THOMAS MAY. [Born, 1595. Died, 1650.] THOMAS MAY, whom Dr. Johnson has pronounced the best Latin poet of England, was the son of Sir Thomas May, of Mayfield in Sussex. During the earlier part of his public life he was encouraged at the court of Charles the First, inscribed several poems to his majesty, as well as wrote them at his injunction, and received from Charles the appellation of "his poet." During this connection with royalty he wrote his five dramas, translated the Georgics and Pharsalia, continued the latter in English as well as Latin, and by his imitation of Lucan acquired the reputation of a modern classic in foreign countries. It were much to be wished, that on siding with the parliament in the civil wars, he had left a valedictory testimony of regret for the necessity of opposing, on public grounds, a monarch who had been personally kind to him. The change was stigmatized as ungrateful, and it was both sordid and ungrateful, if the account given by his enemies can be relied on, that it was owing to the king's refusal of the laureateship, or of a pension-for the story is told in different ways. All that can be suggested in May's behalf is, that no complimentary dedications could pledge his principles on a great question of public justice, and that the motives of an action are seldom traced with scrupulous truth, where it is the bias of the narrator to degrade the action itself. Cla THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. FAIR Rosamond within her bower of late Now came that fatal day, ordain'd to see The Heir, C.; Antigone, T.; Julia Agrippina, T.; Cleopatra, T.; Old Couple, C.; to which may be added Julius Caesar, a tragedy, still in manuscript. rendon, the most respectable of his accusers, is exactly in this situation. He begins by praising his epic poetry as among the best in our language, and inconsistently concludes by pronouncing that May deserves to be forgotten. The parliament, from whatever motive he embraced their cause, appointed him their secretary and historiographer. In this capacity he wrote his Breviary, which Warburton pronounces "a just composition according to the rules of history." It breaks off, much to the loss of the history of that time, just at the period of the Self-denying Ordinance. Soon after this publication he went to bed one night in apparent health, having drank freely, and was found dead in the morning. His death was ascribed to his nightcap being tied too tightly under his chin. Andrew Marvel imputes it to the cheerful bottle. Taken together, they were no bad receipt for suffocation. The vampire revenge of his enemies in digging him up from his grave, is an event too notorious in the history of the Restoration. They gave him honourable company in this sacrilege, namely, that of Blake. He has ventured in narrative poetry on a similar difficulty to that Shakspeare encountered in the historical drama, but it is unnecessary to show with how much less success. Even in that department, he has scarcely equalled Daniel or Drayton. (The cry was utter'd by her grieved maid, For with her train the wrathful queen was there: That to my foul offence is justly due. .... No more,(replied the furious queen;) have done; Delay no longer, lest thy choice be gone, And that a sterner death for thee remain." No more did Rosamond entreat in vain; But, forced to hard necessity to yield, Drank of the fatal potion that she held. And with it enter'd the grim tyrant Death: Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne, And pardon those that her destruction Haddoubly wrought. "Forgive, O Lord, (said she,) Him that dishonour'd, her that murder'd me. Yet let me speak, for truth's sake, angry queen! If you had spared my life, I might have been In time to come the example of your glory; RICHARD CRASHAW. [Born, 1615? Died, 1652.] THIS poet fell into neglect in his own age. He was, however, one of the first of our old minor poets that was rescued from oblivion in the following century. Pope borrowed from him, but acknowledged his obligations. Crashaw formed his style on the most quaint and conceited school of Italian poetry, that of Marino; and there is a prevalent harshness and strained expression in his verses; but there are also many touches of beauty and solemnity, and the strength of his thoughts sometimes appears even in their distortion. If it were not grown into a tedious and impertinent fashion to discover the sources of Paradise Lost, one might be tempted to notice some similarity between the speech of Satan in the Sospetto di Herode of Marino (which Crashaw has translated) and Satan's address to the Sun in Milton. The little that is known of Crashaw's life exhibits enthusiasm, but it is not that of a weak or selfish mind. His private character was amiable; and we are told by the earliest editor of his "Steps to the Temple," that he was skilled in music, drawing, and engraving. His father, of whose writings an account is given in the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a preacher at the Temple church, London. His son, the poet, was born in London, but at what time is uncertain. He was educated at the Charterhouse through the bounty of two friends, Sir Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From SOSPETTO arts. thence he removed to Cambridge, where he became a fellow, and took a degree of master of There he published his Latin poems, in one of which is the epigram from a scripture passage, ending with the line, so well known, Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit, "The modest water saw its God, and blush'd:" and also his pious effusions, called "Steps to the Temple." The title of the latter work was in allusion to the church at Cambridge, near his residence, where he almost constantly spent his time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered to the universities, he preferred ejection and poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. He soon after embraced the Catholic religion, and repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he had no great transition to make to catholicism; and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he had witnessed, together with his admiration of the works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still more easily account for his conversion. Cowley found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recommendation to Italy, where he became a secretary to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. Soon after the latter appointment he died, about the year 1652. D'HERODE. LIB. I. BELOW the bottom of the great abyss, A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss W From death's sad shades, to the life-breathing air He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark To crown their past predictions, both he lays Heaven's golden-winged herald, late he saw How low the bright youth bow'd,and with what awe He saw rich nectar thaws release the rigour Of fair Engaddi's honey-sweating fountains, With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the mountains. He saw how in that blest day-bearing night, Their simple tribute to the babe, whose birth He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase, Of poisonous and unnatural loves, earth-nurst, Touch'd with the world's true antidote to burst. He saw Heaven blossom with a new-born light, On which, as on a glorious stranger, gazed The golden eyes of night, whose beam made bright The way to Beth'lem, and as boldly blazed (Nor ask'd leave of the sun,) by day as night. By whom (as Heaven's illustrious handmaid) raised Three kings (or what is more) three wise men went Westward, to find the world's true orient... That the great angel-blinding light should shrink That he whom the sun serves, should faintly peep That glory's self should serve our griefs and fears, And further, that the law's eternal Giver Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest, A desperate Oh me! drew from his deep breast. Oh me! (thus bellow'd he ;) oh me! what great He has my Heaven (what would he more) whose bright And radiant sceptre this bold hand should bear. That mankind's torment waits upon my tears. What though I miss'd my blow? yet I struck high, And to dare something, is some victory. *Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.-MILTON. Is he not satisfied? means he to wrest Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves Such and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes Ah, wretch! what boots thee to cast back thy eyes And yet whose force fear I have I so lost WILLIAM HABINGTON. [Born, 1605. Died, 1654.] THE mother of this poet, who was daughter to Lord Morley, is reported to have written the famous letter of warning, in consequence of which the gunpowder plot was discovered. His father, who had been suspected of a share in Babington's conspiracy, and who had owed his release to his being godson to Queen Elizabeth, was a second time imprisoned, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the agents in the gunpowder plot; but by Lord Morley's interest was pardoned, on condition of confining himself to Worcestershire, of which county he lived to write a voluminous history. The family were catholics; and his son, the poet, was sent to St. Omer's, we are told, with a view to make him a Jesuit, which he declined. The same intention never failed to be ascribed to all English families who sent their children to that seminary. On his return from the Continent he lived chiefly with his father, who was his CUPIO DISSOLVI. THE Soul which doth with God unite, Which o'er opinion sway! Which doth her flight restrain ! And every murdering pain! How soon she leaves the pride of wealth, And fame's more precious breath; preceptor. Of the subsequent course of his life. nothing more seems to be on record than his marriage and his literary works. The latter consisted of effusions entitled Castara, the poetical name of his mistress; the Queen of Arragon, a tragi-comedy; a History of Edward IV.; and Observations upon History. Habington became a poet from the courtship of the lady whom he married, Lucy, daughter to Lord Powis. There is no very ardent sensibility in his lyrics, but they denote a mind of elegant and chaste sentiments. He is free as any of the minor poets of his age from the impurities which were then considered as wit. He is indeed rather ostentatiously platonic, but his love language is far from being so elaborate as the complimentary gallantry of the preceding age. A respectable gravity of thought, and succinct fluency of expression, are observable in the poems of his later life. The cunning of astrologers The wandering pilot sweats to find But he whom heavenly fire doth warm And 'gainst these powerful follies arm, Doth soberly disdain All these fond human mysteries A's the deceitful and unwise Distempers of our brain. He as a burden bears his clay, Regardless of th' applause. My God! if 'tis thy great decree My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat And treachery of the fair. When thou shalt please this soul t' enthrone Above impure corruption; What should I grieve or fear, To think this breathless body must For in the fire when ore is tried, Do we deplore the loss? And when thou shalt my soul refine, THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA. LIKE the violet, which alone For she's to herself untrue, Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. Women's feet run still astray She sails by that rock, the court, Where vice is enthron'd for wit. O'er that darkness whence is thrust, She her throne makes reason climb While wild passions captive lie; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: All her vows religious be, And her love she vows to me. TO CASTARA, INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER. So gentle to th' magnetic stone? "Tis not thy virtues, each a star To make each gazer's heart like thine; "Tis not thy face, I cannot spy, Or perfumes vapour from her breath, Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'er So vain as in that to delight: Which, balance it, no weight doth bear, Nor yet is object to the sight, But only fills the vulgar ear. Nor yet thy fortunes: since I know That raising they but overthrow. SONG. FROM "THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON." NOT the Phoenix in his death, Nor those banks where violets grow, The twin-beauties of the skies, But those beams, than storms more black, Then for fear of such a fire, Which kills worse than the long night I must from my life retire. But O no! for if her eye Warm me not, I freeze, and die. |