in 1603. Drayton acted as an esquire to his patron, Sir Walter Aston, in the ceremony of his installation as a Knight of the Bath. The poet expected some patronage from the new sovereign, but was disappointed. He published the first part of his most elaborate work, the Polyolbion, in 1612, and the second in 1622, the whole forming a poetical description of England, in thirty songs, or books. Michael Drayton. The Polyolbion is a work entirely unlike any other in English poetry, both in its subject and the manner in which it is written. It is full of topographical and antiquarian details, with innumerable allusions to remarkable events and persons, as connected with various localities; yet such is the poetical genius of the author, so happily does he idealise almost everything he touches on, and so lively is the flow of his verse, that we do not readily tire in perusing this vast mass of information. He seems to have followed the manner of Spenser in his unceasing personifications of natural objects, such as hills, rivers, and woods. The information contained in this work is in general so accurate, that it is quoted as an authority by Hearne and Wood. In 1627, Drayton published a volume containing The Battle of Agincourt, The Court of Faerie, and other poems. Three years later appeared another volume, entitled The Muses' Elysium, from which it appears that he had found a final shelter in the family of the Earl of Dorset. On his death in 1631, he was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument, containing an inscription in letters of gold, was raised to his memory by the wife of that nobleman, the justly celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke and Montgomery. Drayton, throughout the whole of his writings, voluminous as they are, shows the fancy and feeling of the true poet. According to Mr Headley-He possessed a very considerable fertility of mind, which enabled him to distinguish himself in almost every species of poetry, from a trifling sonnet to a long topographical poem. If he anywhere sinks below himself, it is in his attempts at satire. In a most pedantic era, he was unaffected, and seldom exhibits his learning at the expense of his judgment.' [Morning in Warwickshire-Description of a When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave, But hunts-up to the morn the feath'red sylvans sing: Then fron her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight; On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, The ouzel near at hand, that hath a golden bill, Upon his dulcet pipe the merle1 doth only play. draw. And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) creeps To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. And near to these our thicks, the wild and frightful herds, Not hearing other noise but this of chattering birds, Feed fairly on the lawns; both sorts of seasoned deer: Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there: The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals strew'd, As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude. Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblest game: 1 Of all birds, only the blackbird whistleth. 99 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. 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, 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 fall 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 poinp; 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 Trent 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 moun tain 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 precions 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, Which lying sleek and smooth as any garden alleys, Do give me leave to play, whilst they do court my stream, 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; than me, The lamprey, and his lesse, in Severn general be ; 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 scem'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, 9* 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: To him before he went, but for his pass must pay : 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, That for thy shape, the monster art of men; Thou thus in brass comest arm'd into the field, And thy huge spear of brass, of brass thy shield: I in the name of Israel's God alone, That more than mighty, that eternal One, Am come to meet thee, who bids not to fear, Nor once respect the arms that thou dost bear, Slave, mark the earth whereon thou now dost stand, I'll make thy length to measure so much land, As thou liest grov'ling, and within this hour The birds and beasts thy carcase shall devour.' In meantime David looking in his face, Between his temples, saw how large a space He was to hit, steps back a yard or two: The giant wond'ring what the youth would do: Whose nimble hand out of his scrip doth bring A pebble-stone and puts it in his sling; At which the giant openly doth jeer, And as in scorn, stands leaning on his spear, Which gives young David much content to see, And to himself thus secretly saith he : Stand but one minute still, stand but so fast, When down he came, like an old o'ergrown oak, 6 With a fair comely gait; nor doth he run, Now the Philistines, at this fearful sight, When straightway Saul his general, Abner, sent For valiant David, that incontinent He should repair to court; at whose command He comes along, and beareth in his hand The giant's head, by the long hair of his crown, Which by his active knee hung dangling down. And through the army as he comes along, To gaze upon him the glad soldiers throng: Some do instyle him Israel's only light, And other some the valiant Bethlemite. With congees all salute him as he past, And upon him their gracious glances cast: He was thought base of him that did not boast, Nothing but David, David, through the host. The virgins to their timbrels frame their lays Of him; till Saul grew jealous of his praise. 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 Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung! The date of Fairfax's birth is unknown. He was the natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire, and spent his life at Fuystone, in the forest of Knaresborough, in the enjoyment of many blessings which rarely befall the poetical race-competence, ease, rural scenes, and an ample command of the means of study. He wrote a work on Demonology, which is still in manuscript, and in the preface to it he states, that in religion he was neither a fantastic Puritan, nor a superstitious Papist.' He also wrote a series of eclogues, one of which was published in 1741, in Cooper's Muses' Library, but it is puerile and absurd. Fairfax was living in 1631, but the time of his death has not been recorded. [Description of Armida and her Enchanted Girdle.] And with that word she smiled, and ne'ertheless Her love-toys still she used, and pleasures bold: Her hair (that done) she twisted up intress, And looser locks in silken laces roll'd; Her curls, garland-wise, she did up dress, Wherein, like rich enamel laid on gold, The twisted flow'rets smil'd, and her white breast The lilies there that spring with roses drest. The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair Her twenty-coloured bow, through clouds of rain: [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; is thoughts above all heavens uplifted were— The 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 The air, that balm and nardus breath'd unseen; And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies. The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compar'd, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so that all that paleness fled, And thence of purest white bright rays outstream So cheered are the flowers, late withered, With the sweet comfort of the morning beam; And so return'd to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold. The lovely whiteness of his changed weed The prince perceived well and long admired; 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. 103 |