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gratitude, though, having done much, he left | That lies between, and first salutes the place
much to do.” Dryden, speaking of Waller's, Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,
Cowley's, and Denham's translations of Virgil, That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky
declares that “it is the utmost of his ambition Uncertain seems, and may be thou_ht a proud
to be thought their equal, or not much inferior Aspiring mountain, or descending cloud.
to them." Prior places Denham and Waller Under his proud survey the city lies,
side by side as improvers of our versification, And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise;
which was perfected by Drydea. Pope in his Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd,

Seem at this distance but a darker cloud:
Essay on Criticism speaks of

And is, to him who rightly things esteems, “the easy vigour of a line

No other in effect than what it seems: Where Denham's strength and Waller's swectness Where, with like haste, through several ways join;"

they run,

Some to undo, and some to be undone. and in his Windsor Forest, within the compass

My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys of a few lines, he calls Denham “ lofty” and Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays; “majestic," and, talking of Cooper's Hill, he Thames! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons prophesies-

By his old sire, to his embraces runs, “On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall Like mortal life to meet eternity. pow."

Though with those streams he no remembrance

hold, There can be little doubt that Cooper's Hill Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold; is an almost perfect model of its kind, not- His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, withstanding the fact that Johnson, character Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, istically enough, declares that “if it be mali- O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, ciously inspected it will not be found without And hatches plenty for the ensuing spring, its faults."

And then destroys it with too fond a stay, Denham's works have been several times Like mothers who their infants overlay; reprinted in one volume under the title of Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Poems and Translations, with the Sophy, a

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. Tragedy. In addition to what appears in this No unexpected inundations spoil collection there are other things attributed to The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil, him. The most important of these is a New But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; Version of the Book of Psalms, which is now

First loves to do, then loves the good he does. little known. A panegyric on General Monk, But free and common as the sea or wind,

Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, printed in 1659, is generally ascribed to him, when he, to boast or to disperse her stores, and his name appears on the poem “The True Full of the tribute of his grateful shores, Presbyterian without Disguise,” as well as two Visits the world, and in his flying towers pieces called “ Clarendon's House Warming,” | Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours: and “His Epitaph.” These last are, however, Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, believed to be by Marvell, and are printed in Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants; the late American edition of that author's So that to us no thing, no place is strange, works. Strange to say, Denham has been while his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. rather overlooked and forgotten of late years, | O, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream and his name does not appear in any of the My great example, as it is my theme ! later popular editions of the poets.]

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not

Strong without rage; without o’erflowing full !

Heaven her Eridanus no more shall boast;

Whose fame in thine, like lesser current, 's lost.

The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear,
Through untraced ways and airy paths I fly, That had the self-enamour'd youth gaz'd here,
More boundless in my fancy than my eye:

So fatally deceived he had not been,
My eye, which swift as thought contracts the space While he the bottom, not his face had seen.

But his proud head the airy mountain hides

Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides 1 This and the three following extracts are from the work entitled Poems and Translations, with the Sophy, a Tragedy.

2 St. Paul's, as seen from Cooper's Hill.


A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows Nor speed nor art avail, he shapes his course,
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows, Thinks not their rage so desperate to essay
While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat: An element more merciless than they.
The common fate of all that's high or great. But fearless they pursue, nor can the flood
Low at his foot a spacious plain is plac'd,

Quench their dire thirst; alas! they thirst for blood.
Between the mountain and the stream embrac'd, So tow'rds a ship the oar-finn'd galleys ply,
Which shade and shelter from the Hill derives, Which, wanting sea to ride, or wind to fly,
While the kind river wealth and beauty gives, Stands but to fall revenged on those that dare
And in the mixture of all these appears

Tempt the last fury of extreme despair. Variety, which all the rest endears.

So fares the stag; among the enraged hounds This scene had some bold Greek or Roman bard Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds: Beheld of old, what stories had we heard

And as a hero whom his baser foes Of fairies, satyrs, and the nymphs, their dames, In troops surround, now these assails, now those, Their feasts, their revels, and their amorous flames! Though prodigal of life, disdains to die 'Tis still the same, altho' their airy shape

By common hands; but if he can descry All but a quick poetic sight escape.

Some nobler foe approach, to him he calls There Faunus and Sylvanus keep their courts, And begs his fate, and then contented falls. And thither all the horned host resorts

So when the king a mortal shaft lets fly To graze the ranker mead; that noble herd From his unerring hand, then, glad to die, On whose sublime and shady fronts is rear'd Proud of the wound, to it resigns his blood, Nature's great masterpiece, to show how soon And stains the crystal with a purple flood. Great things are made, but sooner are undone. This a more innocent and happy chase Here have I seen the king, when great affairs Than when of old, but in the self-same place, Gave leave to slacken and unbend his cares, Fair Liberty, pursu'd, and meant a prey Attended to the chase by all the flower

To lawless power, here turn'd and stood at hay.
Of youth, whose hopes a nobler prey devour;
Pleasure with praise and danger they would buy,
And wish a foe that would not only fly.
The stag, now conscious of his fatal growth,

At once indulgent to his fear and sloth,
To some dark covert his retreat had made,

These to his sons (as Xenophon records)
Where nor man's eye nor heaven's should invade Of the great Cyrus were the dying words:
His soft repose, when th' unexpected sound “Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn)
Of dogs and men his wakeful ear does wound. I shall be no where, or to nothing turn;
Roused with the noise, he scarce believes his ear, That soul, which gave me life, was seen by none,
Willing to think the illusions of his fear

Yet by the actions it design'd was known; Had given this false alarm, but straight his vicw And though its flight no mortal eye shall see, Confirms, that more than all he fears is true. Yet know, for ever it the same shall be. Betray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset,

That soul which can immortal glory give All instruments, all arts of ruin met;

To her own virtues must for ever live. He calls to mind his strength, and then his speed, Can you believe that man's all-knowing mind His winged heels, and then his armed head; Can to a mortal body be confin'd? With these t'avoid, with that his fate to meet; Though a foul foolish prison her immure But fear prevails and bids him trust his feet. On earth, she (when escap'd) is wise and pure. So fast he flies that his reviewing eye

Man's body, when dissolv'd, is but the same Has lost the chasers, and his ear the cry;

With beast's, and must return from whence it came; Exulting till he finds their nobler sense

But whence into our bodies reason flows Their disproportioned speed doth recompense;

None sees it, when it comes, or when it goes. Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent Nothing resembles death as much as sleep, Betrays that safety which their swiftness lent: Yet then our minds themselves from slumbers Then tries his friends; among the baser herd,

keep; Where he so lately was obeyed and feared,

When from their fleshly bondage they are free, His safety seeks. The herd, unkindly wise, Then what divine and future things they see ! Or chases him from thence, or from him flies;

Which makes it most apparent whence they are, Like a declining statesman, left forlorn

And what they shall hereafter be declare." To his friends' pity and pursuers' scorn,

This noble speech the dying Cyrus made. With shame remembers, while himself was one Me, Scipio, shall no argument persuade Of the same herd, himself the same had done. Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom fame

Then to the stream, when neither friends nor force,

1 Runnymede, where the Magna Charta was first sealed.


Not the effect of poetry, but pains;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue,
To make translations and translators too:
They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,
True to his sense, but truer to his fame.
Fording his current, where thou find'st it low,
Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow,
Wisely restoring whatsoever grace
It lost by change of times, or tongue, or place.
Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,
Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes;
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinew'd length:
Yet after all (lest we should think it thine),
Thy spirit to his circle does confine.


Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th' world their

name, Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul, Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal, Nor I (for ’tis permitted to the ag'd To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought That only fame our virtuous actions brought; 'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close: Some high assurance hath possest my mind, After my death a happier life to find. Unless our souls from the Immortal came, What end have we to seek immortal fame? All virtuous spirits some such hope attends, Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends. The foolish and short-sighted die with fear That they go no where, or they know not where; The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes, Before she parts, some happy port descries. My friends, your fathers I shall surely see, Nor only those I lov'd, or who lov'd me; But such as before ours did end their days, Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise. This I believe: for were I on my way None should persuade me to return, or stay: Should some god tell me, that I should be born, And cry again, his offer I would scorn; Asham'd, when I have ended well my race, To be led back to my first starting-place. . . Hence from an inn, not from my home I pass, Since nature meant us here no dwelling-place. Happy when I, from this turmoil set free, That peaceful and divine assembly see. Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief From age, which is of my delights the chief. My hopes, if this assurance hath deceiv'd (That I man's soul immortal have believ'd), And if I err no power shall dispossess My thoughts of that expected happiness: Though some minute philosophers pretend, That with our days our pains and pleasures end. If it be so I hold the safer side, For none of them my error shall deride; And if hereafter no rewards appear, Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.

Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far; His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd Which our dark nation long involv’d: But he descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades. Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three with his own fires Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires; By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines: These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave their mansion keep. They liv'd to see so many days, Till time had blasted all their bays: But cursed be the fatal hour That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower That in the Muses' garden grew, And amongst wither'd laurels threw. Time, which made them their fame outlive, To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Old mother-wit and nature gave Shakspere and Fletcher all they have; In Spenser, and in Jonson, art Of slower nature got the start; But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happier share: To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; He melted not the ancient gold, Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets and of orators: Horace's wit and Virgil's state He did not steal, but emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear. ...



Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate. But what in them is want of art or vice, In thee is either modesty or choice. . That servile path thou nobly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line; These are the labour'd birth of slavish brains,

1 Scipio Africanus and Scipio Asiaticus.

Prince. So when the ship is sinking, EXTRACT FROM "THE SOPHY: The winds that wreck'd it cease. A TRAGEDY."

Princess. Will you then be the scorn of fortune,

To come near a crown, and only near it? [Abbas, king of Persia, is led to believe that Prince. I am not fortune's scorn, but she is his son Mirza is a traitor, and wishes to depose mine, him and seize the crown. Haly, his favourite, More blind than I. who hates the prince, has invented the tale, Princess. Oh tyranny of fate! to bring and brought up false proofs. The king orders Death in one hand, and empire in the other; the prince's eyes to be put out. The minister Only to show us happiness, and then becomes more and more powerful, and fearing To snatch us from it. lest the king should relent, he causes a poisoned

Prince. They snatch me to it; draught to be conveyed to the prince. The My soul is on her journey, do not now king too late finds out the perfidy of his favour- Divert, or lead her back, to lose herself ite, and dies after recommending the Prin- l' th' maze and winding labyrinths o’ th' world :

I cess Erythaea to take care of the young Sophy,

prythee do not weep, thy love is that who is heir to the throne. Haly tries to set

I part with most unwillingly, or otherwise aside the prince and elect a tool of his own; Had forced me hence.

I had not stayed till rude necessity his design had almost succeeded when Abdall

Sophy, be not a man too soon, and Morat, two friends of the murdered prince, And when thou art, take heed of too much virtue; lead on the army and bring the infamous It was thy father's and his only crime, favourite Haly to justice, at the same time 'Twill make the king suspicious; yet e'er time seating the prince's son, Sophy, upon the By nature's course has ripend thee to man, throne, where he reigns happily King of 'Twill mellow him to dust, 'till then forget Persia.]

I was thy father, yet forget it not, Enter the Prince, who has been undeservedly To noble actions. And you, dear Erythaea,

My great example shall excite thy thoughts blinded by his father the King; at the other door Give not your passions vent, nor let blind fury is the Princess his wife, and Sophy his son.

Precipitate your thoughts, nor set 'em working, servant leads the Prince.

Till time shall lend 'em better means and instruServant (to Prince). Sir, the princess and your


Than lost complaints. Where's pretty Fatima? Prince. Sophy, thou comest to wonder at I prythee call her. Thy wretched father; why dost thou interrupt Princess. I will, sir, I pray try if sleep will Thy happiness, by looking at an object So miserable ?

Your torments, and repair your wasted spirits. Princess. My lord, methinks there is not in Prince. Sleep to those empty lids

Is grown a stranger, and the day and night
The vigour that was wont, nor in your look As undistinguish'd by my sleep, as sight.
The wonted cheerfulness. Are you well, my lord ? O happiness of poverty! that rests
Prince. No: but I shall be. I feel my health Securely on a bed of living turf,
a coming.

While we with waking cares and restless thoughts Princess. What's your disease, my lord? Lie tumbling on our down, counting the blessing

Prince. Nothing, but I have ta'en a cordial, Of a short minute's slumber, which the ploughSent by the king, or Haly, in requital Of all my miseries, to make me happy:

Shakes from him, as a ransom'd slave his fetters. pillars of this frame grow weak,

Call in some musick; I have heard soft airs As if the weight of many years oppress'd them; Can charm our senses, and expel our cares. My sinews slacken, and an icy stiffness

Is Erythaea gone?
Benumbs my blood.

Servant. Yes, sir.
Princess. Alas, I fear he's poison'd! Prince. 'Tis well:
Call all the help that art, or herbs, or minerals I would not have her present at my death.
Can minister.

No, 'tis too late:
And they that gave this, are too well practis’d Morpheus, the humble god, that dwells
In such an art, to attempt and not perform.

In cottages and smoky cells,
Princess. Yet try, my lord, revive your thoughts, Hates gilded roofs, and beds of down;
the empire

And though he fears no prince's frown, Expects you; your father's dying.

Flies from the circle of a crown.



your voice


Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep and never wake.
Nature (alas) why art thou so
Obligèd to thy greater foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the same thing at last.
Servant. So now he sleeps, let's leave him

And met this hated life! but cruel fate
Envied so great a happiness; fate that still
Flies from the wretched and pursues the blest.
Ye heav'ns! but why should I complain to them
That hear me not, or bow to those that hate ma?
Why should your curses so outweigh your bless-

They come but single, and long expectation
Takes from their value: but these fall upon us
Double and sudden.

[Sees the King.
Yet more of horror! then farewell my tears,
And my just anger be no more confin'd
To vain complaints, or self-devouring silence;
But break, break forth upon him like a deluge,
And the great spirit of my injur'd lord
Possess me, and inspire me with a rage
Great as thy wrongs, and let me call together
All my soul's powers, to throw a curse upon him
Black as his crimes!

To his repose.

Enter the King.

Enter the PRINCESS and Sophy. Princess. He's gone! he's gone for ever: Oh that the poison had mistaken his,

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[Nicholas French, afterwards Bishop of l’nkinde Desertor of Loyall Men and True Ferns, was born in the town of Wexford in Friends. In this he mercilessly belaboured 1604, from which he was sent early in life to the Duke of Ormond, to whom he attributed the Irish College at Louvain. There before the ultimate failure of his mission. Soon after long he distinguished himself, and “there also we find him at Paris, where he was appointed he was received into holy orders.” Soon after, coadjutor to the archbishop; but from this hearing of the troubles of his country, he de- | post he was shortly driven by the intrigues of termined to return thither, and having been Ormond and the exiled Charles II. In 1662 appointed parish priest of Wexford, “he be- and 1665 he was at Santiago in Spain, as we came of such repute both for elocution, be- know from some letters written by him from haviour, prudence, and integrity that he was that place. In the latter year he writes also chosen one of the representatives of that town from Paris, and a little later he returned to in the assembly of the confederate Catholics the cloisters of St. Anthony's at Louvain. at Kilkenny.” Before this time French had Before he had scarcely well settled down in already completed his first work, A System of his old quarters he took up his pen again, and Philosophy, which so far as we can discover in quick order appeared his numerous tracts yet remains unpublished.

upon Irish affairs, among which were “Thirty In 1643 French was appointed Bishop of Sheets of Reasons against the Remonstrance," Ferns, and in 1645 his election to the assembly | “The Due Obedience of Catholics,” and “A at Kilkenny took place as stated. For the Dissertation Justifying the Late War.” In next few years he laboured busily in connec- 1668 appeared his best work, from a literary tion with political matters, giving good advice point of view, The Settlement and Sale of Ireto the party to which he belonged, and not land; and in 1674 The Bleeding Iphigenia. wanting courage to strike out against those he Before this he became president of the Irish opposed. In 1651 he went as ambassador for College, but about this time he moved to Ghent, his party to the Duke of Lorraine at Brussels, where he was appointed coadjutor bishop, in which negotiation he was successful, though and where he died in the year 1678. He in the end, owing to no fault of the ambas- was buried in the church of St. Nicholas, and sador, all came to nought. In 1652, the year of the downfall of his political hopes, he pub

"The Duke of Ormond well known for his intrigues lished at Brussels his celebrated work, The with Cromwellians and Charles II.

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