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.
Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail—beauty in all thy lines, so quaint yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse—although a poet and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must we contrast thee with the weathercock of the rhyming folk, bowing to kings, protector, lords, and all that could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many there be among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller's practice, and amble in his ill-chosen path; how few have the redeeming gift that was his so largely!
And thou must not be forgotten, "O rare Ben Jonson!" for whom a single sentence doth suffice. And him, "the melancholy Cowley!" let him come too, with his honeyed wisdom: it will be still the sweeter if we think upon his stern bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he owes his fame,—
"Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,
————And that too after death:—"
let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is but a sorry politician after all.
Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high with those old masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet song,—
"Blessings be with them and eternal praise,
The poets!"