and cleanseth the cloud" and the "bright light" shines, and shews that the being of what survives (in-a-sense) is as nothing to the well-being in the new sphere whither the tiny Traveller has gone. The light comes to the Mourner in "Early taken but again and again is the same string touched, as in "Yearning" thus: "Come, come! what doe I here? Each day is grown a dozen year, Come, come! Cut off the sum : By these soil'd teares! -Which only Thou Know'st to be true Dayes are my feares. Ther's not a wind can stir, Or beame passe by, But straight I think-though far Thy hand is nigh, Come, come! Strike these lips dumb: This restles breath, That soiles Thy name, Will ne'r be tame Untill in death, Perhaps some think a tombe No house of store, But a dark and seal'd up wombe, Come, Come! Such thoughts benum: But I would be With him I weep A-bed, and sleep To wake in Thee.' This is realism of the deepest and noblest and those of us who with a strong heart and full of life have had the big Earth emptied, the radiant skies darkened, all desolated, can enter into the consciously impossible hungering to get away, of such a Lament. If only we might die. and re-join the loved'. For those who have never known that, the faculty is lacking whereby to measure the little poem of " Yearning ", and kind red. There is another which I have ventured to entitle "Bereavement ", the choice openin of which must be quoted: "Silence and stealth of dayes! 'Tis now, Since thou art gone, Twelve hundred houres, and not a brow As he that in some cave's thick damp, 1 Vol. I, pp. 69-70. Fixeth a solitary lamp, To brave the night, And walking from his Sun, when past Cuts through the heavy mists in haste So o'r fled minutes I retreat Unto that hour, Which shew'd thee last, but did defeat I search, and rack my soul to see But nothing but the snuff to me Appeareth plain '.' Was ever the slow-dragged weariness of a short seven weeks, more vividly expressed than by that "Twelve hundred houres"? and then once more the almost Dutch realism of Nothing but the snuff': how genuine it is, as though the smut and grime of the burned out candle-wick could not be made coarse enough in order to utter the absolute quenching of the light of his life. No dainty word-painting, but word-painting nevertheless of a Master. One early-and-late friend, demands specific notice-DR. THOMAS POWELL of Cantreff. There 1 Ibid. pp. 78-9. are his preliminary verses to "Olor Iscanus" and "Thalia Rediviva ", which have all the glow of admiration of Eugenius Philalethes: and there are our Worthy's repeated memorial-pieces to him. These are all given in their places, and below are given a few data concerning Dr. Powell. I rather think he was also the "Lysimachus" of our Poet.' SIR CHARLES EGERTON Knight-of whom I am glad to be able to add a little more in a foot-note-is another friend very lovingly and reverentially addressed in the Epistlesdedicatory of "Mount of Olives" and of "Flores 1 I had intended giving a pretty full account of Dr. THOMAS POWELL, from a variety of sources: but other things have crowded it out. I must content myself with references to Wood's Athena (by Bliss) Vol. III. 507 et seqq., and to Jones's Brecknockshire (though anything in this book must always be tested) and the several collections of Welsh "Lives". Burke's "Vicissitudes of Families" might have a stirring new chapter in the story of the decadence of Dr. Powell's line, with the preluding incidents-chequered and memorable-of his own career. His books are all scarce, some extremely so. There is much recondite reading and quaint thinking in even his theological writings. He was born at Cantreffe, near Brecon, in 1608, and died 31st December, 1660, and was buried at St. Dunstan's in the West, Fleet Street. 2 On a monument in Hanbury Church, co. Stafford, is Solitudinis". Of" R. Hall", "J. Ridsley", "T. Lewes ", " I. Morgan" and other names, nothing tangible survives. Mr. Lyte has said, "He was intimate with most of the young literary men of the day, and his occasional effusions appear to have been highly prized and long remembered among them. He speaks with much delight of his occasional visits to London at this time, and of the social evenings spent there at the Globe Tavern. He mentions Randolph as one whom he specially delighted in. He flung his poetic tribute along with so many others, on Cartwright's premature hearse. Fletcher's plays, published in the following inscription, which undoubtedly refers to to Vaughan's friend: Memoriae Caroli Egertoni Equitis Aurati (Caroli & Katherinæ filii) Carricfergi in Hiberniâ anno MDLXXXVI nati Collegii D. Johannis Baptistae in Academiâ Cantabrigiensi Grisilda, Leonardi Bawtre servientis ad Legem filia (From Le Neve's Monumenta Anglicana Vol. II. p 91) |