Sea. Unnatural villain! And trades like him blown up, take thee from dust, And men bequeath in wills with stools, and brasspots; [heir. One who shall first be household-stuff, then my Sea. I follow you. To leave a fish on land. 'Las! sir, one of your Bright fins and gills must swim in seas of sack, Spout rich canaries up like whales in maps; I know you'll not endure to see my jack Go let the captain make you drunk, and let Plot. Now [ET. SEA. Were there a dext'rous beam and two-pence hemp, Never had man such cause to hang himself. Tim. I have brought myself to a fine pass too. Now Am I fit only to be caught, and put Into a pond to leap carps, or beget A goodly race of pickrel. SONG IN "THE AMOROUS WAR." TIME is the feather'd thing, The sparklings of thy locks, and call them rays, Leaving behind him, as he flies, An unperceived dimness in thine eyes: His minutes, whilst they're told, Do make us old; And every sand of his fleet glass, Insensibly sows wrinkles there Whilst we do speak, our fire Flames turn to frost; and ere we can Springs there where jet did grow, Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. RICHARD BRATHWAITE. [Born, 1588. Died, 1673.] RICHARD BRATHWAITE, mentioned incidentally | deputy-lieutenant of the county. His latter days by Warton as a pastoral poet, but more valuable as a fluent though inelegant satirist, was the son of Thomas Brathwaite of Warcop, near Appleby, in Westmoreland. When he had finished his education at both universities, his father gave him the estate or Barnside, in Westmoreland, where he held a commission in the militia, and was were spent near Richmond, in Yorkshire, where he died, with a highly respectable character. To the list of his pieces enumerated by Wood two have been since added by Mr. Ellis and Mr. Malone, amounting in all to nineteen, among which are two tragi-comedies, Mercurius Britannicus and the Regicidium. FROM A "STRAPPADO FOR THE DEVIL."* To fortify his brains 'gainst all should come, This habit grafted in him grew so strong, The spirit, well approving what he said, JOHN MILTON. [Born, 1608. Died, 1674.] church of his own. Whilst a boy, the intensity of his studies laid the seeds of his future blindness; and at that period the Latin verses addressed to his father attest not only the prematurity of his attainments, but the endearing strength of his affections. If the memory of Milton has been outraged by Dr. Johnson's hostility, the writings of Blackburne, Hayley, and, above all, of Symmons, may be deemed sufficient to have satisfied the poet's injured shade. The apologies for Milton have indeed been rather full to superfluity than defective. Dr. Johnson's triumphant regret at the The few years which he spent at his father's supposed whipping of our great poet at the uni-house, at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, after versity, is not more amusing than the alarm of his favourable biographers at the idea of admitting it to be true. From all that has been written on the subject, it is perfectly clear that Milton committed no offence at college which could deserve an ignominious punishment. Admitting Aubrey's authority for the anecdote, and his authority is not very high, it points out the punishment not as a public infliction, but as the personal act of his tutor, who resented or imagined some unkindnesses. The youthful history of Milton, in despite of this anecdote, presents him in an exalted and amiable light. His father, a man of no ordinary attainments, and so accomplished a musician† as to rank honourably among the composers of his age, intended him for the ministry of the church, and furnished him with a private tutor, who probably seconded his views; but the piety that was early instilled into the poet's mind grew up, with the size of his intellect, into views of religious independence that would not have suited any definite ecclesiastical pale; and if Milton had become a preacher, he must have founded a [There is, perhaps, no work in English which illustrates more fully and amusingly the manners, occupa tions, and opinions of the time when it was written than Braithwaite's Strappado; but it is a strange, undigested and ill-arranged collection of poems, of various kinds and of different degrees of merit, some of them composed considerably before the rest, but few without claims to notice. The principal part consists of satires and epigrams, although the author purposely confounds the distinction between the two: leaving the university, and before setting out on his travels, were perhaps the happiest in his life. In the beautiful scenery of that spot, disinclined to any profession by his universal capacity, and thirst for literature, he devoted himself to study, and wrote the most exquisite of his minor poems. Such a mind, in the opening prime of its genius, enjoying rural leisure and romantic walks, and luxuriating in the production of Comus and the Arcades, presents an inspiring idea of human beatitude. When turned of thirty he went to Italy, the most accomplished Englishman that ever visited her classical shores. The attentions that were shown to him are well known. We find him at the same time, though a stranger and a heretic, boldly expressing his opinions within the verge of the Vatican. There, also, if poetry ever deigns to receive assistance from the younger art, his imagination may have derived at least congenial impressions from the frescoes of Michael Angelo, and the pictures of Raphael; and those impressions he may have possibly recalled in the formation of his great poem, when I call't an Epigram which is a Satire. He never scruples to use the plainest terms, and though he seldom inserts names, he spares neither rank nor condition.-COLLIER, Bridge. Cat. p. 32.] † Milton was early instructed in music. As a poet he speaks like one habituated to inspiration under its influence, and seems to have attached considerable importance to the science in his system of education. his eyes were shut upon the world, and when he looked inwardly for "godlike shapes and forms." In the eventful year after his return from the Continent, the fate of Episcopacy, which was yet undecided, seemed to depend chiefly on the influence which the respective parties could exercise upon the public mind, through the medium of the press, which was now set at liberty by the ordinance of the Long Parliament. Milton's strength led him foremost on his own side of the controversy; he defended the five ministers, whose book was entitled Smectymnus,* against the learning and eloquence of Bishop Hall and Archbishop Usher, and became, in literary warfare, the bulwark of his party. It is performing this and similar services, which Dr. Johnson calls Milton's vapouring away his patriotism in keeping a private boarding-house; and such are the slender performances at which that critic proposes that we should indulge in some degree of merriment. Assuredly, if Milton wielded the pen instead of the sword, in public dispute, his enemies had no reason to regard the former weapon as either idle or impotent in his hand. An invitation to laugh on such an occasion, may remind us of what Sternhold and Hopkins denominate "awful mirth;" for of all topics which an enemy to Milton's principles could select, his impotence in maintaining them is the most unpropitious to merriment. The most difficult passage of his life for his biographers to comment upon with entire satisfaction, is his continued acceptance of Cromwell's wages after Cromwell had become a tyrant. It would be uncandid to deny, that his fear of the return of the Stuarts, the symptoms of his having been seldom at the usurper's court, and the circumstance of his having given him advice to spare the liberties of the people, form some apology for this negative adherence. But if the people, according to his own ideas, were capable of liberty after Cromwell's death, they were equally so before it; and a renunciation of his profits under the despot would have been a nobler and fuller sacrifice to public principles, than any adFrom ordinary men this was more than could be expected; but Milton prescribed to others such austerity of duty, that in proportion to the altitude of his character, the world, which looked to him for example, had a right to expect his practical virtue to be severe. vice. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow; He who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere His infancy to seize! O more exceeding love, or law more just? And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess, And seals obedience first with wounding smart This day, but, O! ere long Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. From the initial letters of their names. SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckow's bill, Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both of them I serve, and of their train am I. SONG ON MAY MORNING. Now the bright morning Star, day's harbinger, AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATICK POET, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.* ATHENS. FROM BOOK IV. OF PARADISE REGAINED. WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd Look once more ere we leave this specular mount, bones, The labour of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart SONNET ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent My true account, lest He returning chide; That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state, Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." Westward, much nearer by south-west behold City or suburban, studious walks and shades; Of moral prudence, with delight received SONNET ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in the old Law did save, And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more delight. But, O! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. [We have copied this title at full length from the poem as it was first printed: "It is true," says Sir Walter Scott, "that Milton descended to upbraid the unfortunate Charles I., that the chosen companion of his private hours was one William Shakspeare, a player." (Life of Dryden, p. 9.) Nothing is more untrue, and we quote the passage: "The poets, and some English, have been so mindful of decorum, as to put never more pious words in the mouth of any person than of a tyrant. I shall not instance an SAMSON BEWAILING HIS BLINDNESS AND CAPTIVITY. (Allendant leading him.) FROM SAMSON AGONISTES. A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand Unwholsome draught: but here I feel amends, abstruse author, wherein the king [Charles I.] might be less conversant, but one whom we well know was the closet companion of these, his solitudes, William Shakspeare, who introduces the person of Richard III." &c., speaking such stuff, he goes on to say, as the king has written, and deep dissemblers indulge in. What is there in this disrespectful to the "sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child," of his juvenile verses?] To Dagon their sea-idol, and forbid His godlike presence, and from some great act O glorious Of man or worm: the vilest here excel me; Without all hope of day! O first created Beam, and thou great Word, And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. She all in every part; why was the sight And buried; but O yet more miserable! By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs; To all the miseries of life, Among inhuman foes. SPEECHES, OF MANOAH THE FATHER OF SAMSON, AND OF THE CHORUS, ON HEARING OF HIS LAST ACHIEVEMENT AND DEATH. Manoah. SAMSON hath quit himself Like Samson, and heroically hath finish'd Fully revenged, hath left them years of mourning, Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns, And to his faithful champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns, And all that band them to resist His uncontrollable intent; His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event, |