We must not longer trifle with or mingle among forbidden themes, but
turn to that which lightens many a heart, and creates of its own power a
magic world of pure and perfect enjoyment.
Many there were, before and during those troublous times, who, heedless
of the turmoils that were taking place around them, sang, as birds will
sometimes sing, during the pauses of a thunder-storm. We would fain con
over the names of a few of those who live with the memories of peace,
and hope, and love, and joy--as so many happy contrasts to the wars and
intrigues, that sin, and its numberless and terrible attendants, have
brought upon this cheerful, and beautiful, and abundantly gifted earth.
A blessing on sweet Poesy! whether she come to us mounted on the gallant
war-horse, trumpet-tongued, awakening our souls and senses unto glory,
hymning with Dryden some bold battle-strain that makes us crow of
victories past, present, and to come;--or with a scholar's trim and
tasselled cap, a flowing gown of raven hue, and many tales of
Chaucer's--quaint, but pleasing--good reading under some old tree close
by a quiet brook, where minnows sport and dart with silver flight
beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices are
spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides like a
monarch in his azure kingdom;--or, better still, mounted on a green
dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, looking for encounter with
some Christian knight, who, "full of sad feare and ghastley dreariment,"
would nathless risk life, honour, all--for his faire ladie love. Beloved
Spenser! age withers not thy beauty.
Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish day is past, and
the young modest flowers, which refused their perfume to the sun, that,
with his hot and fiery beams, sought to command their incense, now
welcome back the evening, and become prodigal of sweetness;--within some
rustic temple, clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren
hath formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trembles
not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath of heaven plays
with those blossoms of the sun--the painted butterflies--that fold their
wings and fain would sleep till morning. There let her come, and with
her bring more blessed children of the olden time,-"Whose names
In Fame's eternal volume live for aye."
The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, if not our
sweetest sonneteer; and Michael Drayton, with his apt crest--Mercury's
bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams. Old Fletcher, floating towards his
Purple Island, in the same graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful,
it may be sombre, brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle
in all its purple glory; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and
heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, and his
gay bonnet, graced by the heron's plume; his voice subdued by sorrow,
but still sweet and free, singing of "Sion's flowers"--Drummond of
Hawthornden! welcome from bonny Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who
fling their music on the breezy air, that floats along in melody.