Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 55

Here he resided for twenty years, till ejected by the civil war. He seems all this time to have felt little relish either for his profession or paris.h.i.+oners. In the former, the cast of his poems shews that he must have been 'detained before the Lord;' and the latter he describes as a 'wild, amphibious race,' rude almost as 'salvages,' and 'churlish as the seas.' When he quitted his charge, he became an author at the mature age of fifty-six--publis.h.i.+ng first, in 1647, his 'n.o.ble Numbers; or, Pious Pieces;' and next, in 1648, his 'Hesperides; or, Works both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq.'--his ministerial prefix being now laid aside. Some of these poems were sufficiently unclerical--being wild and licentious in cast--although he himself alleges that his life was, s.e.xually at least, blameless. Till the Restoration he lived in Westminster, supported by the rich among the Royalists, and keeping company with the popular dramatists and poets. It would seem that he had been in the habit of visiting London previously, while still acting as a clergyman, and had become a boon companion of Ben Jonson. Hence his well-known lines--

'Ah, Ben!

Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the "Sun,"

The "Dog," the "Triple Tun,"

Where we such cl.u.s.ters had As made us n.o.bly wild, not mad?

And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.

My Ben!

Or come again, Or send to us, Thy wit's great overplus.

But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend, And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.'

With the Restoration, fortune began again to smile on our poet. He was replaced in his old charge, and seems to have spent the rest of his life quietly in the country, enjoying the fresh air and the old English sports--'repenting at leisure moments,' as Shakspeare has it, of the early pruriencies of his muse; or, as the same immortal bard says of Falstaff, 'patching up his old body' for a better place. The date of his death is not exactly ascertained; but he seems to have got considerably to the shady side of seventy years of age.

Herrick's poetry was for a long time little known, till worthy Nathan Drake, in his 'Literary Hours,' performed to him, as to some others, the part of a friendly resurrectionist. He may be called the English Anacreon, and resembles the Greek poet, not only in graceful, lively, and voluptuous elegance and richness, but also in that deeper sentiment which often underlies the lighter surface of his verse. It is a great mistake to suppose that Anacreon was a mere contented sensualist and shallow songster of love and wine. Some of his odes shew that, if he yielded to the destiny of being a Cicada, singing amidst the vines of Bacchus, it was despair--the despair produced by a degraded age and a bad religion--which reduced him to the necessity. He was by nature an eagle; but he was an eagle in a sky where there was no sun. The cry of a n.o.ble being, placed in the most untoward circ.u.mstances, is here and there heard in his verses, and reminds you of the voice of one of the trans.m.u.ted victims of Circe, or of Ariel from that cloven pine, where he

'howl'd away twelve winters.'

Herrick might be by const.i.tution a voluptuary,--and he has unquestionably degraded his genius in not a few of his rhymes,--but in him, as well as in Anacreon, Horace, and Burns, there lay a better and a higher nature, which the critics have ignored, because it has not found a frequent or full utterance in his poetry. In proof that our author possessed profound sentiment, mingling and sometimes half-lost in the loose, luxuriant leaf.a.ge of his imagery, we need only refer our readers to his 'Blossoms'

and his 'Daffodils.' Besides gaiety and gracefulness, his verse is exceedingly musical--his lines not only move but dance.

SONG.

1 Gather the rose-buds, while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

2 The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

3 The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times, still succeed the former.

4 Then be not coy, but use your time, And, whilst ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

CHERRY-RIPE.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry; Full and fair ones; come, and buy!

If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land or cherry isle, Whose plantations fully show, All the year, where cherries grow.

THE KISS: A DIALOGUE.

1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss?-- 2. I shall resolve ye what it is:

It is a creature, born and bred Between the lips, all cherry red; By love and warm desires 'tis fed; _Chor_.--And makes more soft the bridal bed:

2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; _Chor_.--And stills the bride too when she cries:

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies; now here, now there; 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; _Chor_.--And here, and there, and everywhere.

1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes.

1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; _Chor_.--And this love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body?--2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, _Chor_.--Love honey yields, but never stings.

TO DAFFODILS.

1 Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along!

2 We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew Ne'er to be found again.

TO PRIMROSES.

1 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who are but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refres.h.i.+ng dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

2 Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet?

Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this?

No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

TO BLOSSOMS.

1 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile And go at last.

2 What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night?

'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

3 But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

OBERON'S PALACE.

Thus to a grove Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinsell'd with twilight, he and they, Led by the s.h.i.+ne of snails, a way Beat with their num'rous feet, which by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn, and many a cross Tract, they redeem a bank of moss, Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft than the finest Lemster ore, Mildly disparkling like those fires Which break from the enjewell'd tires Of curious brides, or like those mites Of candied dew in moony nights; Upon this convex all the flowers Nature begets by the sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought; As if Love's sampler here was wrought Or Cytherea's ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch.

Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine Who, as they low, impearl with milk The four-leaved gra.s.s, or moss-like silk.

The breath of monkeys, met to mix With musk-flies, are the aromatics Which cense this arch; and here and there, And further off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card, With pips of hearts, of club, and spade, Are here most neatly interlaid.

Many a counter, many a die, Half-rotten and without an eye, Lies hereabout; and for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels' and children's teeth, late shed, Are neatly here inchequered With brownest toadstones, and the gum That s.h.i.+nes upon the bluer plumb.

Art's Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others from ourselves Sell, and brought hither by the elves.

The tempting mole, stolen from the neck Of some shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance; where within The room is hung with the blue skin Of s.h.i.+fted snake, enfriezed throughout With eyes of peac.o.c.ks' trains, and trout-- Flies' curious wings; and these among Those silver pence, that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung.

The glow-worm's eyes, the s.h.i.+ning scales Of silvery fish, wheat-straws, the snail's Soft candlelight, the kitling's eyne, Corrupted wood, serve here for s.h.i.+ne; No glaring light of broad-faced day, Or other over-radiant ray Ransacks this room, but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems, And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful, day or night.

By this quaint taper-light he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tann'd Mab as somewhat sick, And, love knows, tender as a chick.

Upon six plump dandelions high- Rear'd lies her elvish majesty, Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown Her Mabs.h.i.+p in obedient down.