f our satisfaction and belief that he was amiable, exemplary, and respectable-as well as pious and learned. Francis Quarles, who wrote the commendatory verses from which an extract is inserted at the commencement of this article, is said to have been, notwithstanding the censures of some modern writers, the most popular poet of his time, and a man of truly poetical genius; to whom justice has never yet been done. * Quarles was born at Rumford, in Essex, in 1592. As the "Emblems" are still much regarded by one class of readers, some farther notice of the author may be acceptable. On the breaking out of the rebellion in Ireland in 1641, he held the situation of Secretary to Archbishop Usher, and of course, from his attachment to the royal cause, suffered greatly in his fortune, both in that country, and in England, where he fled for safety. But what he took must to heart was being plundered of his books, and some manuscripts which he had prepared for the press; the loss of these is supposed to have hastened his death, which happened in 1644. Langbaine says "He was a poet that mixed religion and fancy together, and was very careful in all his writings not to entrench upon good manners by any scurrility in his works, or any ways offend against his duty to God, his neighbour, or himself." Thus, according to Langbaine, (and others have given him the same testimonial,) he was a very good man,-but in the judgment of some, he was also a very great man, and a most excellent Poet.Fuller says, "Had he been contemporary with Plato, he would not only have allowed him to live, but advanced him to office, in his commonwealth. Some Poets, if debarred profaneness, wantoness, and satiricalness, that they may neither abuse God nor their neighbours, have their tongues cut out in effect.Others only trade in wit at second hand, being all from translations, nothing from invention. Quarles was free from the faults of the first, and he was happy in his own inventions. His visible poetry, I mean his emblems, is excellent, catching therein the eye and fancy at one draught. His "Verses on Job" are done to the life, so that the reader may see his forces, and through them the anguish of his soul. According to the advice of St. Hierome, verba vertebut in opera, and practised the Job he had described." Of Mr. William Benlowes whose address furnished us with the second motto, and of Mr. Edward Benlowes to whom the Purple Island is dedicated, we know of no account; but the dedication will give the reader a good opinion of the patron, as well as of the poet, and as it affords a specimen of the author's prose, and of the usual form of this kind of address in that period, we shall commence our extracts therewith. To my most worthy and learned friend EDWARD BENLOWES, Esq. "SIR, "As some optic glasses, if we look one way increase the object; if the other, lessen the quantity: such is an eye that looks through affection: it doubles any good, and extenuates what is amiss. Pardon me, Sir, for speaking plain truth; such is that eye whereby you have viewed these raw essays of my very unripe years, and almost childhood. How unseasonable are blossoms in autumn! (unless perhaps in this age, where And in our days, the very judicious editor of "Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry,” the lamented Charles Headly, says, "The memory of Quarles has been branded with more than common abuse, and he seems to have been censured merely for the want of being read. If his poetry failed to gain him friends and readers, his piety shonld at least have secured him peace and good-will. He too often, no doubt, mistook the enthusiasm of devotion for the inspiration of fancy; to mix the waters of Jordan and Helicon in the same cup, was reserved for the hand of Milton; and for him, and him only, to find the bays of Mount Olivet, equally verdant with those of Parnassus. Yet, as the effusions of a real poetical mind, however thwarted by untowardness of subject, will be seldom rendered totally abortive, we find in Quarles original imagery, striking sentiment, fertility of expression, and happy combinations: together with a compression of style that merits the observation of writers in verse." 8 my desires, are more flowers than fruit.) I am entering upon my winter, and yet these blooms of my first spring, must now needs shew themselves to our ripe wits, who certainly will give them no other entertainment but derision, For myself, I cannot account that worthy of your patronage, which comes forth so short of thereby meriting no other light than the fire. But since you please to have them see more day than their credit can well endure, marvel not if they fly under your shadow, to cover them from the piercing eye of this very curious (yet more censorious) age. In letting them abroad, I desire only to testify how much I prefer your desires to mine own, and how much I owe to you more than any other. This if they witness for me, it is all the service I require. Sir, I leave them to your tuition, and intreat you to love him who will contend with you in nothing but to outlove you, and would be known to the world by no other name, than Your true friend, Hilgay, May 1st. 1633. PHINEAS FLETCHER." Not only his love and admiration of Spenser, but the taste of the age, for allegory and personification, probably induced Fletcher to prefer that species of composition for his principal poem, "The Purple Island," which is a description of the human body, the passions, and intellectual faculties. The first Canto commences with a very brief account of the season of the year, the meeting of Shepherds at their annual election of 'May-Lords," and an allusion to himself and his brother Giles, on both of whom the choice of the Shepherds had fallen : 66 The warmer sun the golden bull out-ran And with the twins made haste to inn and play; Scattering ten thousand flow'rs, he now began To paint the world, and piece the length'ning day; The Shepherd-boys, who with the muses dwell, Now were they sat, where by the orchard walls Among the rout they take two gentle swains,. Whose sprouting youth did now but greenly bud: Well could they pipe and sing, but yet their strains Were only known unto the silent wood: Their nearest blood from self-same fountains flow, Now when the Shepherd lads, with common voice A gentle boy thus 'gan Enlarging on the difficulty of finding new subjects for Poetry, and the want of encouragement to Poets, he alludes to Spenser Witness our Colin; whom, though all the Graces And all the Muses nurs'd; whose well-taught song Parnassus' self, and Glorian* embraces, And all the learn'd, and all the Shepherd throng; * Cam. + Queen Elizabeth. Yet all his hopes were cross'd; all suit denied; Poorly, poor man, he liv'd; poorly, poor man, he died! And had not that great Hart,* (whose honour'd head, Yet shalt thou live when thy great foe † shall sink Beneath his mountain tomb, whose fame shall stink! And Time his blacker name shall blurr with blackest ink! O let th' Iambic muse revenge that wrong, Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead; Let thy abused honour cry as long As there be quills to write, or eyes to read: Never elsewhere is the gentle muse of Thirsil roused to such ungentle language;-but, after a few more stanzas, settling into composure, she leads us to her own retired scenes, and places us beside her in such sweet tranquility, that we soon forget the frugal Treasurer, and almost the injured Bard. In the whole poem, nor perhaps in any other poem, is there a passage more pleasing and delightful than the following, referring still, under his twofold pastoral character, to his hopes of domestic enjoyment, and to his sacred office, as well as to his love of song. But, ah! let me, under some Kentish hill, Near rolling Medway, 'mong my shepherd peers, With fearless merry make, and piping still, Securely pass my few and slow-pac'd years: * The Earl of Essex, whose cognizance was a bart. Burleigh. Spenser's "Ruins of Time." † Lord |