Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry.

by William Browne.

Prefatory Note

There are few issues attended with greater uncertainty than the fate of a poet, and of the three represented herein it may be said that they survive but tardily in public interest. Such a state of things, in spite of all pleading, is quite beyond reason; hence the purport of this small Anthology is at once obvious.

A group of poets graced with rarest charm and linked together by several and varied circ.u.mstances, each one figures here in unique evidence and bold relief of individuality. They are called of the order Spenserian; servants at the altar to the Pastoral Muse; and, in the reckoning of time, belong to that glorious age of great Elizabeth. Nicholas Breton (or Britton, as it is p.r.o.nounced) and William Browne were both contributors to _England's Helicon_, of 1614, and Browne and Wither each submitted verses for _The Shepherd's Pipe_, a publication of the same year. The former two were, in turn, under the patronage of that most cultured family, the Herberts, Breton being a _protege_ of "Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother," whom Browne (and not Ben Jonson, as is commonly said) eulogised thus in elegy. George Wither, being Browne's intimate friend, was presumably not unappreciated by the kinsfolk of George Herbert. Thus do they appear as in a bond of spiritual union.

Breton, a step-son to the poet Gascoigne, and the elder of our fascinating trio, is conspicuous for an unswerving, whole-hearted attachment to nature and rural scenes. It is in the pastoral lyric where, with tenderest devotion, he pursues, untrammelled, a light and free-born fancy. His fertile, varied muse, laden with the pa.s.sionate exaggerations of love-lorn swain, is yet charged with richest imagery and thought, full to overflowing with joyous abandonment, and sweet with the perfume of many flowers, culled in distant fields.

Wither, though best remembered by exploits in the political arena, is none the less a poet of deep and purest feeling. To be sure, his best and earlier work has all of that delightful extravagance and amorous colouring peculiar to the age. But there is reflected a homely dignity and mobile, felicitous vein in which the poet seems endowed with every attribute of a melodist. Exquisite, graceful and diverse he, at times, would soar to flights of highest inspiration and bedeck the page with gems of rarest worth. In the heptasyllabic couplet he is decidedly successful.

And lastly William Browne, than whom we have not a more modest and retiring singer, here makes his bow with a slender portfolio of excerpts. Whatever else may transpire it is certain that labour such as his bears the a.s.surance of unsullied happiness and overflowing joy. It is quaint, simple, una.s.suming; without affectation, full of pathos, and gently sensitive. He was a man who knew no guile, and his sweet and artless nature is faithfully portrayed in the outpourings of an impressionable, poetic soul. To dance with rustic maidens on the lea; to sing by moonlight to the piper's strain; to be happy, always happy, such is the theme, delicate and refined, of these our half-forgotten poets.

W. B. KEMPLING.

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Pastoral

Good Muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony: The weary eye is not to keep Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile, Thou knowest my heaviness: Beauty is born but to beguile My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock, That loved to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees That were so fresh and green, Do all their dainty colour leese, And not a leaf is seen.

The blackbird and the thrush, That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush, And not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, the bird That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now alas! not once afford Recording of a note.

The flowers have had a frost, Each herb hath lost her savour; And Phyllida the fair hath lost The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights So kill me in conceit, That how to hope upon delights It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse, Thou know'st what help is best; Do now thy heavenly cunning use To set my heart at rest;

And in a dream bewray What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end.

Aglaia: a Pastoral

Sylvan Muses, can ye sing Of the beauty of the Spring?

Have ye seen on earth that sun That a heavenly course hath run?

Have ye lived to see those eyes Where the pride of beauty lies?

Have ye heard that heavenly voice That may make Love's heart rejoice?

Have ye seen Aglaia, she Whom the world may joy to see?

If ye have not seen all these, Then ye do but labour leese; While ye tune your pipes to play But an idle roundelay; And in sad Discomfort's den Everyone go bite her pen; That she cannot reach the skill How to climb that blessed hill Where Aglaia's fancies dwell, Where exceedings do excell, And in simple truth confess She is that fair shepherdess To whom fairest flocks a-field Do their service duly yield: On whom never Muse hath gazed But in musing is amazed; Where the honour is too much For their highest thoughts to touch; Thus confess, and get ye gone To your places every one; And in silence only speak When ye find your speech too weak.

Blessed be Aglaia yet, Though the Muses die for it; Come abroad, ye blessed Muses, Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses, When she would command a creature In the honour of Love's nature, For the sweet Aglaia fair All to sweeten all the air, Is abroad this blessed day; Haste ye, therefore, come away: And to kill Love's maladies Meet her with your melodies.

Flora hath been all about, And hath brought her wardrobe out; With her fairest, sweetest flowers, All to trim up all your bowers.

Bid the shepherds and their swains See the beauty of their plains; And command them with their flocks To do reverence on the rocks; Where they may so happy be As her shadow but to see: Bid the birds in every bush Not a bird to be at hush: But to sit, and chirp, and sing To the beauty of the Spring: Call the sylvan nymphs together, Bid them bring their musicks. .h.i.ther.

Trees their barky silence break, Crack yet, though they cannot speak Bid the purest, whitest swan Of her feathers make her fan; Let the hound the hare go chase; Lambs and rabbits run at base; Flies be dancing in the sun, While the silk-worm's webs are spun; Hang a fish on every hook As she goes along the brook; So with all your sweetest powers Entertain her in your bowers; Where her ear may joy to hear How ye make your sweetest quire; And in all your sweetest vein Still Aglaia strike her strain; But when she her walk doth turn, Then begin as fast to mourn; All your flowers and garlands wither Put up all your pipes together; Never strike a pleasing strain Till she come abroad again.

Phyllida and Corydon

In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside, Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phyllida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, G.o.d wot!

He would love, and she would not: She said, never man was true; He says, none was false to you.

He said, he had loved her long: She says, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then, She says, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all.

Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness, truth Never loved a truer youth.

Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!-- Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse; Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded: And Phyllida, with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May.

Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon

Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!), Was never morn so fair, There shone a sun, though not the sun That shineth in the air.

For the earth, and from the earth, (Was never such a creature!) Did come this face (was never face That carried such a feature).

Upon a hill (O blessed hill!

Was never hill so blessed), There stood a man (was never man For woman so distressed): This man beheld a heavenly view, Which did such virtue give As clears the blind, and helps the lame, And makes the dead man live.

This man had hap (O happy man!

More happy none than he); For he had hap to see the hap That none had hap to see.

This silly swain (and silly swains Are men of meanest grace): Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!) To hap on such a face.

He pity cried, and pity came And pitied so his pain, As dying would not let him die But gave him life again.

For joy whereof he made such mirth As all the woods did ring; And Pan with all his swains came forth To hear the shepherd sing; But such a song sung never was, Nor shall be sung again, Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen, And Corydon the swain.

Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen, (Was never such a queen as she,) And Corydon her only swain (Was never such a swain as he): Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face That ever eye did yet behold, And Corydon the constant'st faith That ever yet kept flock in fold; Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet That ever yet the earth did yield, And Corydon the kindest swain That ever yet kept lambs in field.

Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird, Though Corydon be he that caught her, And Corydon doth hear her sing, Though Phyllida be she that taught her: Poor Corydon doth keep the fields Though Phyllida be she that owes them, And Phyllida doth walk the meads, Though Corydon be he that mows them: The little lambs are Phyllis' love, Though Corydon is he that feeds them, The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground, Though Corydon is he that weeds them.

Since then that Phyllis only is The only shepherd's only queen; And Corydon the only swain That only hath her shepherd been,-- Though Phyllis keep her bower of state, Shall Corydon consume away?

No, shepherd, no, work out the week, And Sunday shall be holiday.

A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon

On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet!

By that flower there is a bower, Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair That did ever eye behold.