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And look on her his fill, doth on his tiptoes get, (set, Though in the utmost Peak
He Nowstoll plainly sees, which likewise from the

Awhile we do remain, Salutes her, and like friends, to Heaven-hill far Amongst the mountains bleak away,

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Expos'd to sleet and rain, Thus from their lofty tops, were plainly heard to No sport our hours shall break • Fair hill be not so proud of thy so pleasant scite,

To exercisi our vein.
Who for thou giv'st the eye such wonderful delight,
From any mountain near, that glorious name of

What though bright Phæbus' beams

Refresh the southern ground, Heaven,

And though the princely Thames Thy bravery to express, was to thy greatness given:

With beauteous nymphs abound, Nor cast thine eye so much on things that be above:

And by old Camber's streams For sawest thou as we do, our Darwin thou would'st

Be many wonders found : love Her more than any thing, that so doth thee allure;

Yet many rivers clear When Darwin that by this her travel could endure,

Here glide in silver swathes, Takes Now into her train (from Nowstoll her great And what of all most dear, sire,

(gyre.

Buxton's delicious baths, Which shews to take her name) with many a winding Strong ale and noble cheer, Then wand'ring through the wilds, at length the

T'assuage breem winter's scathes. pretty Wye,

[doth ply From her black mother Poole, her nimbler course

Those grim and horrid caves, Tow'rds Darwin, and along from Bakewell with

Whose looks affright the day, her brings

Wherein nice Nature saves Lathkell a little brook, and Headford, whose poor

What she would not bewray, springs

Our better leisure craves, But hardly them the name of riverets can afford;

And doth invite our lay. When Burbrook with the strength, that nature her hath stor'd,

In places far or near, (stead.

Or famous, or obscure, Although but very small, yet much doth Darwin

Where wholesome is the air, At Worksworth on her way, when from the mines

Or where the most impure, of lead,

[east,

All times, and every where,
Brown Ecclesborne comes in, then Amber from the

The Muse is still in ure.
Of all the Derbian nymphs of Darwin lov'd the best,
(A delicater flood from fountain never flow’d)
Then coming to the town, on which she first bestow'd
Her Datural British name, her Derby, so again,

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. Her to that ancient seat doth kindly entertain,

Fair stood the wind for France, Where Marten-Brook, although an easy shallow rill,

When we our sails advance, There offereth allshe hath, her mistress' banks to fill,

Nor now to prove our chance And all too little thinks that was on Darwin spent;

Longer will tarry; From hence as she departs, in travelling to Trent

But putting to the main, Back goes the active Muse,tow'rds Lancashire amain,

At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, Where matter rests enough her vigour to maintain,

With all his martial train, And to the northern hills shall lead her on along,

Landed King Harry.
Which now must wholly be the subject of my song.'

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,

Marched towards Agincourt
AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAK.

In happy hour;
This while we are abroad,

Skirmishing day by day
Shall we not touch our lyre?

With those that stopp'd his way, Shall we not sing an Ode?

Where the French gen’ral lay
Shall that holy fire,

With all his power.
In us that strongly glow'd,
In this cold air expire ?

Which in his height of pride,

King Henry to deride,
Long since the summer laid

His ransom to provide
Her lusty brav'ry down,

To the king sending ;
The autumn half is way'd,

Which he neglects the while,
And Boreas 'gins to frown,

As from a nation vile
Since now I did behold

Yet with an angry smile,
Great Brute's first builded town.

Their fall portending.

G

And turning to his men,

With Spanish yew so strong, Quoth our brave Henry then,

Arrows a cloth-yard long,
Though they to one be ten,

That like to serpents stung,
Be not amazed.

Piercing the weather ;
Yet have we well begun,

None from his fellow starts, Battles so bravely won

But playing manly parts,
Have ever to the sun

And like true English hearts,
By fame been raised.

Stuck close together.

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83

SAMUEL DANIEL-A.D. 1562-1619.

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TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS

OF CUMBERLAND.
He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And reard the dwelling of his thoughts
As neither fear por hope can.etung
Of his resolv'd porto disturb the same:

Of vartair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!

And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon these lower regions of turmoil,
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honour, pow'r, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars
But only as on stately robberies ;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars
The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprize.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails :
Justice, he sees (as if seduced) still
Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill.

He sees the face of right t appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man ;
Who puts it in all colours, all attires,
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires;
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit.

Nor is be mov'd with all the thunder-cracks
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow
Of pow'r, that proudly sits on others' crimes :
Charg'd with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
Up in the present for the coming times,
Appal not him; that hath no side at all,
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall.

Although his heart (so near ally'd to earth)
Cannot but pity the perplexed state
Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
of their own sorrows, and do still beget
Afliction upon imbecility:
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run,
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done.

And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompass'd; whilst as craft deceives,
And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack man,
And builds on blood, and rises by distress ;
And th’ inheritance of desolation leaves
To great expecting hopes : he looks thereon,
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
And bears no venture in impiety.

Thus, madam, fares thị and compar'd

-uk of man, A rest for his da

or glory with her sufferings :
By whom, I see, you labour all you can
To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near
His glorious mansion, as your pow'rs can bear.

Which, madam, are so fondly fashioned
By that clear judgment, that had carry'd you
Beyond the feeble limits of your kind,
As they can stand against the strongest head
Passion can make ; inur'd to any hue
The world can cast ; that cannot cast that mind
Out of her form of goodness, that doth see
Both what the best and worst of earth can be.

Which makes, that whatsoever here befals,
You in the region of yourself remain :
Where no vain breath of th' impudent molests,
That hath secur'd within the brazen walls
Of a clear conscience, that (without all stain)
Rises in peace, in innocency rests :
Whilst all that malice from without procures,
Shews her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge,
Than women use to do; yet you well know
That wrong is better check'd by being contemn'd
Than being pursued; leaving to him t' avenge,
To whom it appertains. Wherein you shew
How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd
Base Malediction, living in the dark,
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, above the which
These revolutions of disturbances
Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery
Predominate : whose strong effects are such,
As he must bear, being pow’rless to redress :
And that unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!

And how turmoil'd they are that level lie
With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence;
That never are at peace with their desires,
But work beyond their years; and ev’n deny
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense
With death. That when ability expires,
Desire lives sti!l-So much delight they have,
To carry toil and travail to the grave.

Whose ends you see ; and what can be the best
They reach unto, when they have cast the sum
And reck’nings of their glory. And you know,
This floating life hath but this port of rest,
A heart prepar'd, that fears no ill to come.
And that man's greatness rests but in his shew,
The best of all whose days consumed are
Either in war, or peace-conceivíng war.

This concord, madam, of a well-tun'd mind
Hath been so set by that in-working hand

That set thee there to testify their right; Of heav'n, that though the world hath done his worst

And art become a traitor to their name, ' nut it out by discords most unkind,

That trusted thee with all the best they might; Equal in forta.io perfect union stand

Thou shalt stand still bely'd and slandered, And this note, madam, Er will be forc’d

agree,

The only gazing-stock of ignorance, Remains recorded in so many hearts,

And by thy guile the wise admonished, As time nor malice cannot wrong your right,

Thamaver more desire such hopes t'advance, The inheritance of fame you must possess :

Consid'ring Trna glory with the dead You that have built you by your great deserts And yet lie safe (as fresh as their fame to chance. (Out of small means) a far more exquisite

All those great worthies of antiquity," And glorious dwelling for your honour'd name, Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive; Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. Who stronger tombs found for eternity,

Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.

Where they remain these trifles to upbraid, DESCRIPTION OF STONE-HENGE.

Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage; And whereto serves that wondrous trophy now Though time with all his pow'r of years hath laid That on the goodly plain near Walton stands ? Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age; That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how, Yet they make head only with their own aid, Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,

And war with his all-conqu’ring forces wage; Nor for whose glory—it was set to shew,

Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free, How much our pride mocks that of other lands.

And have a grant t'endure as long as he.
Whereon, when as the gazing passenger
Had greedy look'd with admiration ;
And fain would know his birth, and what he were;

LOVE IN INFANCY.
How there erected; and how long agon:

Ah! I remember well (and how can I Inquires and asks his fellow traveller

But evermore remember well) when first What he had heard, and his opinion.

Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was And he knows nothing. Then he turns again, The flame we felt; whenas we sat and sigh'd And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh, And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd And in himself with sorrow doth complain

Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; The misery of dark forgetfulness:

And yet were well, and yet we were not well, Angry with time that nothing should remain, And what was our disease we could not tell. Our greatest wonders' wonder to express.

Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse, In that first garden of our simpleness Robbing fair art and cunning of their right,

We spent our childhood: But when years began Tells how those stones were by the devil's force To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;

Would she with graver looks, and sweet stern brow, And thence to Brittany, by magic course,

Check my presumption and my forwardness; From giants' hands redeem’d by Merlin's sleight. Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show And then near Ambri plac’d, in memory

What she would have me, yet not have me know, Of all those noble Britons murder'd there, By Hengist and his Saxon treachery, Coming to parley, in peace at unaware.

THE STORY OF ISULIA. With this old legend then credulity

- There was sometime a nymph, Holds her content, and closes up her care.

Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, But is antiquity so great a liar?

Whose mother dying left her very young Or do her younger sons her age abuse ;

Unto her father's charge, who carefully Seeing after-comers still so apt t'admire

Did breed her up until she came to years
The grave authority that she doth use,

Of womanhood, and then provides a match
That rev'rence and respect dares not require Both rich and young, and fit enough for her.
Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse? But she, who to another shepherd had,
Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far

Call's Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one
Upon our early credit and delight;

Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, For once found false, they straight became to mar Could not by all her father's means be wrought Our faith, and their own reputation quite;

To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. That now her truths hardly believed are; (right. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, And though she avouch the right, she scarce bath Which commonly (the more the pity), dwell

And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame, As inmates both together, walking forth That standst corrupted so with time's despite, With other maids to fish upon the shore ; And giv’st false evidence against their fame Estrays apart, and leaves her company,

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To entertain herself with her own thoughts : Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
And wanders on so far, and out of sight,

With safeguard of her body at her will.
As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd

The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph, By pirates, who lay lurking underneath

All crying to him in this piteous sort,
Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
And notwithstanding all her piteous cries,

His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears ;
Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men And so they wept all four for company:
Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force

And some beholders stood not with dry eyes ; Into their ship, which in a little creek

Such passion wrought the passion of their prize. Hard by at anchor lay,

Never was there pardon, that did take
And presently they hoisted sail and so away. Condemned from the block, more joyful than
When she was thus inshipp'd, and woefully This grant to her. For all her misery
Had cast her eyes about to view that hell

Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receivid,
Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd, By being thus saved from impurity;
She spies a woman sitting with a child

And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies; Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
* O woman, if that name of woman may

Within the ship, which in few days arrives Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;

At Alexandria, whence these pirates were ; The most distressed soul that ever breath'd;

And there this woeful maid for two years' space And save me from the hands of those fierce men. Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife, Let me not be defild and made unclean,

(Who would not lose the benefit of her Dear woman, now, and I will be to you

Attendance, for her profit otherwise) The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress servid; But daring not in such a place as that Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,

To trust herself in woman's habit, cray'd To do whatever you command, than I.

That she might be apparel'd like a boy; No toil will I refuse; so that I may

And so she was, and as a boy she serv'd. Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, At two years' end her mistress sends her forth Which is all I will ever seek. For know

Onto the port for some commodities, It is not fear of death lays me thus low,

Which whilst she sought for, going up and down, But of that stain will make my death to blush.” She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk, All this would nothing move the woman's heart, Who spake that language the Arcadians did, Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought; And were next neighbours of one continent. “ O woman, by that infant at your breast,

To them, all rapt with passion, down she kneels, And by the pains it cost you at the birth,

Tells them she was a poor distressed boy, Save me, as ever you desire to have

Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took, Your babe to joy and prosper in the world: And made a slave in Egypt: and besought Which will the better prosper sure, if you

Them, as they fathers were of children, or Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!” Did hold their native country dear, they would Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too

Take pity on her, and relieve her youth The infant's feet; and “ Oh, sweet babe,” (said she) From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd: “ Could’st thou but to thy mother speak for me, For which she hoped that she had friends alive And crave her to have pity on my case,

Would thank them one day, and reward them too; Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do. Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak." The merchants mov'd with pity of her case, The infant, whether by her touching it,

Being ready to depart, took her with them, Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,

And landed her upon her country coast : Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks

Where, when she found herself, she prostrate falls, Upon the mother, then on her again,

Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, And then it cries, and then on either looks:

Thanks them who had been her deliverers, Which she perceiving;“ blessed child,” (said she) And on she trudges through the desart woods, * Although thou can’st not speak, yet dost thou cry Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,

Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, Dear mother, it's for me it cries,

Sustained only by the force of love ; It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries, Until she came unto her native plains, Save me at his request from being defil'd:

Unto the fields where first she drew her breath. Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child." There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air, The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude,

Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all: Yet having veins of nature, could not be

And,“ Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am,” said she, But pierceable, did feel at length the point “ Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,

I am, the same I ever was to thee; a pure, (Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought

A chaste, and spotless maid."

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