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English Literature for Boys and Girls by  H. E. Marshall


 

 

ABOUT SOME LYRIC POETS

[356] BEFORE either Ben Jonson or Bacon died, a second Stuart king sat on the throne of England. This was Charles I the son of James VI and I. The spacious days of Queen Elizabeth were over and gone, and the temper of the people was changing. Elizabeth had been a tyrant but the people of England had yielded to her tyranny. James, too, was a tyrant, but the people struggled with him, and in the struggle they grew stronger. In the days of Elizabeth the religion of England was still unsettled. James decided that the religion of England must be Episcopal, but as the reign of James went on, England became more and more Puritan and the breach between King and people grew wide, for James was no Puritan nor was Charles after him.

As the temper of the people changed, the literature changed too. As England grew Puritan, the people began to look askance at the theater, for the Puritans had always been its enemies. Puritan ideas drew the great mass of thinking people.

For one reason or another the plays that were written became by degrees poorer and poorer. They were coarse too, many of them so much so that we do not care to read them now. But people wrote such stories as the play-goers of those days liked, and from them we can judge how low the taste of England had fallen. However, there were people in England in those days who revolted against this taste, and in 1642, when the great struggle between King [357] and Parliament had begun, all theaters were closed by order of Parliament. So for a time the life of English drama paused.

But while dramatic poetry declined, lyric poetry flourished. Lyric comes from the Greek word lura, a lyre, and all lyric poetry was at one time meant to be sung. Now we use the word for any short poem whether meant to be sung or not. In the times of James and Charles there were many lyric poets. Especially in the time of Charles it was natural that poets should write lyrics rather than longer poems. For a time of strong action, of fierce struggle was beginning, and amid the clash of arms men had no leisure to sit in the study and ponder long and quietly. But life brought with it many sharp and quick moments, and these could be best expressed in lyric poetry. And as was natural when religion was more and more being mixed with politics, when life was forcing people to think about religion whether they would or not, many of these lyric poets were religious poets. Indeed this is the great time of English religious poetry. So these lyric poets were divided into two classes, the religious poets and the court poets, gay cavaliers these last who sang love-songs, love- songs, too, in which we often seem to hear the clash of swords. For if these brave and careless cavaliers loved gayly, they fought and died as gayly as they loved.

Later on when you come to read more in English literature, you will learn to know many of these poets. In this book we have not room to tell about them or even to mention their names. Their stories are bound up with the stories of the times, and many of them fought and suffered for their king. But I will give you one or two poems which may make you want to know more about the writers of them.

Here are two written by Richard Lovelace, the very model of a gay cavalier. While he was at Oxford, King [358] Charles saw him and made him M.A. or Master of Arts, not for his learning, but because of his beautiful face. He went to court and made love and sang songs gayly. He went to battle and fought and sang as gayly, he went to prison and still sang. To the cause of his King he clung through all, and when Charles was dead and Cromwell ruled with his stern hand, and song was hushed in England, he died miserably in a poor London alley.

The first of these songs was written by Lovelace while he was in prison for having presented a petition to the House of Commons asking that King Charles might be restored to the throne.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

"When love with unconfinéd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;

When I lye tangled in her haire,

And fettered to her eye,

The gods, that wanton in the aire,

Know no such liberty.


. . . . . .

"When (like committed linnets) I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my King.

When I shall voyce aloud, how good

He is, how great should be,

Enlargéd winds, that curle the flood,

Know no such liberty.


"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Mindes innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;

If I have freedome in my love,

And in my soule am free,

Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty."

[359]


TO LUCASTA GOING TO THE WARRES


"Tell me not (sweet) I am unkinde,

That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste heart and quiet minde

To warre and armes I flie.


"True: a new Mistresse now I chase,

The first foe in the field,

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.


"Yet this inconstancy is such

As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Lov'd I not Honour more."

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was another cavalier poet whose fine, sad story you will read in history. He loved his King and fought and suffered for him, and when he heard that he was dead he drew his sword and wrote a poem with its point:

"Great, Good, and Just, could I but rate

My grief, and thy too rigid fate,

I'd weep the world in such a strain

As it should deluge once again:

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies

More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,

I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds

And write thine epitaph in blood and wounds."

He wrote, too, a famous song known as Montrose's Love-song. Here it is:—

"My dear and only love, I pray

This noble world of thee,

Be governed by no other sway

But purest monarchie.


"For if confusion have a part

Which vertuous souls abhore,

And hold a synod in thy heart,

I'll never love thee more.


[360]

"Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone,

My thoughts shall evermore disdain

A rival on my throne.


"He either fears his fate too much

Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch,

To win or lose it all.


"But I must rule and govern still,

And always give the law,

And have each subject at my will,

And all to stand in awe.


"But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shun'st the prize so sore,

As that thou set'st me up a blind

I'll never love thee more.


"If in the Empire of thy heart,

Where I should solely be,

Another do pretend a part,

And dares to vie with me:


"Or if committees thou erect,

And goes on such a score,

I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,

and never love thee more.


"But if thou wilt be constant then,

And faithful to thy word,

I'll make thee glorious with my pen

And famous by my sword.


"I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before,

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays

And love thee more and more."

In these few cavalier songs we can see the spirit of the times. There is gay carelessness of death, strong courage in misfortune, passionate loyalty. There is, too, the proud spirit of the tyrant, which is gentle and loving when obeyed, harsh and cruel if disobeyed.

[361] There is another song by a cavalier poet which I should like to give you. It is a love-song, too, but it does not tell of these stormy times, or ring with the noise of battle. Rather it takes us away to a peaceful summer morning before the sun is up, when everything is still, when the dew trembles on every blade of grass, and the air is fresh and cool, and sweet with summer scents. And in this cool freshness we hear the song of the lark:

"The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;

He takes this window for the east;

And to implore your light, he sings;

'Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise,

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.'


"The merchant bow unto the seaman's star,

The ploughman from the Sun his season takes;

But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.

'Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn!

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.' "

That was written by William Davenant, poet-laureate. It is one our most beautiful songs, and he is remembered by it far more than by his long epic poem called Gondibert  which few people now read. But I think you will agree with me that his name is worthy of being remembered for that one song alone.


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