Of which most princely chase sith none did e'er report, Or by description touch, t' express that wondrous sport (Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' nobler songs) To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs : rove At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce; And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's queen, With thy dishevel'd nymphs attired in youthful green, About the lawns hast scowr'd, and wastes both far and near, Brave huntress ; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here ; Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red, The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds, Or ent'ring of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair, He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive, As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive. And through the cumb'rous thicks, as fearfully he makes, He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep; When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place: And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase. Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives, That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves: And o'er the champain flies; which when the assembly find, Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind. soil; That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shagwool'd sheep, Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep. But when as all his shifts his safety still denies, T'assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand, 1 The track of the foot. * One of the measures in winding the horn. Until the noble deer, through toil bereav'd of strength, He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed. The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay, And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds. The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately assails; until opprest by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall1 To forests that belongs. [Part of the Twenty-eighth Song of the Polyolbion.] But, Muse, return at last, attend the princely Trent, Who straining on in state, the north's imperious flood, The third of England call'd, with many a dainty wood, Being crown'd to Burton comes, to Needwood where she shows Herself in all her pomp ; and as from thence she flows, She takes into her train rich Dove, and Darwin clear, Darwin, whose font and fall are both in Derbyshire; And of those thirty floods, that wait the Frent upon, Doth stand without compare, the very paragon. Thus wand'ring at her will, as uncontroll'd she ranges, Her often varying form, as variously and changes; First Erwash, and then Lyne, sweet Sherwood sends her in ; Then looking wide, as one that newly wak'd had been, Saluted from the north, with Nottingham's proud height, So strongly is surpris'd, and taken with the sight, In which she sees herself above her neighbours bless'd. As wrap'd with the delights, that her this prospect brings, In her peculiar praise, lo thus the river sings: 'What should I care at all, from what my name I take, That thirty doth import, that thirty rivers make; Fetch her descent from Wales, from that proud mountain sprung, Plinillimon, whose praise is frequent them among, As of that princely maid, whose name she boasts to bear, Bright Sabrin, whom she holds as her undoubted heir, Let these imperious floods draw down their long de scent From these so famous stocks, and only say of Trent, 1 The hart weepeth at his dying; his tears are held to be precious in medicine. That Moreland's barren earth me first to light did bring, Which though she be but brown, my clear complexion'd spring Gain'd with the nymphs such grace, that when I first did rise, The Naiads on my brim danc'd wanton hydagies, Encircled my fair fount with many a lusty round: Their banks are barren sands, if but compar'd with mine, Through my perspicuous breast, the pearly pebbles shine: I throw my crystal arms along the flow'ry valleys, And crown my winding banks with many an anadem ; As nature had thereon bestow'd this stronger guard, His very near ally, and both for scale and fin, In taste, and for his bait (indeed) his next of kin, Food to the tyrant pike (most being in his power), Who for their numerous store he most doth them devour; The lusty salmon then, from Neptune's wat'ry realm, When as his season serves, stemming my tideful stream, Then being in his kind, in me his pleasure takes, Of many a liquorish lip, that highly is regarded. Not Ancum's silver'd eel excelleth that of Trent; Though the sweet smelling smelt be more in Thames than me, The lamprey, and his lesse, in Severn general be; The flounder smooth and flat, in other rivers caught, Since they but little are, I little need to speak From all the rest alone, whose shell is all his bones : among, To lakes and standing pools that chiefly do belong, Here scouring in my fords, feed in my waters clear, Are muddy fish in ponds to that which they are here.' From Nottingham, near which this river first begun This song, she the meanwhile, by Newark having run, Receiving little Synte, from Bever's bat'ning grounds, At Gainsborough goes out, where the Lincolnian bounds. Yet Sherwood all this while, not satisfied to show Her love to princely Trent, as downward she doth flow, Her Meden and her Man, she down from Mansfield sends To Iddle for her aid, by whom she recommends And clip her till she grace great Humber with her fall. When Sherwood somewhat back the forward Muse doth call; For she was let to know, that Soare had in her song So chanted Charnwood's worth, the rivers that along, Amongst the neighbouring nymphs there was no other lays, But those which seem'd to sound of Charnwood, and her praise: Which Sherwood took to heart, and very much disdain'd, (As one that had both long, and worthily maintain'd The title of the great'st and bravest of her kind) To fall so far below one wretchedly confined Within a furlong's space, to her large skirts compared: Wherefore she, as a nymph that neither fear'd nor cared For ought to her might chance, by others love or hate, With resolution arm'd against the power of fate, How he hath cousen'd them, that him would have betray'd; How often he hath come to Nottingham disguised, When setting to their lips their little beugles shrill The warbling echoes waked from every dale and hill: Their bauldricks set with studs, athwart their shoulders cast, To which under their arms their sheafs were buckled fast, A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span, They not an arrow drew, but was a cloth yard long. Their arrows finely pair'd, for timber, and for feather, The loose gave such a twang, as might be heard a mile. And of these archers brave, there was not any one, But he could kill a deer his swiftest speed upon, Which they did boil and roast, in many a mighty wood, Sharp hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food. Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he Slept many a summer's night under the greenwood tree. From wealthy abbots' chests, and churls' abundant store, What oftentimes he took, he shared amongst the poor: came, Was sovereign of the woods, chief lady of the game: Her clothes tuck'd to the knee, and dainty braided hair, With bow and quiver arm'd, she wander'd here and there Amongst the forests wild; Diana never knew [David and Goliah.] And now before young David could come in, ** Suiting to these he wore a shepherd's scrip, Which when Goliah saw,' Why, boy,' quoth he, 'Uncircumcised slave,' quoth David then, When down he came, like an old o'ergrown oak, ་ With a fair comely gait; nor doth he run, Now the Philistines, at this fearful sight, When straightway Saul his general, Abner, sent EDWARD FAIRFAX. The celebrated translation of Tasso's Jerusalem, by EDWARD FAIRFAX, was made in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and dedicated to that princess, who was proud of patronising learning, but not very lavish in its support. The poetical beauty and freedom of Fairfax's version has been the theme of almost universal praise. Dryden ranked him with Spenser as a master of our language, and Waller said he derived from him the harmony of his numbers. Collins has finely alluded to his poetical and imaginative genius The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair [Rinaldo at Mount Olivet and the Enchanted Wood.] It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day, Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined, For in the east appear'd the morning grey, And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine, This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine. Thus to himself he thought: how many bright And 'splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high! Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure sky; So framed all by their Creator's might, That still they live and shine, and ne'er will die, Till in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear; His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; His thoughts above all heavens uplifted wereThe sins and errors which I now repent, Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall And purge my faults and my offences all. Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew, In golden weed, the morning's lusty queen, Begilding with the radiant beams she threw, His helm, the harness, and the mountain green : Upon his breast and forehead gently blew Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind The air, that balm and nardus breath'd unseen; Believed the magic wonders which he sung! And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, The date of Fairfax's birth is unknown. He was A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies. the natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire, and spent his life at Fuystone, in the The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, forest of Knaresborough, in the enjoyment of many And sprinkled so that all that paleness fled, To which compar'd, his clothes pale ashes seem, blessings which rarely befall the poetical race-competence, ease, rural scenes, and an ample command And thence of purest white bright rays outstream: of the means of study. He wrote a work on Demon-With the sweet comfort of the morning beam; So cheered are the flowers, late withered, ology, which is still in manuscript, and in the pre- And so return'd to youth, a serpent old face to it he states, that in religion he was neither Adorns herself in new and native gold. a fantastic Puritan, nor a superstitious Papist.' He also wrote a series of eclogues, one of which was The lovely whiteness of his changed weed published in 1741, in Cooper's Muses' Library, but it The prince perceived well and long admired; is puerile and absurd. Fairfax was living in 1631, Toward the forest march'd he on with speed, Resolv'd, as such adventures great required: Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired; But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade. Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before, He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was ; There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass; There sang the swan, and singing died, alas! There lute, harp, cittern, human voice he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared. but the time of his death has not been recorded. [Description of Armida and her Enchanted Girdle.] The twisted flow'rets smil'd, and her white breast A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound, And through the grove one channel passage found; And so exchang'd their moisture and their shade. SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. The first translator of Ariosto into English was SIR JOHN HARRINGTON, a courtier of the reign of Elizabeth, and also god-son of the queen. He was the son of John Harrington, Esq., the poet already noticed. Sir John wrote a collection of epigrams, and a Brief View of the Church, in which he reprobates the marriage of bishops. He is supposed to have died about the year 1612. The translation from Ariosto is poor and prosaic, but some of his epigrams are pointed. Of Treason. Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason? For if it prosper none dare call it treason. Of Fortune. Fortune, men say, doth give too much to many, But yet she never gave enough to any. Against Writers that carp at other Men's Books. The readers and the hearers like my books, But yet some writers cannot them digest; But what care I for when I make a feast I would my guests should praise it, not the cooks. Of a Precise Tailor. A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing- He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; to the service of the Earl of Essex, the favourite of Elizabeth, but had the sagacity to foresee the fate of that nobleman, and to elude its consequences by withdrawing in time from the kingdom. Having afterwards gained the friendship of King James, by communicating the secret of a conspiracy formed against him, while yet only king of Scotland, he was employed by that monarch, when he ascended the English throne, as ambassador to Venice. A versatile and lively mind qualified Sir Henry in an eminent degree for this situation, of the duties of which we have his own idea in the well-known punning expression, in which he defines an ambassador to be an honest gentleman sent to lie abroad for the good of his country.' He ultimately took orders, to qualify himself to be provost of Eton, in which situation he died in 1639, in the seventy-second year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of Reliquia Wottoniana; and a memoir of his very curious life has been published by Izaak Walton. To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia. You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light! You common people of the skies! What are you, when the sun shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood By your weak accents! what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? |