Imatges de pàgina
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Pierre. A traitor? Jaff. Yes.

Pierre. A villain?

Jaff. Granted.

Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward; Spiritless, void of honor; one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life?

Jaff. All, all, and more, much more; my faults

are numberless.

Pierre. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine?

Base as thou'rt false

Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted;

The safety of thy life was all I aimed at,
In recompense for faith and trust so broken.

Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee;
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity
On thy misfortune, sought thee in thy miseries,
Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state
Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged
thee,

To rank thee in my list of noble friends,

All I received, in surety for thy truth,
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger,

Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stolen ;

So I restore it back to thee again,

Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated

Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion,
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years
Were to exceed those limited the world.
Take it-farewell-for now I owe thee nothing.
Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then.

Pierre. For my life, dispose it

Just as thou wilt; because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre!

Pierre. No more.

Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pierre. Leave me :-nay, then, thus I throw thee

from me;

And curses great as is thy falsehood catch thee!

John Norris.

A learned metaphysician and divine, Norris (1657-1711) was a Platonist, and sympathized with the views of Henry More. He published a "Philosophical Discourse concerning the Natural Immortality of the Soul;" an "Essay toward the Theory of the Ideal or Unintelligible World;""Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, Discourses, and Letters;" and other productions. He

became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Hallam pronounces him "a writer of fine genius, and of a noble elevation of moral sentiments."

THE ASPIRATION.

How long, great God, low long must I
Immured in this dark prison lie,

Where at the gates and avenues of sense
My soul must watch to have intelligence;
Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight,
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night?
When shall I leave this magic sphere,
And be all mind, all eye, all ear?

How cold this clime! and yet my sense Perceives even here thy influence. Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel, And pant and tremble like the amorous steel,To lower good and beauties less divine Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline; But yet (so strong the sympathy) It turns, and points again to thee.

I long to see this excellence,

Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, How would she hasten to be linked with thee! She'd for no angel's conduct stay, But fly, and love on all the way.

SUPERSTITION.

I care not though it be

By the preciser sort thought popery;
We poets can a license show

For everything we do:

Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee.

If now thy happy mind

Amid its various joys can leisure find To attend to anything so low

As what I say or do,

Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind.

Let not the blessed above

Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove.

Fain would I thy sweet image see,

And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love.

Ah! what delight 'twould be

Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me!

How should I thine sweet commune prize,
And other joys despise!

Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain

Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know

Of thy escape below:

Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again.

Sure, heaven must needs thy love
As well as other qualities improve;

Come, then, and recreate my sight
With rays of thy pure light:

Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.

But if fate's so severe

As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so),

Live happy, but be mindful of me there.

Matthew Prior.

Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1721) owed his advancement in life to the friendship of the Earl of Dorset, through which he rose to be ambassador to the Court of Versailles. His best-known poems are his light lyrical pieces of the artificial school. Thackeray says, with some exaggeration, that they "are among the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous in the English language;" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly commended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by Cowper "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of "verse bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold in the ore. Like many men of letters of his day, Prior never ventured on matrimony.

A SIMILE.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage ;

The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells at top?—

Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs :
But, here or there, turn wood or wire,

He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble song and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD (1704), THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds
With all the tender things I swear,-
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,-

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

"Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

Jonathan Swift.

Swift's is one of the great names in English literature (1667-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents and his ancestors were English. He was educated at Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not distinguish himself as a student. For some years he lived with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of dependence, and became restive and soured. Having graduated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at £100 a year. Returning to the house of Sir William Temple, he became involved in the mysterious love-affair with Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-keeper (and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's pet name of Stella. Having become Vicar of Laracor, Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. Miss Johnson resided in the neighborhood, and in the parsonage during his absence. He is said to have fulfilled his clerical office in an exemplary manner.

From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted with the Whig party. Dissatisfied with some of their measures, he then became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The coarseness of his "Tale of a Tub" had cut him off from a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says Johnson, “commenced Irishman for life." He soon became an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few men have ever exercised over them so formidable a personal influence. In 1726 he visited England for the publication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had enjoyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years his junior), Gay, Addison, Arbuthnot, and Bolingbroke. He returned to Ireland to lay the mortal remains of Stella in the grave: she is believed to have been his real though unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his last days. After two years passed in lethargic and hopeless idiocy, he died in 1745. His death was mourned by an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin.

Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper acceptation of the term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was the sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, "Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting for the intellectual vigor, pungency, and wit by which they are distinguished.

FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.”1

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true:

1 This singular poem was prompted by the following maxim of Rochefoucault: "Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose que ne nous déplait pas.'

They argue no corrupted mind

In him the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
"In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
While nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us."
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envions eyes
Our equals raised above our size:
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you:
But why should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion killed, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies racked with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?
Her end, when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our heart divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
"Tis all to me an usurpation!

I have no title to aspire,

Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine:-
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six,
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!"
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous, biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,

Which I was born to introduce,
Refined at first, and showed its use.
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside,—

If with such talents Heaven hath blessed 'em,

Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first;

But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore with our poem.

The time is not remote when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends:
And, thongh 'tis hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:
"See how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head

Will never leave him till he's dead.

Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he dined;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith! he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter;
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

"For poetry he's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme:
His fire is out, his wit decayed,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen;
But there's no talking to some men!"
And then their tenderness appears

By adding largely to my years:
"He's older than he would be reckoned,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine:
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach, too, begins to fail;

Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing:

I wish he may hold out till spring!" They hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us!"

In such a case they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend,

No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,

The merit of a lucky guess

(When daily how-d'ye's come of course;

And servants auswer, "Worse and worse!")
Would please them better than to tell
That, "God be praised, the Dean is well."
Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest:
"You know I always feared the worst,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die
Than his predictions prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover;
But all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbor feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain,-
How many a message would he send!
What hearty prayers that I should mend!
Inquire what regimen I kept;
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament, when I was dead,
Than all the suivellers round my bed.
My good companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verified at last!

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720.

All travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign;
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decayed,
The house will never lose its trade;
Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin
To quit the true old Angel Inn.

Now this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face a little cracked
(Could poets or could painters fix
How angels look at thirty-six):
This drew us in at first to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See at her levee crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains
With breeding, humor, wit, and sense,
And puts them to but small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives;
And, had her stock been less, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or stop and light at Chloe's head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed?

Then, Chloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken;
Your innuendoes, when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows;
And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be gray,
When age must print a furrowed trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold forever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind

The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

Ambrose Philips.

The word namby-pamby was introduced into the language through its having been first applied to Ambrose Philips (1671-1749) by Harry Carey, author of "Sally in our Alley," etc. Pope snatched at the nickname as suited to Philips's "eminence in the infantile style;" so little did he appreciate the simplicity and grace of such lines as those "To Miss Georgiana Carteret." But Pope had been annoyed by Tickell's praise of Philips's "Pas

torals" as the finest in the language. Philips won some little success as a dramatic writer; but as he advanced in life he seems to have forsaken the Muses: he becaine a Member of Parliament, and died at the ripe age of seventy-eight; surpassing, in longevity at least, most coutemporary poets.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. Blest as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; My feeble pulse forgot to play,

I fainted, sunk, and died away.

TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET.

Little charm of placid mien,
Miniature of Beauty's Queen,
Numbering years, a scanty nine,
Stealing hearts without design,
Young inveigler, fond in wiles,
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles,
Yet a novice in disdain,
Pleasure giving without pain,
Still caressing, still caressed,
Thou and all thy lovers blessed,
Never teased, and never teasing,
Oh forever pleased and pleasing!
Hither, British Muse of mine,
Hither, all the Grecian Nine,
With the lovely Graces Three,
And your promised nursling see!
Figure on her waxen mind
Images of life refined;
Make it as a garden gay,
Every bud of thought display,
Till, improving year by year,
The whole culture shall appear,

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