Earl of Roscommon.

Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685), was the nephew of the great Earl of Strafford, after whose fall on the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that the youth had a presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, "My father is dead!" one day while he was engaged with some boys at play, at least a fortnight before the intelligence arrived from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" he also translated Horace's "Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own paraphrase of Thomas de Celano's "Dies Iræ:"

"My God, my Father, and my Friend,

Do not forsake me in my end!"

His mortal remains were interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey. To his honor let it be said that he well deserved this tribute from Pope:

"Unhappy Dryden! In all Charles's days,

Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays."

Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he refused to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness which the popular taste seemed then to demand. He wrote this couplet:

"Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense."

Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested not a bad amendment of the couplet, thus:

"Immodest words admit but this defence:
That want of decency is want of sense."

Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat :
So when a Muse propitiously invites,
Improve her favors, and indulge her flights;
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the radiant sun a glimmering lamp,
Adult'rate metals to the sterling stamp,
Appear not meaner than mere human lines
Compared with those whose inspiration shines:
These nervous, bold; those languid and remiss;
There cold salutes, but here a lover's kiss.
Thus have I seen a rapid, headlong tide
With foaming waves the passive Saône divide,
Whose lazy waters without motion lay,
While he with eager force urged his impetuous way.

Thomas Ken.

Ken (1637-1711) was educated at Oxford, became chaplain to Charles II., and was one of the seven bishops sent to the Tower for resisting the tyranny of James II. A mecker and a braver man than Ken never lived. His hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of several approved devotional works.

No poet any passion can excite

But what they feel transport them when they write.
Have you been led through the Cumaan cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes;
And, panting, "Lo, the god, the god!" she cries:
With words not hers, and more than human sound,
She makes th' obedient ghosts peep, trembling,
through the ground.

But though we must obey when Heaven commands,
And man in vain the sacred call withstands,
Beware what spirit rages in your breast;
For ten inspired ten thousand are possest.

The faster sleep the senses binds, The more unfettered are our minds.

Ob, may my soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see!

*

Oh, may my Guardian,' while I sleep,
Close to my bed his vigils keep;
His love angelical instil,

Stop all the avenues of ill.

May he celestial joys rehearse,

And thought to thought with me converse;
Or, in my stead, all the night long,
Sing to my God a grateful song.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise him all creatures here below;
Praise him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

Thomas Otway.

The son of a clergyman, Otway (1651-1685) was born in Sussex. Leaving Oxford without a degree, he appeared on the stage in 1672 as an actor, but failed. He then got a commission in the army in Flanders, but was cashiered. He wrote for the stage, and several of his pieces were quite successful; but he was continually in the direst poverty, and he is alleged by some to have died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long compulsory fast. His fame rests chiefly on his "Venice Preserved," in which there are passages of great dramatic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but their merit is very humble.

FROM "VENICE PRESERVED.”

ACT IV., SCENE II.

Pierre. What whining monk art thou? what holy cheat,

That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears, And cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thee not! Jaff. Not know me, Pierre!

Pierre. No, kuow thee not! What art thon? Jaff. Jaffier, thy friend, thy once loved, valued

friend!

Tho' now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. Pierre. Thou Jaffier! thou my once loved, valued friend!

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Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant;
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely;
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart:
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward,
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect!
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee.
Prithee, avoid, no longer cling thus round me,
Like something baneful, that my nature's chilled at.
Jaff. I have not wronged thee; by these tears,
I have not.

Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me? Dar'st thou call thyself Jaffier,

That once loved, valued friend of mine,

And swear thou hast not wronged me? Whence these chains?

Whence the vile death which I may meet this moment?

Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false one? Jaff. All's true; yet grant one thing, and I've done asking.

Pierre. What's that?

Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions The council have proposed: thou and thy friends May yet live long, and to be better treated.

Pierre. Life! ask my life! confess! record myself
A villain for the privilege to breathe,
And carry up and down this cursed city
A discontented and repining spirit,
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer;
To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel
For some new friend, treacherous and false as thon
art!

No, this vile world and I have long been jangling,
And cannot part on better terms than now,
When only men like thee are fit to live in't.
Jaff. By all that's just-

Pierre. Swear by some other power,

For thou hast broke that sacred oath already.
Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee
Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled,
However thy resentments deal with me.

Pierre. Not leave me!

Jaff. No; thou shalt not force me from thee. Use me reproachfully and like a slave; Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head: I'll bear it all with patience; Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty; Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn

me;

friend

That is, my Guardian Angel.

And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. Pierre. Art thou not

Jaff. What?

Pierre. A traitor? Jaff. Yes.

Pierre. A villain?

Jaff. Granted.

Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward; Spiritless, void of honor; one who has sold

Thy everlasting fame for shameless life?

Jaff. All, all, and more, much more; my faults

are numberless.

became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Hallam pronounces him "a writer of fine genius, and of a noble elevation of moral sentiments."

THE ASPIRATION.

How long, great God, low long must I
Immured in this dark prison lie,

Where at the gates and avenues of sense

like thine?

Base as thou'rt false

Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted;

The safety of thy life was all I aimed at,
In recompense for faith and trust so broken.

Pierre. I scorn it more because preserved by thee;
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity
On thy misfortune, sought thee in thy miseries,
Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state
Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged
thee,

To rank thee in my list of noble friends,

All I received, in surety for thy truth,
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger,

Given with a worthless pledge thon since hast stolen ;

So I restore it back to thee again,

Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated

Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion,
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years
Were to exceed those limited the world.
Take it-farewell-for now I owe thee nothing.
Jaff. Say thou wilt live, then.

Pierre. For my life, dispose it

Just as thou wilt; because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre !

Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight,
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night?
When shall I leave this magic sphere,
And be all mind, all eye, all ear?

How cold this clime! and yet my sense
Perceives even here thy influence.

Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel,
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel,—
To lower good and beauties less divine
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline;
But yet (so strong the sympathy)
It turns, and points again to thee.

I long to see this excellence,

Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, How would she hasten to be linked with thee! She'd for no angel's conduct stay, But fly, and love on all the way.

SUPERSTITION.

I care not though it be

By the preciser sort thought popery;
We poets can a license show

For everything we do:

Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee.

If now thy happy mind

Amid its various joys can leisure find To attend to anything so low

As what I say or do,

Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind.

Let not the blessed above

Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove.

Fain would I thy sweet image see,

And sit and talk with thee;

Nor is it curiosity, but love.

Ah! what delight 'twould be

Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me!

How should I thine sweet commune prize,
And other joys despise!

Come, then; I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain

Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know

Of thy escape below:

Before thou'rt missed thou shouldst return again.

Sure, heaven must needs thy love
As well as other qualities improve;

Come, then, and recreate my sight
With rays of thy pure light:

Twill cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.

But if fate's so severe

As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so),

Live happy, but be mindful of me there.

Matthew Prior.

Of obscure parentage, Prior (1664-1721) owed his advancement in life to the friendship of the Earl of Dorset, through which he rose to be ambassador to the Court of Versailles. His best-known poems are his light lyrical❘ pieces of the artificial school. Thackeray says, with some exaggeration, that they "are among the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous in the English language" but Prior's poetical fame, considerable in his day, has waned, and not undeservedly. His longest work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly commended by Wesley and Hannah More, but now having few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by Cowper "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The Nut-brown Maide," and a formidable specimen of bewigged" to suit the false taste of the day. Compared with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold in the ore. Like many men of letters of his day, Prior never ventured on matrimony.

A SIMILE.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile).
A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage ;

verse

The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells at top?-

Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But, here or there, turn wood or wire,

He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble song and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

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TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD (1704), THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,

Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds
With all the tender things I swear,-
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,-

She may receive and own my flame;
For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Jonathan Swift.

Swift's is one of the great names in English literature (1667-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents and his ancestors were English. He was educated at Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not distinguish himself as a student. For some years he lived with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of dependence, and became restive and soured. Having graduated as M.A. at Oxford, he entered into holy orders, and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at £100 a year. Returning to the house of Sir William Temple, he became involved in the mysterious love-affair with Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-keeper (and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's pet name of Stella. Having become Vicar of Laracor, Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. Miss Johnson resided in the neighborhood, and in the parsonage during his absence. He is said to have fulfilled his clerical office in an exemplary manner.

From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted with the Whig party. Dissatisfied with some of their measures, he then became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons he received the deanery of St. Patrick's, in Dublin. The coarseness of his "Tale of a Tub" had cut him off from a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says Johnson, "commenced Irishman for life." He soon became an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few men have ever exercised over them so formidable a personal influence. In 1726 he visited England for the publication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had enjoyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years his junior), Gay, Addison, Arbuthnot, and Bolingbroke. He returned to Ireland to lay the mortal remains of Stella in the grave: she is believed to have been his real though unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his last days. After two years passed in lethargic and hopeless idiocy, he died in 1745. His death was mourned by an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin.

Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper acceptation of the term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was the sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, "Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting for the intellectual vigor, pungency, and wit by which they are distinguished.

FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.""

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true:

1 This singular poem was prompted by the following maxim of Rochefoucault: "Dans l'adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose que ne nous déplait pas.'

They argue no corrupted mind

In him the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: "In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us." If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equals raised above our size:
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you:
But why should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion killed, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies racked with pain, and you without :
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?
Her end, when emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our heart divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
"Tis all to me an usurpation!

I have no title to aspire,