England's Antiphon Part 6

Poets now began to write more smoothly--not a great virtue, but indicative of a growing desire for finish, which, in any art, is a great virtue. No doubt smoothness is often confounded with, and mistaken for finish; but you might have a mirror-like polish on the surface of a statue, for instance, and yet the marble be full of inanity, or vagueness, or even vulgarity of result--irrespective altogether of its idea. The influence of Italian poetry reviving once more in the country, roused such men as Wyat and Surrey to polish the sound of their verses; but smoothness, I repeat, is not melody, and where the attention paid to the outside of the form results in flatness, and, still worse, in obscurity, as is the case with both of these poets, little is gained and much is lost.

Each has paraphrased portions of Scripture, but with results of little value; and there is nothing of a religious nature I care to quote from either, except these five lines from an epistle of Sir Thomas Wyat's:

Thyself content with that is thee a.s.signed, And use it well that is to thee allotted;

Then seek no more out of thyself to find The thing that thou hast sought so long before, For thou shalt feel it sticking in thy mind.

Students of versification will allow me to remark that Sir Thomas was the first English poet, so far as I know, who used the _terza rima_, Dante's chief mode of rhyming: the above is too small a fragment to show that it belongs to a poem in that manner. It has never been popular in England, although to my mind it is the finest form of continuous rhyme in any language. Again, we owe his friend Surrey far more for being the first to write English blank verse, whether invented by himself or not, than for any matter he has left us in poetic shape.

This period is somewhat barren of such poetry as we want. Here is a portion of the Fifty-first Psalm, translated amongst others into English verse by John Croke, Master in Chancery, in the reign of Henry VIII.

Open my lips first to confess My sin conceived inwardly; And my mouth after shall express Thy laud and praises outwardly.

If I should offer for my sin, Or sacrifice do unto thee Of beast or fowl, I should begin To stir thy wrath more towards me.

Offer we must for sacrifice A troubled mind with sorrow's smart: Canst thou refuse? Nay, nor despise The humble and the contrite heart.

To us of Sion that be born, If thou thy favour wilt renew, The broken sowle, the temple torn, _threshold._ The walls and all shall be made new.

The sacrifice then shall we make Of justice and of pure intent; And all things else thou wilt well take That we shall offer or present.

In the works of George Gascoigne I find one poem fit for quoting here. He is not an interesting writer, and, although his verse is very good, there is little likelihood of its ever being read more than it is now. The date of his birth is unknown, but probably he was in his teens when Surrey was beheaded in the year 1547. He is the only poet whose style reminds me of his, although the _wherefore_ will hardly be evident from my quotation.

It is equally flat, but more articulate. I need not detain my reader with remarks upon him. The fact is, I am glad to have something, if not "a cart-load of wholesome instructions," to cast into this Slough of Despond, should it be only to see it vanish. The poem is called

GASCOIGNE'S GOOD MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest, And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east; Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart; Come help me now to sing; Each willing wight come bear a part, To praise the heavenly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress, Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress; Yet bear a part in doleful wise; Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness Had overspread the light, And sluggish sleep with drowsiness Had overpressed our might: A gla.s.s wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath, Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little s.p.a.ce, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth shew his pleasant face; So must we hope to see G.o.d's face At last in heaven on high, When we have changed this mortal place For immortality.

This is not so bad, but it is enough. There are six stanzas more of it. I transcribe yet another, that my reader may enjoy a smile in pa.s.sing. He is "moralizing" the aspects of morning:

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, Which cries against the rain, Both for his hue and for the rest, The Devil resembleth plain; And as with guns we kill the crow, For spoiling our relief, The Devil so must we overthrow, With gunshot of belief.

So fares the wit, when it walks abroad to do its business without the heart that should inspire it.

Here is one good stanza from his _De Profundis:_

But thou art good, and hast of mercy store; Thou not delight'st to see a sinner fall; Thou hearkenest first, before we come to call; Thine ears are set wide open evermore; Before we knock thou comest to the door.

Thou art more prest to hear a sinner cry, _ready._ Than he is quick to climb to thee on high.

Thy mighty name be praised then alway: Let faith and fear True witness bear How fast they stand which on thy mercy stay.

Here follow two of unknown authors.h.i.+p, belonging apparently to the same period.

THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF.

Why fearest thou the outward foe, When thou thyself thy harm dost feed?

Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe, Within each thing is sown the seed.

So fine was never yet the cloth, No smith so hard his iron did beat, But th' one consumed was with moth, Th' other with canker all to-freate. _fretted away._

The knotty oak and wainscot old Within doth eat the silly worm;[53]

Even so a mind in envy rolled Always within it self doth burn.

Thus every thing that nature wrought, Within itself his hurt doth bear!

No outward harm need to be sought, Where enemies be within so near.

Lest this poem should appear to any one hardly religious enough for the purpose of this book, I would remark that it reminds me of what our Lord says about the true source of defilement: it is what is bred in the man that denies him. Our Lord himself taught a divine morality, which is as it were the body of love, and is as different from mere morality asthe living body is from the dead.

TOTUS MUNDUS IN MALIGNO POSITUS.

The whole world lieth in the Evil One.

Complain we may; much is amiss; Hope is nigh gone to have redress; These days are ill, nothing sure is; Kind heart is wrapt in heaviness.

The stern is broke, the sail is rent, _helm or rudder--the The s.h.i.+p is given to wind and wave; [thing to steer with._ All help is gone, the rock present, That will be lost, what man can save? _that which will be lost._

When power lacks care and forceth not, _careth._ When care is feeble and may not, _is not able._ When might is slothful and will not, Weeds may grow where good herbs cannot.

Wily is witty, brainsick is wise; _wiliness is counted Truth is folly, and might is right; [prudence._ Words are reason, and reason is lies; The bad is good, darkness is light.

Order is broke in things of weight: Measure and mean who doth nor flee? _who does not avoid Two things prevail, money and sleight; [moderation?_ To seem is better than to be.

Folly and falsehood prate apace; Truth under bushel is fain to creep; Flattery is treble, pride sings the ba.s.s, The mean, the best part, scant doth peep.

With floods and storms thus be we tost: Awake, good Lord, to thee we cry; Our s.h.i.+p is almost sunk and lost; Thy mercy help our misery.

Man's strength is weak; man's wit is dull; Man's reason is blind these things t'amend: Thy hand, O Lord, of might is full-- Awake betimes, and help us send.

In thee we trust, and in no wight; Save us, as chickens under the hen; Our crookedness thou canst make right-- Glory to thee for aye. Amen.

The apprehensions of the wiser part of the nation have generally been ahead of its hopes. Every age is born with an ideal; but instead of beholding that ideal in the future where it lies, it throws it into the past. Hence the lapse of the nation must appear tremendous, even when she is making her best progress.

CHAPTER V.

SPENSER AND HIS FRIENDS.

We have now arrived at the period of English history in every way fullest of marvel--the period of Elizabeth. As in a northern summer the whole region bursts into blossom at once, so with the thought and feeling of England in this glorious era.