England's Antiphon Part 16

Somewhat formal and artificial, no doubt; rugged at the same time, like him who wrote them. When a man would utter that concerning which he has only felt, not thought, he can express himself only in the forms he has been taught, conventional or traditional. Let his powers be ever so much developed in respect of other things, here, where he has not meditated, he must understand as a child, think as a child, speak as a child. He can as yet generate no sufficing or worthy form natural to himself. But the utterance is not therefore untrue. There was no professional bias to cause the stream of Ben Jonson's verses to flow in that channel. Indeed, feeling without thought, and the consequent combination of impulse to speak with lack of matter, is the cause of much of that common-place utterance concerning things of religion which is so wearisome, but which therefore it is not always fair to despise as cant.

About the same age as Ben Jonson, though the date of his birth is unknown, I now come to mention Thomas Heywood, a most voluminous writer of plays, who wrote also a book, chiefly in verse, called _The Hierarchy of the Blessed Angels_, a strange work, in which, amongst much that is far from poetic, occur the following remarkable metaphysico-religious verses. He had strong Platonic tendencies, interesting himself chiefly however in those questions afterwards pursued by Dr. Henry More, concerning witches and such like subjects, which may be called the shadow of Platonism.

I have wandered like a sheep that's lost, To find Thee out in every coast: _Without_ I have long seeking bin, _been._ Whilst thou, the while, abid'st _within_.

Through every broad street and strait lane Of this world's city, but in vain, I have enquired. The reason why?

I sought thee ill: for how could I Find thee _abroad_, when thou, mean s.p.a.ce, Hadst made _within_ thy dwelling-place?

I sent my messengers about, To try if they could find thee out; But all was to no purpose still, Because indeed they sought thee ill: For how could they discover thee That saw not when thou entered'st me?

Mine eyes could tell me? If he were, Not coloured, sure he came not there.

If not by sound, my ears could say He doubtless did not pa.s.s my way.

My nose could nothing of him tell, Because my G.o.d he did not smell.

None such I relished, said my taste, And therefore me he never pa.s.sed.

My feeling told me that none such There entered, for he none did touch.

Resolved by them how should I be, Since none of all these are in thee,

In thee, my G.o.d? Thou hast no hue That man's frail optic sense can view; No sound the ear hears; odour none The smell attracts; all taste is gone At thy appearance; where doth fail A body, how can touch prevail?

What even the brute beasts comprehend-- To think thee such, I should offend.

Yet when I seek my G.o.d, I enquire For light than sun and moon much higher, More clear and splendrous, 'bove all light Which the eye receives not, 'tis so bright.

I seek a voice beyond degree Of all melodious harmony: The ear conceives it not; a smell Which doth all other scents excel: No flower so sweet, no myrrh, no nard, Or aloes, with it compared; Of which the brain not sensible is.

I seek a sweetness--such a bliss As hath all other sweets surpa.s.sed, And never palate yet could taste.

I seek that to contain and hold No touch can feel, no embrace enfold.

So far this light the rays extends, As that no place it comprehends.

So deep this sound, that though it speak It cannot by a sense so weak Be entertained. A redolent grace The air blows not from place to place.

A pleasant taste, of that delight It doth confound all appet.i.te.

A strict embrace, not felt, yet leaves That virtue, where it takes it cleaves.

This light, this sound, this savouring grace, This tasteful sweet, this strict embrace, No place contains, no eye can see, My G.o.d is, and there's none but he.

Very remarkable verses from a dramatist! They indicate substratum enough for any art if only the art be there. Even those who cannot enter into the philosophy of them, which ranks him among the mystics of whom I have yet to speak, will understand a good deal of it symbolically: for how could he be expected to keep his poetry and his philosophy distinct when of themselves they were so ready to run into one; or in verse to define carefully betwixt degree and kind, when kinds themselves may rise by degrees? To distinguish without separating; to be able to see that what in their effects upon us are quite different, may yet be a grand flight of ascending steps, "to stop--no record hath told where," belongs to the philosopher who is not born mutilated, but is a poet as well.

John Fletcher, likewise a dramatist, the author of the following poem, was two years younger than Ben Jonson. It is, so far as I am aware, the sole non-dramatic voice he has left behind him. Its opening is an indignant apostrophe to certain men of pretended science, who in his time were much consulted--the Astrologers.

UPON AN HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE.

You that can look through heaven, and tell the stars; Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars; Find out new lights, and give them where you please-- To those men honours, pleasures, to those ease; You that are G.o.d's surveyors, and can show How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow; Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder, And when it will shoot over, or fall under; Tell me--by all your art I conjure ye-- Yes, and by truth--what shall become of me.

Find out my star, if each one, as you say, Have his peculiar angel, and his way; Observe my fate; next fall into your dreams; Sweep clean your houses, and new-line your schemes;[83]

Then say your worst. Or have I none at all?

Or is it burnt out lately? or did fall?

Or am I poor? not able? no full flame?

My star, like me, unworthy of a name?

Is it your art can only work on those That deal with dangers, dignities, and clothes, With love, or new opinions? You all lie: A fishwife hath a fate, and so have I-- But far above your finding. He that gives, Out of his providence, to all that lives-- And no man knows his treasure, no, not you;--

He that made all the stars you daily read, And from them filch a knowledge how to feed, Hath hid this from you. Your conjectures all Are drunken things, not how, but when they fall: Man is his own star, and the soul that can Render an honest, and a perfect man, Commands all light, all influence, all fate; Nothing to him falls early, or too late.

Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still; And when the stars are labouring, we believe It is not that they govern, but they grieve For stubborn ignorance. All things that are Made for our general uses, are at war-- Even we among ourselves; and from the strife Your first unlike opinions got a life.

Oh man! thou image of thy Maker's good, What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood His spirit is that built thee? What dull sense Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence?

Who made the morning, and who placed the light Guide to thy labours? Who called up the night, And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers?

Who gave thee knowledge? Who so trusted thee, To let thee grow so near himself, the Tree?[84]

Must he then be distrusted? Shall his frame Discourse with him why thus and thus I am?

He made the angels thine, thy fellows all; Nay, even thy servants, when devotions call.

Oh! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, To seek a saving influence, and lose him?

Can stars protect thee? Or can poverty, Which is the light to heaven, put out his eye?

He is my star; in him all truth I find, All influence, all fate; and when my mind Is furnished with his fulness, my poor story Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory.

The hand of danger cannot fall amiss When I know what, and in whose power it is; Nor want, the cause[85] of man, shall make me groan: A holy hermit is a mind alone.[86]

Doth not experience teach us, all we can, To work ourselves into a glorious man?

My mistress then be knowledge and fair truth; So I enjoy all beauty and all youth!

Affliction, when I know it, is but this-- A deep alloy, whereby man tougher is To bear the hammer; and the deeper still, We still arise more image of his will; Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light; And death, at longest, but another night, Man is his own star, and that soul that can Be honest, is the only perfect man.

There is a tone of contempt in the verses which is not religious; but they express a true philosophy and a triumph of faith in G.o.d. The word _honest_ is here equivalent to _true_.

I am not certain whether I may not now be calling up a singer whose song will appear hardly to justify his presence in the choir. But its teaching is of high import, namely, of content and cheerfulness and courage, and being both worthy and melodious, it gravitates heavenward. The singer is yet another dramatist: I presume him to be Thomas Dekker. I cannot be certain, because others were concerned with him in the writing of the drama from which I take it. He it is who, in an often-quoted pa.s.sage, styles our Lord "The first true gentleman that ever breathed;" just as Chaucer, in a poem I have given, calls him "The first stock-father of gentleness."

We may call the little lyric

A SONG OF LABOUR.

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

Oh, sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?

Oh, punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?

Oh, sweet content!

_Chorus_.--Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face.

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?

Oh, sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?

Oh, punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

Oh, sweet content!

_Chorus_.--Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face.

It is a song of the poor in spirit, whose is the kingdom of heaven. But if my co-listeners prefer, we will call it the voice, not of one who sings in the choir, but of one who "tunes his instrument at the door."

CHAPTER X.