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

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 _prot��g��_ 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 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 gaz��d?But in musing is amaz��d;?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.?Bless��d be Aglaia yet,?Though the Muses die for it;?Come abroad, ye bless��d 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 bless��d 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