LITMIR.BIZ

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no corrupted voices brawl;

        No conscience molten into gold;

        No forged accuser bought or sold;

        No cause deferred; no vain-spent journey;

        For there Christ is the King's Attorney,

        Who pleads for all without degrees, irrespective of rank.

        And he hath angels, but no fees.

        And when the grand twelve million jury

        Of our sins, with direful fury,

        'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,

        Christ pleads his death, and then we live.

        Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader,

        Unblotted Lawyer, true Proceeder!

        Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,—

        Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.

        And this is my eternal plea

        To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,

        That, since my flesh must die so soon,

        And want a head to dine next noon,—

        Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,

        Set on my soul an everlasting head:

        Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,

        To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

        Of death and judgment, heaven and hell

        Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

      This poem is a somewhat strange medley, with a confusion of figure, and a repeated failure in dignity, which is very far indeed from being worthy of Raleigh's prose. But it is very remarkable how wretchedly some men will show, who, doing their own work well, attempt that for which practice has not—to use a word of the time—enabled them. There is real power in the poem, however, and the confusion is far more indicative of the pleased success of an unaccustomed hand than of incapacity for harmonious work. Some of the imagery, especially the "crystal buckets," will suggest those grotesque drawings called Emblems, which were much in use before and after this period, and, indeed, were only a putting into visible shape of such metaphors and similes as some of the most popular poets of the time, especially Doctor Donne, indulged in; while the profusion of earthly riches attributed to the heavenly paths and the places of repose on the journey, may well recall Raleigh's own descriptions of South American glories. Englishmen of that era believed in an earthly Paradise beyond the Atlantic, the wonderful reports of whose magnificence had no doubt a share in lifting the imaginations and hopes of the people to the height at which they now stood.

      There may be an appearance of irreverence in the way in which he contrasts the bribeless Hall of Heaven with the proceedings at his own trial, where he was browbeaten, abused, and, from the very commencement, treated as a guilty man by Sir Edward Coke, the king's attorney. He even puns with the words angels and fees. Burning from a sense of injustice, however, and with the solemnity of death before him, he could not be guilty of conscious irreverence, at least. But there is another remark I have to make with regard to the matter, which will bear upon much of the literature of the time: even the great writers of that period had such a delight in words, and such a command over them, that like their skilful horsemen, who enjoyed making their steeds show off the fantastic paces they had taught them, they played with the words as they passed through their hands, tossing them about as a juggler might his balls. But even herein the true master of speech showed his masterdom: his play must not be by-play; it must contribute to the truth of the idea which was taking form in those words. We shall see this more plainly when we come to transcribe some of Sir Philip Sidney's work. There is no irreverence in it. Nor can I take it as any sign of hardness that Raleigh should treat the visual image of his own anticipated death with so much coolness, if the writer of a little elegy on his execution, when Raleigh was fourteen years older than at the presumed date of the foregoing verses, describes him truly when he says:

        I saw in every stander-by

        Pale death, life only in thy eye.

      The following hymn is also attributed to Raleigh. If it has less brilliance of fancy, it has none of the faults of the preceding, and is far more artistic in construction and finish, notwithstanding a degree of irregularity.

        Rise, oh my soul, with thy desires to heaven;

          And with divinest contemplation use

        Thy time, where time's eternity is given;

          And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse,

            But down in darkness let them lie:

            So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die!

        And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame,

          View and review, with most regardful eye,

        That holy cross, whence thy salvation came,

          On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die!

            For in that sacred object is much pleasure,

            And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure.

        To thee, O Jesus, I direct my eyes;

          To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees,

        To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice;

          To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees—

            To thee myself,—myself and all I give;

            To thee I die; to thee I only live!

      See what an effect of stately composure quiet artistic care produces, and how it leaves the ear of the mind in a satisfied peace!

      There are a few fine lines in the poem. The last two lines of the first stanza are admirable; the last two of the second very weak. The last stanza is good throughout.

      But it would be very unfair to judge Sir Walter by his verse. His prose is infinitely better, and equally displays the devout tendency of his mind—a tendency common to all the great men of that age. The worst I know of him is the selfishly prudent advice he left behind for his son. No doubt he had his faults, but we must not judge a man even by what he says in an over-anxiety for the prosperity of his child.

      Another remarkable fact in the history of those great men is that they were all men of affairs. Raleigh was a soldier, a sailor, a discoverer, a politician, as well as an author. His friend Spenser was first secretary to Lord Grey when he was Governor of Ireland, and afterwards Sheriff of Cork. He has written a large treatise on the state of Ireland. But of all the men of the age no one was more variously gifted, or exercised those gifts in more differing directions, than the man who of them all was most in favour with queen, court, and people—Philip Sidney. I could write much to set forth the greatness, culture, balance, and scope of this wonderful man. Renowned over Europe for his person, for his dress, for his carriage, for his speech, for his skill in arms, for his horsemanship, for his soldiership, for his statesmanship, for his learning, he was beloved for his friendship, his generosity, his steadfastness, his simplicity, his conscientiousness, his religion. Amongst the lamentations over his death printed in Spenser's works, there is one poem by Matthew Roydon, a few verses of which I shall quote, being no vain eulogy. Describing his personal appearance, he says:

        A sweet, attractive kind of grace,

          A full assurance given by looks,

        Continual comfort in a face,

          The lineaments of Gospel books!—

            I trow, that countenance cannot lie

            Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.

        Was

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