Earl of Roscommon. Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685), was the nephew of the great Earl of Strafford, after whose fall on the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that the youth had a presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, "My father is dead!" one day while he was engaged with some boys at play, at least a fortnight before the intelligence arrived from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" he also translated Horace's "Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own paraphrase of Thomas de Celano's "Dies Iræ:" "My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end!" His mortal remains were interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey. To his honor let it be said that he well deserved this tribute from Pope: "Unhappy Dryden! In all Charles's days, Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays." Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he refused to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness which the popular taste seemed then to demand. He wrote this couplet: "Immodest words admit of no defence, Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested not a bad amendment of the couplet, thus: "Immodest words admit but this defence: Thus make the proper use of each extreme, Thomas Ken. Ken (1637-1711) was educated at Oxford, became chaplain to Charles II., and was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower for resisting the tyranny of James II. A mecker and a braver man than Ken never lived. His hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of several approved devotional works. No poet any passion can excite But what they feel transport them when they write. But though we must obey when Heaven commands, The faster sleep the senses binds, The more unfettered are our minds. Ob, may my soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see! * Oh, may my Guardian,' while I sleep, Stop all the avenues of ill. May he celestial joys rehearse, THOMAS OTWAY. And thought to thought with me converse; Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Thomas Otway. The son of a clergyman, Otway (1651-1685) was born in Sussex. Leaving Oxford without a degree, he appeared on the stage in 1672 as an actor, but failed. He then got a commission in the army in Flanders, but was cashiered. He wrote for the stage, and several of his pieces were quite successful; but he was continually in the direst poverty, and he is alleged by some to have died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long compulsory fast. His fame rests chiefly on his "Venice Preserved," in which there are passages of great dramatic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but their merit is very humble. FROM "VENICE PRESERVED.” ACT IV., SCENE II. Pierre. What whining monk art thou? what holy cheat, That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears, And cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not! Jaff. Not know me, Pierre! Pierre. No, kuow thee not! What art thon? Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued friend! Tho' now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. Pierre. Thou Jaffier! thou my once loved, valued friend! 121 Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant; Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me? Dar'st thou call thyself Jaffier, That once loved, valued friend of mine, And swear thou hast not wronged me? Whence these chains? Whence the vile death which I may meet this moment? Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one? Jaff. All's true; yet grant one thing, and I've done asking. Pierre. What's that? Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions The council have proposed: thou and thy friends May yet live long, and to be better treated. Pierre. Life! ask my life! confess! record myself No, this vile world and I have long been jangling, Pierre. Swear by some other power, For thou hast broke that sacred oath already. Pierre. Not leave me! Jaff. No; thou shalt not force me from thee. Use me reproachfully and like a slave; Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head: I'll bear it all with patience; Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty; Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn me; By heavens, thou liest! The man so called my Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou releut, friend That is, my Guardian Angel. And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. Pierre. Art thou not Jaff. What? Pierre. A traitor? Jaff. Yes. Pierre. A villain? Jaff. Granted. Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward; Spiritless, void of honor; one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? Jaff. All, all, and more, much more; my faults are numberless. became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Hallam pronounces him "a writer of fine genius, and of a noble elevation of moral sentiments." THE ASPIRATION. How long, great God, low long must I Where at the gates and avenues of sense Pierre. And wouldst thou have me live on terms My soul must watch to have intelligence; like thine? Base as thou'rt false Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted; The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee; To rank thee in my list of noble friends, All I received, in surety for thy truth, Given with a worthless pledge thon since hast stolen ; So I restore it back to thee again, Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, Pierre. For my life, dispose it Just as thou wilt; because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre ! Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight, How cold this clime! and yet my sense Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel, I long to see this excellence, Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, How would she hasten to be linked with thee! She'd for no angel's conduct stay, But fly, and love on all the way. SUPERSTITION. I care not though it be By the preciser sort thought popery; For everything we do: Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee. If now thy happy mind Amid its various joys can leisure find To attend to anything so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind. Let not the blessed above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove. Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah! what delight 'twould be MATTHEW PRIOR. Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me! How should I thine sweet commune prize, Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee. I would not long detain Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know Of thy escape below: Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again. Sure, heaven must needs thy love Come, then, and recreate my sight Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. But if fate's so severe As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so), Live happy, but be mindful of me there. Matthew Prior. Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1721) owed his advancement in life to the friendship of the Earl of Dorset, through which he rose to be ambassador to the Court of Versailles. His best-known poems are his light lyrical❘ pieces of the artificial school. Thackeray says, with some exaggeration, that they "are among the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous in the English language" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly commended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by Cowper "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold in the ore. Like many men of letters of his day, Prior never ventured on matrimony. A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop verse The cage, as either side turned up, Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; 123 TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD (1704), THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY. Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band Were summoned by her high command My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For while she makes her silk-worms' beds She may receive and own my flame; And I for an unhappy poet. Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Jonathan Swift. Swift's is one of the great names in English literature (1667-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents and his ancestors were English. He was educated at Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not distinguish himself as a student. For some years he lived with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of dependence, and became restive and soured. Having graduated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at £100 a year. Returning to the house of Sir William Temple, he became involved in the mysterious love-affair with Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-keeper (and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's pet name of Stella. Having become Vicar of Laracor, Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. Miss Johnson resided in the neighborhood, and in the parsonage during his absence. He is said to have fulfilled his clerical office in an exemplary manner. From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted with the Whig party. Dissatisfied with some of their measures, he then became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The coarseness of his "Tale of a Tub" had cut him off from a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says Johnson, "commenced Irishman for life." He soon became an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few men have ever exercised over them so formidable a personal influence. In 1726 he visited England for the publication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had enjoyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years his junior), Gay, Addison, Arbuthnot, and Bolingbroke. He returned to Ireland to lay the mortal remains of Stella in the grave: she is believed to have been his real though unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his last days. After two years passed in lethargic and hopeless idiocy, he died in 1745. His death was mourned by an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin. Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper acceptation of the term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was the sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, "Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting for the intellectual vigor, pungency, and wit by which they are distinguished. FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT."" As Rochefoucault his maxims drew 1 This singular poem was prompted by the following maxim of Rochefoucault: "Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose que ne nous déplait pas.' They argue no corrupted mind In him the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: "In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes What poet would not grieve to see I have no title to aspire, |