Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 19

THE MERLE AND NIGHTINGALE.

In May, as that Aurora did upspring, With crystal een[1] chasing the cluddes sable, I heard a Merle[2] with merry notes sing A song of love, with voice right comfortable, Against the orient beamis, amiable, Upon a blissful branch of laurel green; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 'A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

Under this branch ran down a river bright, Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, Against the heavenly azure skyis light, Where did upon the other side pursue A Nightingale, with sugar'd notes new, Whose angel feathers as the peac.o.c.k shone; This was her song, and of a sentence true, 'All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

With notes glad, and glorious harmony, This joyful merle, so sal.u.s.t[3] she the day, While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May; Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray, As nature, has her taught, the n.o.ble queen, The fields be clothed in a new array; A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Than made this merry gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran, Out through the fresh and flourish'd l.u.s.ty vale; 'O Merle!' quoth she, 'O fool! stint of thy tale, For in thy song good sentence is there none, For both is tint,[4] the time and the travail, Of every love but upon G.o.d alone.'

'Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale: Shall folk their youth spend into holiness?

Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but[5] fable; Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness, Against the law of kind[6] thou goes express, That crooked age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse: A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild,[7] and every hour, The love of G.o.d most dear to man should be; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, And died himself, from death him to succour; Oh, whether was kythit[8] there true love or none?

He is most true and steadfast paramour, And love is lost but upon him alone.'

The Merle said, 'Why put G.o.d so great beauty In ladies, with such womanly having, But if he would that they should loved be?

To love eke nature gave them inclining, And He of nature that worker was and king, Would nothing frustir[9] put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his own making; A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoof Put G.o.d such beauty in a lady's face, That she should have the thank therefor or love, But He, the worker, that put in her such grace; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or s.p.a.ce, And every goodness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in every place: All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

'O Nightingale! it were a story nice, That love should not depend on charity; And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice, Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me; For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be: G.o.d bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen;[10]

And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be?

A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Bird, why does thou rave?

Man may take in his lady such delight, Him to forget that her such virtue gave, And for his heaven receive her colour white: Her golden tressed hairis redomite,[11]

Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, Should not him blind from love that is perfite; All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye, Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, Love makis knightis hardy at essay, Love makis wretches full of largeness, Love makis sweir[12] folks full of business, Love makis sluggards fresh and well beseen,[13]

Love changes vice in virtuous n.o.bleness; A l.u.s.ty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary; Such frustis love it blindis men so far, Into their minds it makis them to vary; In false vain-glory they so drunken are, Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware, Till that all wors.h.i.+p away be from them gone, Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well say I dare, All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

Then said the Merle, 'Mine error I confess: This frustis love is all but vanity: Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, To argue so against the verity; Wherefore I counsel every man that he With love not in the fiendis net be tone,[14]

But love the love that did for his love die: All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, 'Man, love G.o.d that has thee wrought.'

The Nightingale sang, 'Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought.'

The Merle said, 'Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.'

The Nightingale sang, 'And with his death thee bought: All love is lost but upon him alone.'

Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small; Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,[15]

Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail; Me to recomfort most it does avail, Again for love, when love I can find none, To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale; 'All love is lost but upon G.o.d alone.'

[1] 'Een:' eyes.

[2] 'Merle:' blackbird.

[3] 'Sal.u.s.t:' saluted.

[4] 'Tint:' lost.

[5] 'But:' without.

[6] 'Kind:' nature.

[7] 'Eild:' age.

[8] 'Kythit:' shewn.

[9] 'Frustrir:' in vain.

[10] 'Spleen:' from the heart.

[11] 'Redomite:' bound, encircled.

[12] 'Sweir:' slothful.

[13] 'Well beseen:' of good appearance.

[14] 'Tone:' taken.

[15] 'Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein:' whose close disputation made my thoughts yearn.

GAVIN DOUGLAS.

This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth Earl of Angus. He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. He studied at the University of Paris. He became a churchman, and yet united with attention to the duties of his calling great proficiency in polite learning. In 1513 he finished a translation, into Scottish verse, of Virgil's 'Aeneid,' which, considering the age, is an extraordinary performance. It occupied him only sixteen months. The mult.i.tude of obsolete terms, however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as a whole, illegible. After pa.s.sing through various subordinate offices, such as the 'Provosts.h.i.+p' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the 'Abbots.h.i.+p'

of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dunkeld. Dunkeld was not then the paradise it has become, but Birnam hill and the other mountains then, as now, stood round about it, the old Cathedral rose up in mediaeval majesty, and the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to the ocean. And, doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quite as warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, he set up the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar inn, and thence delighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of enchantment which stretch around. The good Bishop was an ardent politician as well as a poet, and was driven, by his share in the troubles of the times, to flee from his native land, and take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The King received him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 he died at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy Church.

He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to Rome to vindicate himself before the Pope against certain charges brought by his enemies.

Besides the translation of the 'Aeneid,' Douglas is the author of a long poem ent.i.tled the 'Palace of Honour;' it is an allegory, describing a large company making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bears considerable resemblance to the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and some suppose that Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 'King Hart' is another production of our poet's, of considerable length and merit. It gives, metaphorically, a view of human life. Perhaps his best pieces are his 'Prologues,' affixed to each book of the 'Aeneid.' From them we have selected 'Morning in May' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine.

'Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c.

Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and grandeur of genius. His power is more in expression than in conception, and hence he has shone so much in translation. His version of the 'Aeneid' is the first made of any cla.s.sic into a British tongue, and is the worthy progenitor of such minor miracles of poetical talent--all somewhat more mechanical than inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinate glory to our literature-as Fairfax's 'Ta.s.so,' Dryden's 'Virgil,' and Pope's, Coper's, and Sotheby's 'Homer.' The fire in Douglas' original verses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning buried in flowery verbiage. Still he was an honour alike to the Episcopal bench and the Muse of Scotland. He was of amiable manners, gentle temperament, and a n.o.ble and commanding appearance.

MORNING IN MAY.

As fresh Aurore, to mighty t.i.thon spouse, Ished of[1] her saffron bed and ivor' house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet[2] the windows of her large hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis crystalline Unwarps broad, the world to illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings,[3] with gold and azure ment;[4]

Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis forth his head, Of colour sore,[5] and somedeal brown as berry, For to alighten and glad our hemispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,[6]

So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * *

While shortly, with the blazing torch of day, Abulyit[7] in his lemand[8] fresh array, Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz; For whose hue might none behold his face. * *

The aureate vanes of his throne soverain With glittering glance o'erspread the oceane; The large floodes, lemand all of light, But with one blink of his supernal sight.

For to behold, it was a glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene, The loune[9] illuminate air and firth amene. * *

And l.u.s.ty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart[10] steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth[11] hues, Wood and forest, ob.u.mbrate with bews.[12] * *

Towers, turrets, kirnals,[13] and pinnacles high, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city, Stood painted, every fane, phiol,[14] and stage,[15]

Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage.

Of Aeolus' north blasts having no dreid, The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.[16] * *

The prai[17] besprent with springing sprouts disperse For caller humours[18] on the dewy night Rendering some place the gerse-piles[19] their light; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, Submit their heads to the young sun's safeguard.

Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all; Forth of fresh bourgeons[20] the wine grapes ying[21]

Endlong the trellis did on twistis hing; The loukit b.u.t.tons on the gemmed trees O'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries; Soft gra.s.sy verdure after balmy showers, On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * *

The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, And every flower unlapped in the dale. * *

Sere downis small on dentilion sprang.

The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang; Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet, Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; * *

Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. * *

A paradise it seemed to draw near These galyard gardens and each green herbere.

Most amiable wax the emerald meads; Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds, Over the lochis and the floodis gray, Searching by kind a place where they should lay.

Phoebus' red fowl,[22] his cural crest can steer, Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear.