before her face doth show, How loud this lie resoundeth. Thenot. Astrea is our chiefest joy, Our chiefest guard against annoy, go; Our chiefest wealth, our treasure. Piers. Where chiefest are, there others be, To us none else but only she,- When wilt thou speak in measure? Thenot. Astrea may be justly said— A field in flowery robe array'd, In seasons freest springing. Piers. That spring endures but shortest time, Thou liest in stead of singing. Therot. Astrea rightly term I may A manly palm, a maiden bay, Piers. Palm oft is crooked, bay is low, She still upright, still high doth grow, Thenot. Then, Piers, of friendship tell me why, And strive in vain to raise her. But silence nought can praise her. † A pure sample this of that outrageous flattery, close bordering upon the brink of irony and ridicule, in which Elizabeth was weak and vain enough to find delight,strange inconsistency of human nature. A very scarce published work of the Countess, bears the title of "The Tragedy of Antonie ; done into English by the Countess of Pembroke." Dated at Ramsbury, 26 Nov. 1590. Printed by P. S. for W. Ponsonby, 1595, 16mo. From this production Mr. Park has selected the following extract as a specimen :- Chorus. Lament we our mishaps, Drown we with tears our woe; For lamentable haps, Lamented, easy grow, And much less torment bring, Than when they first did spring. Pie. Except. † Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p. 195 We want that woeful song Wherewith wood-musick's queen We want that moanful sound Though Halcyons do still, Bewailing Ceyx lot, The seas with plainings fill, Which his dead limbs have göt, Not ever other grave Than tomb of waves to have. And though the bird in death, That most Meander loves, As almost softs his heart, Yet all the plaints of those, Cannot content our woes, Nor serve to wail the harms, Copied from her brother -The Nightingale wood-musicks queen" + Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p. 197. |