Or even smite your leaders angrily.
O would their eyes— ’tis my one prayer to Heav’n —
Were given to you, — your breasts to them were given!
G.
XL. Ad Melvinum.
To Melville.
Now your ear, I pray thee, lend.
By the hand thy poem penn’d;
By the sacred founts which flow
Where the Muses’ footsteps go;
By thy artist-powers sarcastic,
Keen, triumphant, trenchant, drastic;
Nay, by thine own Presbyters, and
By the chief city of thy land,
Which in short verse I’d fail to name;
By the right-hands thou wilt not blame,
Noble, venerable, holy,
Lov’d of highest and of lowly;
Right-hands on which e’en thou canst smile,
Which ne’er SUBSCRIPTION did defile;
By all that doth itself approve
As sweet to thee, and wins thy love, —
Do not count me harsh, severe;
My Muse is toothless and sincere,
Nor would with Spleen’s abuse besmear.
For if I wish’d in cutting verse
Thy many failings to rehearse,
Or if indeed I should desire
To pour forth all the mighty ire
Which THE CHURCH, by thee despised,
And LEARNING, wroth, as she’s advised,
Of thy scholarship misus’d
And of thy genius abus’d,
Might suggest — I should thee scorn,
And in passionate anger burn;
And whom would not this jealousy
Spur to indignation high?
Then I should thee have overwhelm’d,
Rushing on thee like warrior helm’d;
While along my fiery page
The Muse should thunder forth its rage
In ev’ry line — refusing ink
Fast as I could my vengeance think;
I should with furious leaded pen
Have torn thy verse ‘gain and again;
Branding thy mutterings profane,
Thy pretty grimaces o’er thy strain;
And thus my page of pois’nous ire
Have clung to thee like shirt of fire
That clave to Hercules loud-raging,
Naught his agony assuaging;
Nay, in this very poem now
I should have pilèd-up aglow
A lexicon of reproachful words,
Whence the Muses, as sharp swords,
Might have chosen a wagon-load
O’ weapons thee to smite and goad.
Now all these things I have borne,
Nor thund’ring passions have me torn;
These to thy coarse friends resigning,
Still envious and still maligning.
I have not call’d thee in my verse
‘Fierce,’ ‘ridic’lous,’ ‘absurd,’ or worse;
I do not give thee hack in taunt
‘Screech-owls,’ ‘magic-circles,’ ‘avaunt,’
Nor ‘swollen-pride,’ nor terms accusing,
All charity and ruth refusing;
Passing o’er ‘errors,’ ‘spots,’ ‘blots,’ ‘state,’
‘Ambitions dire’ and ‘dreams’ elate,
Yea ‘Berecynthian tinkling,’ and all;
I don’t retaliate or mis-call
Thee, — the heaviest deserving,
Full-giv’n, and with hand unswerving;
Nay, with my praise I thee adorn,
Nor to place thee with Cæsar scorn;
Cæsar sober found alone
In the Commonwealth o’erthrown.
And now thee alone I see,
Midst thy brutal company
That seeks to wreck our Church august,
And hurl it prone unto the dust,
Thoroughly learn’d and poet, such
As words are weak to praise too much.
XLI. Ad eundem.
To the same.
First mocking, storming next, thy verses swell;
Shouting thou endest: every style farewell. R. WI.
XLII. Ad seven. Regem.
To his most Serene Majesty [James I.]
Behold, at last, most erudite of kings,
We have discuss’d in full the trifling things
Which an unwise race, hither, thither blown,
Offers to us to taste and make our own.
O brethren blind, what madness wraps your souls,
And with pitch-darkness round your senses rolls?
Behold our beauteous Church its plumes unfold,
And brush the very sky with wings of gold.
All neighbouring peoples wonder, and desire,
With minds amaz’d, our just rites to acquire.
Angelic hands with our assemblies join,
And Christ Himself, from heavenly heights divine
Down-looking, and with one glance of His eye
Surveying all earth’s dwellings easily,
Says: England only My full service yields.
Forsooth, of old these ocean-sunder’d fields
Christ for Himself claim’d when the world He made,
And in a box as ‘twere His jewel laid.
‘Defender of the Eaith!’ O most just style,
Fulfil thy title always, as ere while.
Nobly thou hast begun — to all ’tis clear;
In the same line of action persevere. —
Break their attempts, confound the fervid foe;
All the designs of Heresy o’erthrow,
Open or secret, howsoe’er She go.
What can deceive thee? Thou hast tasted all
The secret springs and waters, great or small,
Which Holy Writ unfolds; and dost rejoice
In them, and in the exegetic voice
Of many a scholar. Thou dost look within
Synods and Fathers, and whate’er we win
From the far depths of hoar Antiquity,
Never to perish now, by means of thee;
Through every School thy footsteps wander free.
Nor is it possible the bounds to find
Of that acute discernment of the mind
With which great Nature’s secrets thou dost probe;
And quitting ere thy time this earthly globe,
To mingle with the stars to thee is given,
And walk, a welcome guest, the floor of Heaven.
Arm’d with these aids thou dost securely scan
The agitating waves of Puritan
And Papist, and between them, as they rock,
Dost lead, as a good shepherd, thine own flock
The middle way, safest from danger’s shock.
Glory of kings, go on! thus mavst thou see,
O most august, more praises given to thee
Than stars are counted in the evening sky;
And may thy years thy praises still outvie.
So, knocking at thy door may only joys
Dare to appear, while far away the noise
Of grief is banish’d. So, what dreams soe’er
Dwell in my mind, be it my only care
That all my thoughts a certain issue bear.
So, trifles laid aside with which lust binds
Innumerable Poets, whose base minds
Are plung’d in folly; be it my sole aim
That all my verses chant great James’s name. R. WI.
XLIII. Ad Deum.
To God.
On whom Thy blessing, Lord, descendeth,
When soft as dew his strains he blendeth,
Him no more vain toil perplexeth,
Nor nail-biting trouble vexeth;
His pen mourns not, his head aches not;
But Nile-like from its fountain shot
Bounds along its far-drawn course
With an unrestrained force, —
The fecund strength of Poesy,
And the vein that in it doth lie,
Reign in scarce-measurable wealth,
Giving to mind and body health.
O most sweet celestial Spirit,
From Whom these breathings we inherit,
Murmurings of quiet love
Flowing down from Thee, the Dove, —
That I write and that each line
Pleases, if it please, is Thine.
G.
OTHER LATIN POEMS.
NOTE
See Walton’s annotated Life of Herbert for notice of Herbert’s relations to Bacon. There are additions to this section, as in others. G.
I. Ad Auctorem Instaurationis Magnae [Franciscum Bacon].
To the Author of the Instauratio Magna, Francis Bacon.
Although the Ancients thou o’ertlxrowest,
And their many errors showest,
Building up trophies of thy fame,
Placing ‘mong greatest thy proud name;
So tenderly thou dost them kill,
Not even death can they take ill;
In sooth, beneath thy hand to fall,
Destruction seems a prize to all.
When from the wound the blood flows forth
Honour flows in t’ exalt their worth.
O, then, how favour’d must they he
Who to the battle follow thee,
When even at thy hands to die
Puts fire into Ambition’s eye! G.
II. In honorem illustrissimi Domini Francisci de Verulamio, Vice Comitis Sti Albani.
To the honour of the most illustrious Francis, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, on the publication of the Instauratio Magna.
Who is this approaching, pray?
Tis not a face seen ev’ry day:
Knowest thou not, ignorant one,
Gazing astonied as he pass’d on?
Listen to me, and thou shalt hear,
As eager to me thou drawest near:
’Tis the Prince of Ideas great,
High-Priest of Truth consecrate,
Lord of Induction and VERULAM;
Master of all things thou couldst name,
Though ‘Master of Arts’ give him not fame;
Like a pine that towers on high,
Strong-rooted, yet tapering gracefully;
Inmost diviner Nature hath,
Tracking her every secret path;
Umpire of Experience golden,
And all Speculation olden;
Of Equity the standard-bearer;
Of Science the deliverance-sharer, —
For ere he came Science was bound,
In statu pupillari found;
Steward of Light, as is the sun;
Driver away of ‘idola,’ dun
As clouds that drift the sky athwart;
Four-squar’d foundation of all Art;
Of Sophisms the mighty scourge,
Let them howe’er wise-seeming urge;
A Brutus of Lit’rature, off-shaking
Authority, — the tyrant quaking;
The Brightness of the mental eye;
Atlas of Natural Philosophy,
When the Hercules-Stagyrite
He with deadly wounds doth smite;
A Noah’s dove, with unresting wing
Flitting o’er all the ancients bring,
Finding nor foot-hold there, nor rest,
And so within itself is blest;
Fetching from his own mighty brain
What ne’er Antiquity did attain;
Piercer of nicest subtlety
That in all darkest problems lie;
Heir of Time, by Truth for mother,
Can the World show such another?
The river-bed of honey flowing,
All richest eloquence still showing;
Of Earth and Souls the only Priest;
The Axe of errors, greatest or least;
At birth a grain of mustard-seed,
To others pungent, found indeed
To itself gathering fame with speed.
Ο, I am worn his might to tell;
Help me, Posterity, and — farewell! G.
III. Comparatio inter Munus Summi Cancellariatus et Librum.
Comparison between the Office of the Lord High Chancellorship and [Lord Bacon’s) Book (presented to the University).
Thou with thine Office this our time dost bless,
And with thy Book all future times no less;
And thus all ages join thy praise to express.
Thou with thine Office blessest this our day,
And with thy Volume countries far away;
All regions to thy praise their tribute pay.
These are the wings of thy illustrious Name:
Who such eternal glory e’er could claim,
Or the high meed of such a world-wide fame? R. WI.
NOTE.
In Fry’s ‘Bibliographical Memoranda,’ Bristol, 1816 (4to), pp. 188-9, is a poem which is thus described: ‘Extracted from a small quarto volume of MS. Latin poetry, containing 40 pages, to which the above name [A. Melvin] is prefixed as that of the author. Its date is nearly ascertained from two poems addressed to James I., and his son Charles as Prince of Wales, consequently after the death of Prince Henry.’ The poem is as follows. —
‘TO THE RIGHT HON, THE Lo. CHANCELLOR.
My Lord, a Diamond to mee you sent,
And I to you a Blackamoore present.
Gifts speake the givers, for as those refractions,
Shining and sharpe, poynt out your rare perfections;
So by the other you may read in mee,
Whome Scholler’s habite and obscurity
Hath soyl’d with black, the color of my state
Till your bright gift my darknes did abate:
Onely, my noble Lord, shutt not the doore
Agaynst this meane and humble blackamoore;
Perhaps some other subject I had tryed,
But that my inke was factious for that side.’
Fry continues: ‘This was addressed to The Chancellor, accompanied by a Latin poem, -which is subjoined to the MS., Aethiopissa ambit Cestum diversi coloris virum. Perhaps it may have been sent to Lord Bacon in return for a copy of his Essays, the volume of which is indeed a Diamond, shining and sharpe, and pointing out his rare perfections. Of the authour, Melvin, I do not trace, in our literary collections, any notice or mention of his name.’ It seems abundantly clear that these lines were by George Herbert, not Melville, whose Latinised name, ‘Melvin,’ misled Fry. The ‘Aethiopissa’ &c is one of Herbert’s recognised Latin poems. See it in its place next to this. Dr. M’Crie, in his Life of Melville, pointed out Fry’s error, or rather the error of his MS. C.
IV. Aethiopissa ambit Cestum diversi coloris Virum.
A Negress courts Cestus, a Man of a different colour.
What if my face be black? Cestus, bear!
Such colour Night brings, which yet Love bolds dear.
You see a Trav’ller has a sunburnt face;
And I, who pine for thee, a long road trace.
If earth be black, who shall despise the ground?
Shut now your eyes, and, lo, all black is found;
Or ope, a shadow-casting form you see;
This be my loving post to fill for thee.
Seeing my face is smoke, what fire has burn’d
Within my silent bosom, by thee spurn’d!
Hard-hearted man, dost still my love refuse?
Lo, Grief’s prophetic hue my cheek imbues! G.
V. In Obitum incomparabilis Vice-Comitis Sancti Albani, Baronis Verulamii.
On the Death of the incomparable Francis, Viscount St. Albans, Baron Verulam.
While thou dost groan ‘neath weight of sickness slow,
And wasting Life with doubtful step doth go,
What wise Fates sought I see at last fulfill’d;
Thou needs must die in April — so they will’d;
That here the Flowers their tears might weep forlorn,<
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And there the Nightingale melodious mourn,
Such dirges only fitting for thy tongue,
Wherein all eloquence most surely hung. G
VI. In Natales et Pascha concurrentes.
On (my) Birthday and Good-Friday coinciding.
While Thou, O Christ, dost droop, lo, I am born;
One little hour Thee to the Cross forlorn
“Binds, and my soul to flesh. How strange that I
Should then be born when Thou, alas, must die!
Why give to me the life Thou dost deny
Unto Thyself? Nay, I will die with Thee:
The life Thou dost neglect accept from me,
Unless Thou give to me such life as Thine —
That were a legacy indeed divine,
And thus Thy death a double life would bring
To me, in soul and body — O my King.
Thus were I from my birthday sanctified:
Into my life and limbs with holy tide
Thy Passover that very day should flow,
And all my life with its blest influence glow. G.
VII. Ad Johannem Donne, D.D.
The same in English.
Although the Cross could not Christ here detain,
Though nail’d unto’t, but He ascends again,
Nor yet thy eloquence here keep Him still,
But only while thou speakst, this Anchor will.
Nor canst thou be content, unless thou to
This certain Anchor add a Seal; and so
The water and the earth both unto thee
Do owe the symbole of their certainty.
“When Love, being weary, made an end
Of kind expressions to his friend,
He writ; when’s hand could write no more,
He gave the Seal, and so left o’re.
How sweet a friend was he, who, being griev’d
His letters were broke rudely up, believ’d
’Twas more secure in great Love’s commonweal,
Where nothing should be broke, to add a Seal!
Let the world reel, we and all ours stand sure;
This holy cable’s of all storms secure. G. H.
VII. On the Anchor-Seal.
When my dear friend could write no more,
He gave this Seal, and so gave o’er.
When winds and waves rose highest, I am sure,
This Anchor keeps my faith; that, me secure.
VIII. Cum petit Infantem Princeps, Grantamque Jacobus
When Charles the Infanta seeks, and James the Cam,
George Herbert- Collected Poetical Works Page 27
