return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships-he himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable son, was now stretched forth to his rescue-the hand of Milton. In this generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this period Davenant continued to write for the stage-having received the patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn-till his death. This event took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which was more worthy of Trinculo than of the authors of Absalom and Ahithophel' and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, of Ham's conduct to Noah. 'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. The line labours, and the words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the labyrinthine details. It has many fine lines, and some highly and successfully wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and Virgil are forgotten-but not till then.' FROM 'GONDIBERT'—CANTO II. THE ARGUMENT. The hunting which did yearly celebrate 1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow Of slight beginnings to important ends; Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends. 2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, A day grown black in Lombard histories, Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes. 3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, 4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort On which by battle here he earned his fame, 5 And many of these noble hunters bore Command amongst the youth at Bergamo ; Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, When in this forest they interred the foe. 6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, Was listed here, and in the story great; 7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, He blushing hid, and now no more would own. (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) Than an old wreath when newly overthrown. 8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, 9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; 10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, Who was in court the public morning glass, Where those, who would reduce nature to art, Practised by dress the conquests of the face. 11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert 12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, 13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, As loyal subjects quietly bemoan Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne. 14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, And was no less the joy of public sight. 15 If love's just power he did not early see, 16 But such it is; and though we may be thought To have in childhood life, ere love we know, Yet life is useless till by reason taught, And love and reason up together grow. 17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, 18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; Since reason, which is love, and his best known And current image, age has worn away. 19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, May, if I old philosophers control, Confirm the new by some new poet's light, Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul. 20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, And he alike from either's wounds had bled. 21 Public his valour was, but not his love, One filled the world, the other he contained; Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained. 22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, Many to this recorded hunting came; Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, 23 Now like a giant lover rose the sun From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, As if last night she had not quenched his heat. 24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, 25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, 26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate. |