Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 5

64
On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke
64
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 circumstances, 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 pronounced) 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
_protégé_ 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 passionate
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 assurance of unsullied happiness and overflowing joy. It is
quaint, simple, unassuming; 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