AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL Ben Jonson's grief for this child's death is very tender and real, but it is true grief at play. In the following poem, Growth, there is also that fine old sense of place and proportion. WEEP with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed, 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive Years he number'd scarce thirteen Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been And did act (what now we moan) As, sooth, the Parca thought him one, He play'd so truly. So by error to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since, alas! too late And have sought, to give new birth, But being so much too good for Earth BEN JONSON. GROWTH It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that nightIt was the plant and flower of light! In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. BEN JONSON. THE RIGHT GREYHOUND Did our forefathers feel affection-I might say respect -for a dog? We do, and the Greeks did, but this account of a greyhound's points is pure business. If you would have a good tyke, OLD RHYME. FAREWELL, REWARDS AND FAIRIES We have perhaps found fairies a bore in poetry. Richard Corbet found them a disappointing race of people, but pretends to wish them back again. FAREWELL rewards and fairies, And though they sweep their hearths Than maids were wont to do, At morning and at evening both When Tom came home from labour, Then merrily, merrily went their tabor, Witness those rings and roundelays By which we note the fairies Their dances were procession: A tell-tale in their company RICHARD CORBET. TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY This poem says very plain and self-evident things, but says them nobly. MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, In greatness is no trust." With the richest royal'st seed Since the first man died for sin : "Though gods they were, as men they died." Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Buried in dust, once dead by fate. FRANCIS BEaumont. TO LIVE MERRILY AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES These jolly verses may profit all boys and girls, even those who now know less of Greece and Rome than they will later. England also has had her golden pomp of poetry. " Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For, with the flowery earth, The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come: Now reigns the rose, and now And my retorted hairs. " |