When, leaping first from earth, he did begin

To climb his angels' wings: then open hang

Your crystal doors!" So all the chorus sang
Of heavenly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang.

Hark, how the floods clap their applauding hands,
The pleasant valleys singing for delight;
And wanton mountains dance about the lands;
The while the fields, struck with the heavenly light,
Set all their flowers a-smiling at the sight.

The trees laugh with their blossoms; and the sound
Of the triumphant shout of praise that crowned
The flaming Lamb, breaking through heaven, hath passage
found.

Out leap the antique Patriarchs, all in haste,
To see the powers of Hell in triumph led;
And with small stars a garland interchased
Of olive-leaves they bore to crown his head,
That was before with thorns de-glorièd:

After them flew the Prophets, brightly stoled1
In shining lawn, and wimpled manifold,
Striking their ivory harps strung all in cords of gold:

To which the Saints victorious carols sung,
Ten thousand Saints at once, that, with the sound,
The hollow vaults of heaven for triumph rung :
The Cherubim their clamours did confound
With all the rest, and clapped their wings around:

Down from their thrones the Domnations flow,
And at his feet their crowns and sceptres throw,
And all the princely souls fell on their faces low.

Nor can the Martyrs' wounds them stay behind;
But out they rush among the heavenly crowd,
Seeking their heaven out of their heaven to find,
Sounding their silver trumpets out so loud
That the shrill noise broke through the starry cloud :
And all the Virgin-souls, in pure array,

Come dancing forth, and making joyous play:
So Him they led along into the Courts of Day.

So Him they led into the Courts of Day,
Where never war nor wounds abide him more:
But in that house eternal Peace doth play

At quieting the souls that knew before

1 Robed.

Their way to heaven through their own blood to score; But now, estrangèd from all misery,

As far as heaven and earth dis-coasted1 lie, Swelter in quiet waves of immortality.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

(1584-1650.)

THE Purple Island of Phineas, the elder of the brothers Fletcher, was not published until 1633, after the death of Giles and many years after it was written. It is a long allegory, in the course of which the physical and mental parts of Man are described. The stanza, like that of Giles's Christ's Victory, is formed upon the Spenserian; but Phineas omitted two, instead of one, of Spenser's lines, namely the fifth and seventh. There is enough of Spenser in the plan of this poem, and in various passages of it, to have brought upon its author, had he lived in our own day, the charge of bold-faced plagiarism. But all our old poets were in some sense plagiarists. Nor was it uncommon for a singer to proclaim with pride the source of his inspiration, while his readers were amply satisfied if he sang the old song in a new strain, with some inherent touch of genius that made it more than it was before his own and theirs. The Purple Island had been preceded in 1631 by a piscatory play called Sicelides; but, although Phineas outlived his brother Giles twenty-seven years and produced a good deal of verse, it is only for his physiological Allegory that he is remembered.

FROM THE PURPLE ISLAND.

STRIFE.

Next him Erithius, most unquiet swain,

That all in law and foul contention spent.
Not one was found in all this numerous train
With whom in anything he would consent;

1 Sundered.

His will his law; he weighed not wrong or right; Much scorned to bear, much more forgive, a spite; Patience he "the ass's load," and "coward's virtue," hight.1...

Upon his belt, fastened with leather laces,

Black boxes hung, sheaths of his paper swords,
Filled up with writs, subpoenas, trial-cases ;—
This trespassed him in cattle, that in words.
Fit his device and well his shield became ;-
A Salamander, drawn in lively frame :

His word2 was this:-" I live, I breathe, I feed, on flame.”

FORTITUDE.

By him Andreos paced: of middle age,

His mind as far from rashness as from fears;
Hating base thoughts as much as desperate rage,
The world's loud thunderings he, unshaken, hears :
Nor will he death, or life, or seek, or fly,
Ready for both: he is as cowardly

That longer fears to live as he that fears to die.

Worst was his civil war, where deadly fought

He with himself till passion yields or dies;
All heart and hand, no tongue; not grim, but stout;
His flame had counsel in it, his fury eyes.

His rage well-tempered is; no fear can daunt
His reason. But cold blood is valiant:

Well may he strength in death, but never courage want!

But, like a mighty rock whose unmoved sides

The hostile sea assaults with furious wave,

And 'gainst his head the boisterous north wind rides ;
Both fight and storm, and swell, and roar, and rave,
Hoarse surges drum, loud blasts their trumpets strain ;
The heroic cliff laughs at their frustrate pain,
Waves scattered drop in tears, winds broken whining plain :

Such was this knight's undaunted constancy.

No mischief weakens his resolvèd mind;

None fiercer to a stubborn enemy,

But to the yielding none more sweetly kind.
His shield an even-ballast ship embraves,

Which dances light while Neptune wildly raves.

His word was this: "I fear but heaven; nor winds, nor waves."

PARTHENIA, OR CHASTITY.

With her, her sister went, a warlike maid,
Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms;
In needle's stead, a mighty spear she swayed;
With which, in bloody fields and fierce alarms,
The boldest champion she down would bear,
And, like a thunderbolt, wide passage tear,
Flinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear.
Her goodly armour seemed a garden green,
Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew ;
And on her shield the lone bird might be seen,
The Arabian bird, shining in colours new.
Itself unto itself was only mate,

Ever the same but new in newer date;

And underneath was writ "Such is chaste single state."

Thus hid in arms she seemed a goodly knight,
And fit for any warlike exercise;

But, when she list lay down her armour bright,
And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise,
The fairest maid she was that ever yet
Prisoned her locks within a golden net,

Or let them waving hang with roses fair beset. . . .

Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits,

A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying; And in the midst himself full proudly sits, Himself in awful majesty arraying.

Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow

And ready shafts: deadly those weapons show, Yet sweet that death appeared, lovely that deadly blow....

A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek,

And in the midst was set a circling rose; Whose sweet aspèct would force Narcissus seek New liveries and fresher colours choose To deck his beauteous head in snowy tire. But all in vain; for who can hope to aspire To such a fair, which none attain but all admire? . . .

Yet all these stars, which deck this beauteous sky,

By force of the inward sun both shine and move:

Throned in her heart sits Love's high majesty,
In highest majesty the highest love.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

(1585-1649.)

ANOTHER eminent junior Spenserian was the Scottish poet William Drummond, eldest son of the first Laird of Hawthornden, and distantly connected with the Drummonds of Stobhall, Earls of Perth. He graduated at Edinburgh University in 1605, and succeeded his father in the lairdship in 1610. His first publication was a poem written on the occasion of Prince Henry's death in 1612. This was followed in 1616 by a volume entitled Poems: Amorous, Funerall, Divine, Pastorall: in Sonnets, Songs, Sextains, Madrigals; and in 1617, when King James visited Edinburgh, by Forth Feasting, A Panegyric to the King's most Excellent Majesty. In the year 1619 Ben Jonson paid his memorable visit to Drummond at Hawthornden, and Drummond's Notes1 of their talk on that occasion afford us vivid glimpses of the literary world of that day and of Jonson's own stupendous figure, half grand, half burlesque, in the midst. Some of Jonson's critical remarks referred to Drummond himself. He told his host that his verses "were all good . . . save that they smelled too much of the schools, and were not after the fancy of the time." He said Drummond was too good and simple," "and,” adds Drummond, "he dissuaded me from poetry, for that she had beggared him when he might have been a rich lawyer, physician, or merchant." Jonson's criticism was extremely honest and clever, but scarcely just. Four years later Drummond published another volume containing his Flowers of Sion and Cypress Grove. His life had been in the meantime saddened by an unhappy loveaffair, and the songs and madrigals of his youth were replaced by strains of religious and philosophic reflection; and in a few of his finest pieces, written late in his life, there is something of Milton's own lofty sadness. Drummond's sonnets are considered his masterpieces, and they are with

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1 Notes of Ben Jonson's Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden, January 1619. Edited by David Laing (Shakespeare Society's Publications, 1842).