And dost thou of me complain,
Thou, who, with dreamy eyes,
In the forest’s moss hast lain,
Praising my silvery skies?
Thou, who didst deem divine
The shrill cicada’s tune,
When the odours of the pine
Gushed through the woods at noon?
I have run my fervid race;
I have wrought my task once more;
I have filled each fruitful place
With a plenty that runs o’er.
There is treasure for the garner;
There is honey with the bee;
And, oh! thou thankless scorner,
There’s a parting boon for thee.
Soon as, in misty sadness,
Sere Autumn yields his reign,
Winter, with stormy madness,
Shall chase thee from the plain.
Then shall these scenes Elysian
Bright in thy spirit burn;
And each summer-thought and vision
Be thine till I return.
It may be remembered that from this volume the poem of “Penn and the
Indians,” in a former sheet, was extracted.
[Illustration: ~Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.~]
-----------Bursting through that woody screen
What vision of strange aspect met his eyes!
In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
The youthful pastor ----------------
------------------ No sabbath sound
Came from the village;--no rejoicing bells
Were heard; no groups of strolling youth were found,
Nor lovers loitering on the distant fells,
No laugh, no shout of infancy, which tells
Where radiant health and happiness repair;
But silence, such as with the lifeless dwells.
_The Desolation of Eyam._
A plate in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of September, 1801, presents the
above view, taken about three years before, accompanied by a remark from
Mr. Urban’s correspondent, that it was “at that time an exact
resemblance of the perforated rock near the village of Eyam, in which
the pious and worthy Mr. Mompesson, the rector, punctually performed the
duties of his office to the distressed inhabitants during the time of
the plague in that village.”
Here it may be well to observe, in the expressive language of “William
and Mary Howitt,” that “what a cordon of soldiers could not have
accomplished was effected by the wisdom and love of one man. This
measure was the salvation of the country. The plague, which would most
probably have spread from place to place, may be said to have been
hemmed in, and, in a dreadful and desolating struggle, destroyed and
buried with its victims.”
William Mompesson exercised a power greater than legislators have yet
attained. He had found the great secret of government. He ruled his
flock by the _Law of Kindness_.
*
* * * * *
In the summer, 1757, five cottagers were digging on the heathy mountain
above Eyam, which was the place of graves after the church-yard became a
too narrow repository. Those men came to something which had the
appearance of having once been linen. Conscious of their situation, they
instantly buried it again. In a few days they all sickened of a putrid
fever, and three of the five died. The disorder was contagious, and
proved mortal to numbers of the inhabitants.
[383] Vol. lxxi. p. 300.
[384] The great and good Howard visited Eyam the year before he last
left England, to examine in that village the records of the
pestilential calamity which it had endured, and of those virtues which
resembled his own.
[385] Eakring rectory.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXVII.
[From “Ram Alley,” a Comedy, by Lodowick Barry, 1611.]
In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play, and gives a
promise of better things.
Home bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
The Satyr’s tooth, and waspish sting.
Which most do hurt when least suspected,
By this Play are not affected.
But if conceit, with quick-turn’d scenes,
Observing all those ancient streams
Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow--
As time, place, person--and to show
Things never done, with that true life,
That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife,
Whether the things now shewn be true;
Or whether we ourselves now do
The things we but present: if these,
Free from the loathsome Stage-disease,
So over-worn, so tired and stale;
Not satyrising, but to rail;--
May win your favors, and inherit
But calm acceptance of his merit,--
He vows by paper, pen, and ink,
And by the Learned Sisters’ drink,
To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,
And never cease his brain to toil,
Till from the silent hours of night
He doth produce, for your delight,
Conceits so new, so harmless free,
That Puritans themselves may see
A Play; yet not in public preach,
That Players such lewd doctrine teach,
That their pure joints do quake and tremble,
When they do see a man resemble
The picture of a villain.--This,
As he a friend to Muses is,
To you by me he gives his word,
Is all his Play does now afford.
* * * * *
[From the “Royal King and Loyal Subject,” a Tragi-comedy, by T.
Heywood, 1627.]
In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood descants upon the variety of
topics, which had been introduced upon the English stage in that
age,--the rich Shakspearian epoch.
To give content to this most curious age,
The Gods themselves we’ve brought down to the stage,
And figured them in Planets; made ev’n Hell
Deliver up the Furies, by no spell
Saving the Muses’ raptures: further we
Have traffickt by their help; no History
We’ve left unrifled; our pens have been dipt
As well in opening each hid manuscript,
As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung,
In our domestic or more foreign tongue.
Of Fairy elves, Nymphs of the Sea and Land,
The Lawns and Groves, no number can be scann’d,
Which we’ve not given feet to. Nay, ’tis known,
That when our Chronicles have barren grown
Of story, we have all Invention stretcht;
Dived low as to the center, and then reacht
Unto the Primum Mobile above,
(Nor ’scaped Things Intermediate), for your love
These have been acted often; all have past
Censure: of which some live, and some are cast.
For this[386] in agitation, stay the end;
Tho’ nothing please, yet nothing can offend.
* * * * *
[From the “Challenge to Beauty,” a Tragi-comedy, by T. Heywood, 1636.]
In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood commends the English Plays; not
without a censure of some writers, who in his time had begun to
degenerate.
The Roman and Athenian Dramas far
Differ from us: and those that frequent are
In Italy and France, ev’n in these days,
Compared with ours, are rather Jiggs than Plays.
Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch;
None, versed in language, but confess them such.
They do not build their projects on that _ground_;
Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound,
Our labour’d Scenes have had. And yet our nation
(Already too much tax’d for imitation,
In seeking to ape others) cannot ’quit
Some of our Poets, who have sinn’d in it.
For where, before, great Patriots, Dukes, and Kings,
Presented for some high facinorous things[387]
Were the stage subject; now we strive to fly
In their low pitch, who never could soar high:
For now the common argument entreats
Of puling Lovers, crafty Bawds, or Cheats.
Nor blame I their quick fancies, who can fit
These queasy times with humours flash’d in wit,
Whose art I both encourage and commend;
I only wish that they would sometimes bend
To memorise the valours of such men,
Whose very names might dignify the pen;
And that our once-applauded Rosscian strain
In acting such might be revived again;
Which you to count’nance might the Stage make proud,
And poets strive to key their strings more loud.