But in sic haste, that mist he has the trap, And thro' the mire full smartly than he yude1; There are few of Chaucer's tales which are equal, and certainly none of them superior to this excellent piece of satire. I have dwelt upon it the rather, because without the coarseness and licentiousness which infects the poetry of the age, it gives us a fine specimen of its strength and natural painting. The whole management of the story, its quiet comic humour, its variety and natural delineation of human character, the freshness and brilliancy of its colouring, the excellence and playfulness of its satire upon the hypocritical and dissolute lives of many of the monastic orders, and the easy and vigorous versification into which it is thrown, are entitled to the highest praise. Another beautiful poem of this author is, the 'Golden Targe,' but our limits will hardly permit us to touch upon it. Its subject is, the Power of Love; and nothing, certainly, can breathe a sweeter or truer spirit of poetry than its opening stanzas. Brycht as the sterne of day begonth to schyne, 1 past. I raiss, and by a rosere did me rest: Glading the merry foulis in their nest : Apparalit quhite and red, wyth blomes swete; Quhile all in balme did branch and levis flete; Bright as the star of day began to shine, To glad the merry birds within their nest, * * * Most angel-like the sweet birds sang their hours, Thro' blossoms white and red they gan to peep; And all in balm did leaves and branches steep. VOL. III. *Poems, vol. i. p. 11. K The poet, as is rather too usual with him, falls asleep, and sees a vision. Lull'd by the birds delightful harmony, A sail as white as hawthorn bud on spray, Swift as the falcon pouncing on her prey. The ship anchors, and a hundred beautiful nymphs leap smilingly from its deck; amongst whom he recognises love's mirthful queen, attended by Cupid, the king, with bow in hand ybent, And dreadful arrows grundin' sharp and keen. Secretly drawing near to behold this wondrous sight and creeping through the leaves, he is discovered by Venus, who commands Beauty and others of her archers who attend on her, to seize the culprit; but when they are drawing their bows to pierce him to the heart, Reason, with his golden targe or shield, throws himself between these assailants and their victim: Then Reason came with shield of gold so clear, Presence, however, throws a powder in the eyes of this noble knight; and when his defender has thus been blinded, the unhappy poet is abandoned to all the tyranny of Beauty, who wounds him nearly to death. Lord Æolus now gives a flourish on his bugle, and the whole scene, but a few 1 ground. moments before so fresh and brilliant, fades away into empty air Leaving no more but birds, and bank, and brook. This fine piece, which well deserves the high encomium bestowed on it by Warton, concludes with a spirited address to Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate, whom Dunbar compliments as the great improvers of the language and poetry of England. Oh, reverend Chaucer, rose of rhetors all, Sweetest that ever rose to give delight. This matter could illumined have full bright- As far as May's fresh morning doth midnight. Have to our ears been cause of great delight; And gilded oer our speech, that imperfyte1 Of rhetorick or lusty fresch endyte. Before the face of every cunning wight, Is none into thy garland set on hight; 1 2 shorn, deprived. imperfect. The power and variety of Dunbar's genius must be evident, from the extracts already given. It is difficult to say whether his humorous, or his moral and didactic vein, is the richest and most original. He has attempted also, and frequently with great felicity, a style of poetry which appears to have been extremely popular in those days; although it is somewhat difficult to find a name for it. It commences or concludes with some Latin quotation taken from the Psalms' or the 'Gospels'; or, sometimes only from the words of an ancient Christian prayer or mass; and upon this, as a text, the poet builds a sacred ode or religious hymn, making his concluding English lines to rhyme in rather an uncouth manner with the Latin final syllables. Thus in his lines on "The Resurrection': Done is the battle on the dragon black; Our champion, Christ, confounded hath his force. The gates of hell are broken with a crack; The sign triumphal raised is of the cross. The devils tremble with a hideous voice; The souls are purchased, and to bliss may go. Christ, with his blood, our ransom doth indorse; Surrexit Dominus de Sepulchro. * * * The victor great again is ris'n on hight; That for our quarrel to the death was wounded. And darkness clears; our faith is now refounded. It is deeply to be regretted, that of a poet *Poems, vol. i. p. 247. * |