On My First Daughter. Here lies, to each her parents' ruth, It makes the father less to rue. Whose soul Heaven's queen-whose name In comfort of her mother's tears, To Penshurst.* Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made At his great birth where all the Muses met. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, * Penshurst is situated in Kent, near Tunbridge, in a wide and rich valley. The gray walls and turrets of the old mansion, its high peaked and red roofs, and the new build. ings of fresh stone, mingled with the ancient fabric, present a very striking and venerable aspect. Itis a fitting abode for the noble Sidneys. The park contains trees of enormous growth, and others to which past events and characters have given an everlasting interest; as Sir Philip Sidney's Oak, Saccharissa's Walk, Gamage's Bower. &c. The ancient massy oak-tables remain; and from Jonson's description of the hospitality of the amily, they must often have 'groaned with the weight of the feast. Mr. William Howitt has given an interesting account of Penshurst in his Visits to Remarkable Places, 1840. Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan; Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend But what can this-more than express their love- The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, lo the Memory of my beloved, the Author, Mr. William Shakspeare, and what he hath left us. To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, As neither man nor Muse can praise too much. Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome As they were not of nature's family. And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; For a good poet's made as well as born, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines: In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and, with rage Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light! On the Portrait of Shakspeare.-Opposite the frontispiece to the first edition of his works, 1623. This figure that thou here seest put, As well in brass, as he hath hit *This attestation of Ben Jonson to the first engraved portrait of Shakspeare, seems to prove its fidelity as a likeness. The portrait corresponds with the monumental effigy at Stratford, but both represent a heavy and somewhat inelegant figure. There is, however, a placid good-humour in the expression of the features, and inuch sweetness in the mouth and lips. The upper part of the head is bald, and the lofty forehead is conspicuous in both, as in the Chandos and other pictures. The general resemblance we have no doubt is correct, but considerable allowance must be made for the defective state of English art at this period. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT (1582-1628) was the elder brother of the celebrated dramatist. Enjoying the family estate of Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire, Sir John dedicated part of his leisure hours to the service of the Muses. He wrote a poem on Bosworth Field in the heroic couplet, which, though generally cold and unimpassioned, exhibits correct and forcible versification. As a specimen, we subjoin Richard's address to his troops on the eve of the decisive battle: My fellow-soldiers! though your swords Are sharp, and need not whetting by my words, Know, then, ye have but changed your general's name And knows not what our drums and trumpets sound! Sir John Beaumont wrote the heroic couplet with great ease and Correctness. In a poem to the memory of Fernando Fulton, Esq., are the following excellent verses: Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears, The shortest space, which we so lightly prize No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again: FRANCIS BEAUMONT. FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616), whose name is most conspicuous as a dramatist, in union with that of Fletcher, wrote a small number of miscellaneous pieces, which his brother published after his death. Some of these youthful effusions are witty and amusing; others possess a lyrical sweetness; and a few are grave and moralising. The most celebrated is the letter to Ben Jonson, which was originally published at the end of the play 'Nice Valour,' with the following title: 'Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson, written before he and Master Fletcher came to London, with two of the precedent Comedies then not finished, which deferred their merry-meetings at the Mermaid. Notwithstanding the admiration of Beaumont for Rare Ben,' he copied Shakspeare in the style of his dramas. Fletcher, however, was still more Shakspearian than his associate. Hazlitt says finely of the premature death of Beaumont and his more poetical friend: The bees were said to have come and built their hive in the mouth of Plato when a child; and the fable might be transferred to the sweeter accents of Beaumont and Fletcher. Beaumont died at the age of five-and-twenty [thirty]. One of these writers makes Bellario, the page, say to Philaster, who threatens to take his life: But here was youth, genius, aspiring hope, growing reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer pride, or like "the lily on its stalk green," which makes us repine at fortune, and almost at nature, that seem to set so little store by their greatest favourites. The life of poets is, or ought to be--judging of it from the light it lends to ours -a golden dream, full of brightness and sweetness, lapt in Elysium; and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision, by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like a vapour, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals has run out. Fletcher, too, was prematurely cut off by the plague.** From Letter to Ben Jonson. The sun-which does the greatest comfort bring *Lectures on the Age of Elizabeth. |