I BELIEVE the only notice of this poet that is to be found is in Langbaine, who informs us that he was a physician at Shaftesbury, in Dorsetshire, in the reigns of Charles I. and II. He wrote a single tragi-comedy, "Love's Victory," which was acted after the Restoration under the new title of "Wits led by the Nose, or the Poet's Revenge." His Pharonnida, an heroic poem, in five books, which Langbaine says has nothing to recommend it, is one of the most interesting stories that was ever told in verse, and contained so much amusing matter as to be made into a prose novel in the reign of Charles II. What Dr. Johnson said unjustly of Milton's Comus, that it was like gold hid under a rock, may unfortunately be applied with too much propriety to Pharonnida. Never perhaps was so much beautiful design in poetry marred by infelicity of execution: his ruggedness of versification, abrupt -transitions, and a style that is at once slovenly and quaint, perpetually interrupted in enjoying the splendid figures and spirited passions of this

PHARONNIDA, BOOK II. CANTO III. Argalia being brought before the Princess Pharonnida on a false accusation of murder, they fall in love with each other, although the Princess is obliged, with a reluctant heart, to condemn him on false evidence. HIGH mounted on an ebon throne on which Th' embellish'd silver show'd so sadly rich

As if its varied form strove to delight

Those solemn souls which death-pale fear did fright,
In Tyrian purple clad, the princess sate,
Between two sterner ministers of fate,
Impartial judges, whose distinguish'd tasks
Their various habit to the view unmasks.
One, in whose looks, as pity strove to draw
Compassion in the tablets of the law,

33

romantic tablet, and make us catch them only by glimpses. I am well aware that from a story so closely interwoven a few selected passages, while they may be more than sufficient to exemplify the faults, are not enough to discover the full worth of Chamberlayne. His sketches, already imperfect, must appear still more so in the shape of fragments; we must peruse the narrative itself to appreciate the rich breadth and variety of its scenes, and we must perhaps accustom our vision to the thick medium of its uncouth style to enjoy the power and pathos of his characters and situations. Under all the defects of the poem, the reader will then indeed feel its unfinished hints affect the heart and dilate the imagination. From the fate of Chamberlayne a young poet may learn one important lesson, that he who neglects the subsidiary graces of taste has every chance of being neglected by posterity, and that the pride of genius must not prompt him to disdain the study of harmony and of style.

Some softness dwelt, in a majestic vest
Of state-like red was clothed; the other, dress'd
In dismal black, whose terrible aspect
Declared his office, served but to detect
Her slow consent, if, when the first forsook
The cause, the law so far as death did look.
Silence proclaim'd, a harsh command calls forth
Th' undaunted prisoner, whose excelling worth
In this low ebb of fortune did appear
Such as we fancy virtues that come near
The excellence of angels-fear had not
Rifled one drop of blood, nor rage begot
More colour in his cheeks-his soul in state,
Throned in the medium, constant virtue sat. . . .
257

W 2

Yet, though now depress'd
Even in opinion, which oft proves the best
Support to those whose public virtues we
Adore before their private guilt we see,
His noble soul still wings itself above
Passion's dark fogs; and like that prosperous dove
The world's first pilot, for discovery sent,
When all the floods that bound the firmament
O'erwhelm'd the earth, conscience' calm joys to
increase,

Returns, freight with the olive branch of peace.
Thus fortified from all that tyrant fear
O'erawed the guilty with, he doth appear.
Not all

His virtues now protect him, he must fall
A guiltless sacrifice, to expiate

No other crime but their envom'd hate.
An ominous silence-such as oft precedes
The fatal sentence-while the accuser reads
His charge, possess'd the pitying court in which
Presaging calm Pharonnida, too rich
In mercy, heaven's supreme prerogative,
To stifle tears, did with her passion strive
So long, that what at first assaulted in
Sorrow's black armour, had so often been
For pity cherish'd, that at length her eyes
Found there those spirits that did sympathize
With those that warm'd her blood,and unseen,move
That engine of the world, mysterious love. . . .
The beauteous princess, whose free soul had been
Yet guarded in her virgin ice, and now
A stranger is to what she doth allow
Such easy entrance. By those rays that fall
From either's eyes, to make reciprocal
Their yielding passions, brave Argalia felt,
Even in the grasp of death, his functions melt
To flames, which on his heart an onset make
For sadness, such as weary mortals take
Eternal farewells in. Yet in this high
Tide of his blood, in a soft calm to die,
His yielding spirits now prepare to meet
Death, clothed in thoughts white as his winding-
sheet.

That fatal doom, which unto heaven affords
The sole appeal, one of the assisting lords
Had now pronounced whose horrid thunder could
Not strike his laurell'd brow; that voice which would
Have petrified a timorous soul, he hears
With calm attention. No disorder'd fears
Ruffled his fancy, nor domestic war
Raged in his breast; his every look so far
From vulgar passions, that, unless, amazed
At beauty's majesty he sometime gazed
Wildly on that as emblems of more great
Glories than earth afforded, from the seat
Of resolution his fix'd soul had not
Been stirr'd to passion, which had now begot
Wonder, not fear, within him. No harsh frown
Contracts his brow; nor did his thoughts pull down
One fainting spirit, wrapt in smother'd groans,
To clog his heart. From her most eminent thrones
Of sense, the eyes, the lightning of his soul
Flew with such vigour forth, it did control
All weaker passions, and at once include
With Roman valour Christian fortitude.

Which crush'd the soft paternal smiles of love,
He thus begins" And must, O must that prove
My greatest curse on which my hopes ordain'd
To raise my happiness? Have I refrain'd
The pleasures of a nuptial bed, to joy
Alone in thee, nor trembled to destroy
My name, so that advancing thine I might
Live to behold my sceptre take its flight
To a more spacious empire? Have I spent
My youth till, grown in debt to age, she hath sent
Diseases to arrest me that impair

My strength and hopes e'er to enjoy an heir,
Which might preserve our name, which only now
Must in our dusty annals live; whilst thou
Transfer'st the glory of our house on one,
Which had not I warm'd into life, had gone,
A wretch forgotten of the world, to th' earth
From whence he sprung? But tear this monstrous
birth

Of fancy from thy soul, quick as thou'dst fly
Descending wrath if visible, or I

Shall blast thee with my anger till thy name
Rot in my memory; not as the same
That once thou wert behold thee, but as some
Dire prodigy, which to foreshow should come
All ills which through the progress of my life
Did chance were sent. I lost a queen and wife,
Thy virtuous mother, who for goodness might
Have here supplied, before she took her flight
To heaven, my better angel's place; have since
Stood storms of strong affliction; still a prince
Over my passions until now, but this
Hath proved me coward. Oh! thou dost amiss
To grieve me thus, fond girl."-With that he
shook

His reverend head; beholds her with a look
Composed of grief and anger, which she sees
With melting sorrow: but resolved love frees
Her from more yielding pity-

She falls
Prostrate at's feet; to his remembrance calls
Her dying mother's will, by whose pale dust
She now conjures him not to be unjust
Unto that promise, with which her pure soul
Fled satisfied from earth-as to control
Her freedom of affection.-

She then

Calls to remembrance who relieved him when
Distress'd within Aleythius' walls; the love
His subjects bore Argalia, which might prove
Her choice, her happiness; with all, how great
A likelihood, it was but the retreat
Of royalty to a more safe disguise
Had show'd him to their state's deluded eyes
So mean a thing. Love's boundless rhetoric
About to dictate more, he, with a quick

And furious haste, forsakes the room, his rage Thus boiling o'er-" And must my wretched age Be thus by thee tormented? but take heed, Correct thy passions, or their cause must bleed, Until he quench the flame-"

.... Her soul, oppress'd,

Sinks in a pale swoon, catching at the rest
It must not yet enjoy; swift help lends light,
Though faint and glimmering, to behold what night
Of grief o'ershadow'd her. You that have been
Upon the rack of passion, tortured in

The engines of forbidden love, that have
Shed fruitless tears, spent hopeless sighs, to crave
A rigid parent's fair aspect, conceive

What wild distraction seized her. I must leave
Her passions' volume only to be read

Within the breasts of such whose hearts have bled At the like dangerous wounds.

BOOK III. CANTO III.

THROUGH the dark path of dusty annals we,
Led by his valour's light, return to see
Argalia's story, who hath, since that night -
Wherein he took that strange distracted flight
From treacherous Ardenna, perform'd a course
So full of threat'ning dangers, that the force
Of his protecting angel trembled to
Support his fate, which crack'd the slender clew
Of destiny almost to death: his stars,
Doubting their influence when such horrid wars
The gods proclaim'd, withdrew their languish'd
beams

Beneath heaven's spangled arch; in pitchy streams
The heavy clouds unlade their wombs, until
The angry winds, fearing the floods should fill
The air, the region where they ruled, did break
Their marble lodgings; Nature's self grew weak
With these distemperatures, and seem'd to draw
Tow'rd dissolution-her neglected law
Each element forgot. The imprison'd flame,
When the clouds' stock of moisture could not tame
Its violence, in sulp'hury flashes broke
Thorough the glaring air; the swoln clouds spoke
In the loud voice of thunder; the sea raves
And foams with anger, hurls his troubled waves
High as the moon's dull orb, whose waning light
Withdrew to add more terror to the night.

......

ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. THE Turks had ought Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow Their stubborn resolutions with the strength Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length Of the chronical disease extended had To some few months, since to oppress the sad But constant islanders, the army lay, Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay From battle rusts the soldier's valour in His tainted cabin, there had often been, With all variety of fortune, fought

Brave single combats, whose success had brought

Honour's unwither'd laurels on the brow
Of either party; but the balance, now
Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined
Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined
In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard
The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appear'd
The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck
A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look
Who next the lists should enter; each desires
The task were his, but honour now requires
A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies
The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice;
To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free
Consent of all, Argalia comes to be
Their happy champion. Truce proclaim'd, until
The combat ends, th' expecting people fill
The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake
Their tents, of whom the city ladies take
A dreadful view, till a more noble sight
Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight
With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat
They toil for victory. The conflict's heat
Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed
Than burning calentures could do; both blamed
The feeble influence of their stars, that gave
No speedier conquest; each neglects to save
Himself, to seek advantage to offend
His eager foe.

.. But now so long

The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong
Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength
Cool'd, on the ground, with his blood-he fell at
length,

Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew
O' the villains that did at a distance view
Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot,
Running to succour him, begin a hot
And desperate combat with those knights that stand
To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand
Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent
His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent
His scatter'd troops.

....

Argalia lies in chains, ordain'd to die
A sacrifice unto the cruelty

Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in
The combat late he slew; yet had not been
In that so much unhappy, had not he,
That honour'd then his sword with victory,
Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright
But cruel lady, whose refined delight
Her slave (though husband) Ammurat, durst not
Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot
Contention of her blood, which he foresaw
That heavy news would from her anger draw,
To quench with the brave Christian's death, he

sent

Him living to her, that her anger, spent
In flaming torments, might not settle in
The dregs of discontent. Staying to win
Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were
Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there

To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest
Argalia sever'd, soon hopes to be blest

With speedy death, though waited on by all
The hell-instructed torments that could fall

Within invention's reach; but he's not yet
Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit
Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use
Of th' Turkish pride, which triumphs in th' abuse
Of suffering Christians, once, before they take
The ornaments of nature off, to make
Their prisoners public to the view, that all
Might mock their miseries: this sight did call
Janusa to her palace-window, where,
Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear
Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till
Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill,
As the most pleasing object, with the sight
Of him whose sword open'd a way for the flight
Of her loved brother's soul. At the first view
Passion had struck her dumb, but when it grew
Into desire, she speedily did send

To have his name- -which known, hate did defend
Her heart; besieged with love,she sighs,and straight
Commands him to a dungeon; but love's bait
Cannot be so cast up, though to efface

Her image from her soul she strives. The place
For execution she commands to be
'Gainst the next day prepared; but rest and she
Grow enemies about it: if she steal

A slumber from her thoughts, that doth reveal
Her passions in a dream, sometimes she thought
She saw her brother's pale grim ghost, that brought
His grisly wounds to show her, smear'd in blood,
Standing before her sight; and by that flood
Those red streams wept, imploring vengeance, then,
Enraged, she cries, "O, let him die!" But when
Her sleep-imprison'd fancy, wandering in
The shades of darken'd reason, did begin
To draw Argalia's image on her soul,
Love's sovereign power did suddenly control
The strength of those abortive embryos, sprung
From smother'd anger. The glad birds had sung
A lullaby to night, the lark was fled,
On dropping wings, up from his dewy bed,
To fan them in the rising sunbeams, ere
Whose early reign Janusa, that could bear
No longer lock'd within her breast so great
An army of rebellious passions, beat
From reason's conquer'd fortress, did unfold
Her thoughts to Manto, a stout wench; whose bold
Wit, join'd with zeal to serve her, had endear'd
Her to her best affections. Having clear'd
All doubts with hopeful promises, her maid,
By whose close wiles this plot must be convey'd,
To secret action of her council makes
Two eunuch pandars, by whose help she takes
Argalia from his keeper's charge, as to
Suffer more torments than the rest should do,
And lodged him in that castle to affright
And soften his great soul with fear. The light,
Which lent its beams into the dismal place
In which he lay, without presents the face
Of horror smear'd in blood; a scaffold built
To be the stage of murder, blush'd with guilt
Of Christian blood, by several torments let
From th' imprisoning veins. This object set
To startle his resolves if good, and make
His future joys more welcome, could not shake
The heaven-built pillars of his soul, that stood

Steady, though in the slippery paths of blood.
The gloomy night now sat enthroned in dead
And silent shadows, midnight curtains spread
The earth in black for what the falling day
Had blush'd in fire, whilst the brave pris'ner lay,
Circled in darkness, yet in those shades spends
The hours with angels, whose assistance lends
Strength to the wings of faith. . . . .

He beholds

A glimmering light, whose near approach unfolds
The leaves of darkness. While his wonder grows
Big with amazement, the dim taper shows
False Manto enter'd, who, prepared to be
A bawd unto her lustful mistress, came,
Not with persuasive rhetoric to inflame
A heart congeal'd with death's approach.....
Most blest of men!

Compose thy wonder, and let only joy
Dwell in thy soul. My coming's to destroy,
Not nurse thy trembling fears: be but so wise
To follow thy swift fate, and thou mayst rise
Above the reach of danger. In thy arms
Circle that power whose radiant brightness charms
Fierce Ammurat's anger, when his crescents shine
In a full orb of forces; what was thine
Ere made a prisoner, though the doubtful state
Of her best Christian monarch, will abate
Its splendour, when that daughter of the night,
Thy feeble star, shines in a heaven of light.
If life or liberty, then, bear a shape
Worthy thy courting, swear not to escape
By the attempts of strength, and I will free
The iron bonds of thy captivity.

A solemn oath, by that great power he served,
Took, and believed: his hopes no longer starved
In expectation. From that swarthy seat
Of sad despair, his narrow jail, replete
With lazy damps, she leads him to a room
In whose delights joy's summer seem'd to bloom,
There left him to the brisk society

Of costly baths and Corsic wines, whose high
And sprightly tempers from cool sherbets found
A calm ally; here his harsh thoughts unwound
Themselves in pleasure, as not fearing fate
So much, but that he dares to recreate
His spirit, by unwieldy action tired,
With all that lust into no crime had fired.
By mutes, those silent ministers of sin,
His sullied garments were removed, and in
Their place such various habits laid, as pride'
Would clothe her favourites with. . . . .
Unruffled here by the rash wearer, rests
Fair Persian mantles, rich Sclavonian vests....
Though on this swift variety of fate
He looks with wonder, yet his brave soul sate
Too safe within her guards of reason, to
Be shook with passion; that there's something

new

And strange approaching after such a storm,
This gentle calm assures him. . . . .
His limbs from wounds but late recover'd, now
Refresh'd with liquid odours, did allow
Their suppled nerves no softer rest, but in
Such robes as wore their ornament within,
Veil'd o'er their beauty.....

His guilty conduct now had brought him near
Janusa's room, the glaring lights appear
Thorough the window's crystal walls, the strong
Perfumes of balmy incense mix'd among
The wandering atoms of the air did fly.
The open doors allow

A free access into the room, where come,
Such real forms he saw as would strike dumb
The Alcoran's tales of Paradise, the fair
And sparkling gems i' the gilded roof impair
Their taper's fire, yet both themselves confess
Weak to those flames Janusa's eyes possess
With such a joy as bodies that do long
For souls, shall meet them in the doomsday throng,
She that ruled princes, though not passions, sate
Waiting her lover, on a throne whose state
Epitomized the empire's wealth; her robe,
With costly pride, had robb'd the chequer'd globe
Of its most fair and orient jewels, to
Enhance its value; captive princes who
Had lost their crowns, might there those gems
have seen. . . . .

Placed in a seat near her bright throne, to stir
His settled thoughts she thus begins: "From her
Your sword hath so much injured as to shed
Blood so near kin to mine, that it was fed
By the same milky fountains, and within
One womb warm'd into life, is such a sin
I could not pardon, did not love commit
A rape upon my mercy: all the wit

...

Of man in vain inventions had been lost,
Ere thou redeem'd; which now, although it cost
The price of all my honours, I will do:
Be but so full of gratitude as to
Repay my care with love. Why dost thou thus
Sit dumb to my discourse? it lies in us
To raise or ruin thee, and make my way
Thorough their bloods that our embraces stay.".
To charm those sullen spirits that within
The dark cells of his conscience might have been
Yet by religion hid—that gift divine,
The soul's composure, music, did refine
The lazy air, whose polish'd harmony,
Whilst dancing in redoubled echoes, by
A wanton song was answer'd, whose each part
Invites the hearing to betray the heart.
Having with all these choice flowers strew'd the way
That leads to lust, to shun the slow decay
Of his approach, her sickly passions haste
To die in action. "Come," she cries, "we waste
The precious minutes. Now thou know'st for what
Thou'rt sent for hither."

Brave Argalia sits,
With virtue cool'd..... And must my freedom then
At such a rate be purchased? rather, when
My life expires in torments, let my name
Forgotten die, than live in black-mouth'd fame,
A servant to thy lust. Go, tempt thy own
Damn'd infidels to sin, that ne'er had known
The way to virtue: not this cobweb veil
Of beauty, which thou wear'st but as a jail
To a soul pale with guilt, can cover o'er
Thy mind's deformity. . . . .

Rent from these gilded pleasures, send me to
A dungeon dark as hell, where shadows do

Her down in tears-a flood of sorrow weeps,

Of power (if penitent) to expiate

Youth's vigorous sins; but all her mourning sate Beneath a darker veil than that which shades Repentant grief. . . . .

So far the fair Janusa in this sad

Region of grief had gone, till sorrow had
That fever turn'd, upon whose flaming wings
At first love only sate, to one which brings
Death's symptoms near the heart.

...

The rose had lost
His ensigns in her cheeks, and though it cost
Pains near to death, the lily had alone
Set his pale banners up; no brightness shone
Within her eye's dim orbs, whose fading light
Being quench'd in death, had set in endless night,
Had not the wise endeavours of her maid,
The careful Manto, grief's pale scouts betray'd,
By sly deceit.

Although she cures not, yet gives present ease,
By laying opiates to the harsh disease.
A letter, which did for uncivil blame
His first denial, in the stranger's name
Disguised, she gives her; which, with eyes that did
O'erflow with joy read o'er, had soon forbid
Grief's sullen progress, whose next stage had been
O'er life's short road, the grave-death's quiet inn,
From whose dark terror, by this gleam of light,
Like trembling children by a lamp's weak light,
Freed from night's dreadful shadows, she embraced
Sleep, nature's darkness—... and upon the wings
Of airy hope, that wanton bird which sings
As soon as fledged, advanced her to survey
The dawning beauties of a long'd-for day.....
But ere this pyramid of pleasure to
Its height arrives-with's presence to undo
The golden structure-dreadful Ammurat,
From his floating mansion lately landed at
The city's port, impatient love had brought
In an untimely visit. . .