The Spaniard's ship; and round him stand
The warriors of his wasted band:
Then said he, feeling death at hand,
"Here die I, Richard Grenville,
With a joyful and quiet mind;
I reach a soldier's end, I leave
A soldier's fame behind,
Who for his queen and country fought,
For honour and religion wrought,
And died as a true soldier ought."
Earth never returned a worthier trust
For hand of Heaven to take,
Since Arthur's sword, excalibur,
Was cast into the lake,
And the king's grievous wounds were dressed,
And healed, by weeping queens, who blessed,
And bore him to a valley of rest.
Old heroes who could grandly do,
As they could greatly dare ;
A vesture, very glorious,
Their shining spirits wear,
Of noble deeds! God give us grace,
That we may see such face to face,
In our great day that comes apace.
BY ANDREW MARVELL
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air;
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice;
With cedars chosen by His hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore ;
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
(1564-1616)
BY BEN JONSON
THIS Figure, that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;
Wherein the Graver had a strife
With Nature, to out-doo the life:
O, could he but have drawne his Wit
As well in Brasse, as he hath hit
His Face; the Print would then surpasse
All, that was ever writ in Brasse.
But, since he cannot, Reader, looke
Not on his Picture, but his Booke.
A VISION as of crowded city streets,
With human life in endless overflow;
Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow
To battle; clamour in obscure retreats,
Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets.
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below
Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw
O'er garden walls their intermingled sweets.
That vision comes to me when I unfold
The volume of the Poet paramount,
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone ;-
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold
And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.
A CALL ON SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
BY SARAH M. B. PIATT
Ay, not at home, then, didst thou say?
-And prithee, hath he gone to court?
Nay; he hath sailed but yesterday,
With Edmund Spenser from this port.
"This Spenser, folks do say, hath writ,
Twelve cantos called The Faerie Queen.'
To seek for one to publish it,
They go on a long voyage, I ween."
Ah! me! I came so far to see
This ruffed and plumèd cavalier-
He whom romance and history,
Alike to all the world make dear.
And I had some strange things to tell
Of our New World where he hath been;
And now they say-I marked them well-
They say the Master is not in!
The knaves speak not the truth, I see
Sir Walter at the window there
-That is the hat and sword, which he
In pictures hath been pleased to wear.
There hangs the very cloak whereon
Elizabeth set foot. (But oh,
Young diplomat, as things have gone
Pity it is she soiled it so !)
And there-but look! he's lost in smoke :
(That weirdly charmed Virginia weed!)
Make haste, bring anything; his cloak-
They save him with a shower, indeed!
Ay, lost in smoke. I linger where
He walked his garden. Day is dim
And death scents rise to the air
From flowers that gave their breath to him.
There, with its thousand years of tombs
The dark church glimmers where he prayed; Here, with that high head shorn of plumes The tree he planted gave him shade.
That high head shorn of plumes? Even so It stained the Tower when grey with grief! O tree he planted, as I go
For him I tenderly take a leaf.
I have been dreaming here, they say,
Of one dead knight forgot at court.
-And yet he sailed but yesterday,
With Edmund Spenser, from this port.
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