CHAPTER X.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT AND DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
Sir John Beaumont, born in 1582, elder brother to the dramatist who wrote along with Fletcher, has left amongst his poems a few fine religious ones.

From them I choose the following: OF THE EPIPHANY.
Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run Before the sages, to the rising sun, Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud: Ye, heavenly bodies, glory to be bright, And are esteemed as ye are rich in light; But here on earth is taught a different way, Since under this low roof the highest lay.
Jerusalem erects her stately towers, Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers; Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark: Let Herod's palace still continue dark; Each school and synagogue thy force repels, There Pride, enthroned in misty errors, dwells; The temple, where the priests maintain their choir, Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire, While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes: A joyful gate of every chink it makes.
Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair, No king exalted in a stately chair, Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled, But straw and hay enwrap a speechless child; Yet Sabae's lords before this babe unfold Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and gold.
The crib becomes an altar: therefore dies No ox nor sheep; for in their fodder lies The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for his bed, Destroys those rites in which their blood was shed: The quintessence of earth he takes and[87] fees, And precious gums distilled from weeping trees; Rich metals and sweet odours now declare The glorious blessings which his laws prepare, To clear us from the base and loathsome flood Of sense, and make us fit for angels' food, Who lift to God for us the holy smoke Of fervent prayers with which we him invoke, And try our actions in that searching fire, By which the seraphims our lips inspire: No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect, We shall exhale our vapours up direct: No storms shall cross, nor glittering lights deface Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place.
The creatures, no longer offered on his altar, standing around the Prince of Life, to whom they have given a bed, is a lovely idea.

The end is hardly worthy of the rest, though there is fine thought involved in it.
The following contains an utterance of personal experience, the truth of which will be recognized by all to whom heavenly aspiration and needful disappointment are not unknown.
IN DESOLATION.
O thou who sweetly bend'st my stubborn will, Who send'st thy stripes to teach and not to kill! Thy cheerful face from me no longer hide; Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride; I sink to hell, if I be lower thrown: I see what man is, being left alone.
My substance, which from nothing did begin, Is worse than nothing by the weight of sin: I see myself in such a wretched state As neither thoughts conceive, nor words relate.
How great a distance parts us! for in thee Is endless good, and boundless ill in me.
All creatures prove me abject, but how low Thou only know'st, and teachest me to know.
To paint this baseness, nature is too base; This darkness yields not but to beams of grace.
Where shall I then this piercing splendour find?
Or found, how shall it guide me, being blind?
Grace is a taste of bliss, a glorious gift, Which can the soul to heavenly comforts lift: It will not shine to me, whose mind is drowned In sorrows, and with worldly troubles bound; It will not deign within that house to dwell, Where dryness reigns, and proud distractions swell.
Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome days Of my first fervour, when few winds did raise The waves, and ere they could full strength obtain, Some whispering gale straight charmed them down again; When all seemed calm, and yet the Virgin's child On my devotions in his manger smiled; While then I simply walked, nor heed could take Of complacence, that sly, deceitful snake; When yet I had not dangerously refused So many calls to virtue, nor abused The spring of life, which I so oft enjoyed, Nor made so many good intentions void, Deserving thus that grace should quite depart, And dreadful hardness should possess my heart: Yet in that state this only good I found, That fewer spots did then my conscience wound; Though who can censure whether, in those times, _judg_ The want of feeling seemed the want of crimes?
If solid virtues dwell not but in pain, I will not wish that golden age again Because it flowed with sensible delights Of heavenly things: God hath created nights As well as days, to deck the varied globe; Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe Of desolation, as in white attire, Which better fits the bright celestial choir.
Some in foul seasons perish through despair, But more through boldness when the days are fair.
This then must be the medicine for my woes-- To yield to what my Saviour shall dispose; To glory in my baseness; to rejoice In mine afflictions; to obey his voice, As well when threatenings my defects reprove, As when I cherished am with words of love; To say to him, in every time and place, "Withdraw thy comforts, so thou leave thy grace." Surely this is as genuine an utterance, whatever its merits as a poem--and those I judge not small--as ever flowed from Christian heart! Chiefly for the sake of its beauty, I give the last passage of a poem written upon occasion of the feasts of the Annunciation and the Resurrection falling on the same day.
Let faithful souls this double feast attend In two processions.

Let the first descend The temple's stairs, and with a downcast eye Upon the lowest pavement prostrate lie: In creeping violets, white lilies, shine Their humble thoughts and every pure design.
The other troop shall climb, with sacred heat, The rich degrees of Solomon's bright seat: _steps_ In glowing roses fervent zeal they bear, And in the azure flower-de-lis appear Celestial contemplations, which aspire Above the sky, up to the immortal choir.
William Drummond of Hawthornden, a Scotchman, born in 1585, may almost be looked upon as the harbinger of a fresh outburst of word-music.

No doubt all the great poets have now and then broken forth in lyrical jubilation.
Ponderous Ben Jonson himself, when he takes to song, will sing in the joy of the very sound; but great men have always so much graver work to do, that they comparatively seldom indulge in this kind of melody.