ON THE EARL OF DORSET'S DEATH, LET no profane ignoble foot tread here, This hallowed piece of earth, Dorset lies there : Free as the air, and ample as his merit: A soul refin'd, no proud forgetting lord, But mindful of mean names, and of his word: Poems, by Dr. Corbet, Bp. of Norwich, ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. FOND wight, who dream'st of greatness, glory, state, And worlds of pleasures, honours to devise*, One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stem, From which some kings have not disdain'd to take A beauty here it holds, alas, too fast! It holds her who in Wit's ascendant far Did years and sex transcend, to whom the heaven Fair Mirth, sweet Conversation, Modesty, honours to devise.] The Edinb. edit. reads more properly," honours dost devise." The exclamation in the last line of this piece is particularly in Drummond's best manner. By Muses nine, and Graces more than three, Lie clos'd within the compass of this grave. Thus Death all earthly glories doth confound, Lo! how much worth a little dust doth bound. Drummond's Poems, p. 198, Edit. 1656, 8vo. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PHILARETE, MR. THOMAS MANWOOD, THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND, AND SON OF SIR PETER MANWOOD, KNT. * UNDER an aged oak was Willy laid, Willy, the lad who whilome made the rocks That nigh his heart-strings rent, Ne car'd be for his silly sheep, Ne car'd for merriment. But chang'd his wonted walks For uncouth paths unknown, Where none but trees might hear his plaints, And echo rue his moan. * Sylvester inscribes a Hymn "to the worthy friend of worthiness, Sir Peter Manwood, Knight of the Honourable Order of the Bath." The father probably of Browne's friend. P.561, fol. edit. Autumn it was, when droop'd the sweetest flowers, In chill and cooling sweats, By rising fountains, or as they Fear'd winter's wasteful threats.. Each wind in fury bears; Yet fell their leaves not half so fast * Against the broad-spread oak Each wind in fury bears; Yet fell their leaves not half so fast As did the shepherd's tears.] In mere unimpassioned description, similes which are derived from foreign and remote objects are frequently used with success; for at the same time that they afford the writer an opportunity of showing his knowledge, they enrich and add a variety to poetry, that it might not have attained by any other means. Yet in pathetic situations, when they immediately arise from the subject itself, or some collateral branch of it, they convey the most direct and unequivocal illustration, with a conciseness and expression truly admirable. But how frequent is the practice, even with our best writers, in situations the most pathetic, and in narratives the most urgent and interesting, coolly to take leave of their subject, for the sake of introducing a comparison of perhaps ten or twelve lines! The consequence is, that our former sympathy is thoroughly destroyed, and after toiling through the lines in question, we are left to recal our attention, associate our distracted ideas, and recover the lost tone of our feelings at our leisure, which is by this time, most probably, totally out of our power. In such cases, a simile taken from the ground of the piece (if I may be allowed the expression), by confining our attention wholly to the subject, and by giving us what we want, with-* out obliging us to wander in quest of it, would, in three words, almost have completely answered the end of the poet. I will subjoin an instance or two of this comprehensive kind of illustration. Mallet thus describes the father of Edwin: The father too, a sordid man, From whence his riches grew. Edw. and Emma. As was his seat so was his gentle heart, That swain should be so sad, That charm'd the crystal floods*: 'Day, thou art too officious in thy place, Phoebe! Endymion and thy dear Above all others, perhaps Collins affords one of the most beautiful specimens, in lines that few have read without emotion. Zara exclaims: 'Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain, Yet as thou go'st may ev'ry blast arise Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs! No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me.' *Broke was his tuneful pipe Eclogue II. That charm'd the crystal floods.] Thus Milton, in the finest vein of poetry: Thyrsis! whose artful strains have oft delay'd Comus, 494 |