Pierre. A traitor? Jaff. Yes. Pierre. A villain? Jaff. Granted. Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward; Spiritless, void of honor; one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life? Jaff. All, all, and more, much more; my faults are numberless. Pierre. And wouldst thou have me live on terms like thine? Base as thou'rt false Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted; The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee; To rank thee in my list of noble friends, All I received, in surety for thy truth, Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast stolen ; So I restore it back to thee again, Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, Pierre. For my life, dispose it Just as thou wilt; because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre! Pierre. No more. Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pierre. Leave me :-nay, then, thus I throw thee from me; And curses great as is thy falsehood catch thee! John Norris. A learned metaphysician and divine, Norris (1657-1711) was a Platonist, and sympathized with the views of Henry More. He published a "Philosophical Discourse concerning the Natural Immortality of the Soul;" an "Essay toward the Theory of the Ideal or Unintelligible World;""Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, Discourses, and Letters;" and other productions. He became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Hallam pronounces him "a writer of fine genius, and of a noble elevation of moral sentiments." THE ASPIRATION. How long, great God, low long must I Where at the gates and avenues of sense How cold this clime! and yet my sense Perceives even here thy influence. Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel, And pant and tremble like the amorous steel,To lower good and beauties less divine Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline; But yet (so strong the sympathy) It turns, and points again to thee. I long to see this excellence, Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, How would she hasten to be linked with thee! She'd for no angel's conduct stay, But fly, and love on all the way. SUPERSTITION. I care not though it be By the preciser sort thought popery; For everything we do: Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee. If now thy happy mind Amid its various joys can leisure find To attend to anything so low As what I say or do, Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind. Let not the blessed above Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove. Fain would I thy sweet image see, And sit and talk with thee; Nor is it curiosity, but love. Ah! what delight 'twould be Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me! How should I thine sweet commune prize, Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee. I would not long detain Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know Of thy escape below: Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again. Sure, heaven must needs thy love Come, then, and recreate my sight Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above. But if fate's so severe As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so), Live happy, but be mindful of me there. Matthew Prior. Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1721) owed his advancement in life to the friendship of the Earl of Dorset, through which he rose to be ambassador to the Court of Versailles. His best-known poems are his light lyrical pieces of the artificial school. Thackeray says, with some exaggeration, that they "are among the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous in the English language;" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly commended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by Cowper "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of "verse bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold in the ore. Like many men of letters of his day, Prior never ventured on matrimony. A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop The cage, as either side turned up, Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD (1704), THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY. Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band Were summoned by her high command My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For while she makes her silk-worms' beds She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, "Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Jonathan Swift. Swift's is one of the great names in English literature (1667-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents and his ancestors were English. He was educated at Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not distinguish himself as a student. For some years he lived with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of dependence, and became restive and soured. Having graduated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at £100 a year. Returning to the house of Sir William Temple, he became involved in the mysterious love-affair with Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-keeper (and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's pet name of Stella. Having become Vicar of Laracor, Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. Miss Johnson resided in the neighborhood, and in the parsonage during his absence. He is said to have fulfilled his clerical office in an exemplary manner. From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted with the Whig party. Dissatisfied with some of their measures, he then became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The coarseness of his "Tale of a Tub" had cut him off from a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says Johnson, “commenced Irishman for life." He soon became an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few men have ever exercised over them so formidable a personal influence. In 1726 he visited England for the publication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had enjoyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years his junior), Gay, Addison, Arbuthnot, and Bolingbroke. He returned to Ireland to lay the mortal remains of Stella in the grave: she is believed to have been his real though unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his last days. After two years passed in lethargic and hopeless idiocy, he died in 1745. His death was mourned by an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin. Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper acceptation of the term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was the sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, "Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting for the intellectual vigor, pungency, and wit by which they are distinguished. FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.”1 As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true: 1 This singular poem was prompted by the following maxim of Rochefoucault: "Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose que ne nous déplait pas.' They argue no corrupted mind In him the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest We all behold with envions eyes If in a battle you should find What poet would not grieve to see I have no title to aspire, Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. Which I was born to introduce, If with such talents Heaven hath blessed 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first; But this with envy makes me burst. Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore with our poem. The time is not remote when I Will never leave him till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: "For poetry he's past his prime; By adding largely to my years: His stomach, too, begins to fail; Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring!" They hug themselves, and reason thus: "It is not yet so bad with us!" In such a case they talk in tropes, No enemy can match a friend. The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'ye's come of course; And servants auswer, "Worse and worse!") Yet should some neighbor feel a pain STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720. All travellers at first incline Now this is Stella's case in fact, Then who can think we'll quit the place, Then, Chloe, still go on to prate A truth, for which your soul should grieve; The cracks and wrinkles of your mind: Ambrose Philips. The word namby-pamby was introduced into the language through its having been first applied to Ambrose Philips (1671-1749) by Harry Carey, author of "Sally in our Alley," etc. Pope snatched at the nickname as suited to Philips's "eminence in the infantile style;" so little did he appreciate the simplicity and grace of such lines as those "To Miss Georgiana Carteret." But Pope had been annoyed by Tickell's praise of Philips's "Pas torals" as the finest in the language. Philips won some little success as a dramatic writer; but as he advanced in life he seems to have forsaken the Muses: he becaine a Member of Parliament, and died at the ripe age of seventy-eight; surpassing, in longevity at least, most coutemporary poets. A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. Blest as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, My bosom glowed; the subtle flame In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away. TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET. Little charm of placid mien, |