Nor less, high-stationed on the grey grave heights,
High-thoughted seers with heaven’s heart-kindling lights
  Hold converse:  and the herd of meaner things
Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft
When wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughed
  Darkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings.

IV

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

An hour ere sudden sunset fired the west,
  Arose two stars upon the pale deep east. 
  The hall of heaven was clear for night’s high feast,
Yet was not yet day’s fiery heart at rest. 
Love leapt up from his mother’s burning breast
  To see those warm twin lights, as day decreased,
  Wax wider, till when all the sun had ceased
As suns they shone from evening’s kindled crest. 
Across them and between, a quickening fire,
Flamed Venus, laughing with appeased desire. 
  Their dawn, scarce lovelier for the gleam of tears,
Filled half the hollow shell ’twixt heaven and earth
With sound like moonlight, mingling moan and mirth,
  Which rings and glitters down the darkling years.

V

PHILIP MASSINGER

Clouds here and there arisen an hour past noon
  Chequered our English heaven with lengthening bars
  And shadow and sound of wheel-winged thunder-cars
Assembling strength to put forth tempest soon,
When the clear still warm concord of thy tune
  Rose under skies unscared by reddening Mars
  Yet, like a sound of silver speech of stars,
With full mild flame as of the mellowing moon. 
Grave and great-hearted Massinger, thy face
High melancholy lights with loftier grace
  Than gilds the brows of revel:  sad and wise,
The spirit of thought that moved thy deeper song,
Sorrow serene in soft calm scorn of wrong,
  Speaks patience yet from thy majestic eyes.

VI

JOHN FORD

Hew hard the marble from the mountain’s heart
  Where hardest night holds fast in iron gloom
  Gems brighter than an April dawn in bloom,
That his Memnonian likeness thence may start
Revealed, whose hand with high funereal art
  Carved night, and chiselled shadow:  be the tomb
  That speaks him famous graven with signs of doom
Intrenched inevitably in lines athwart,
As on some thunder-blasted Titan’s brow
  His record of rebellion.  Not the day
    Shall strike forth music from so stern a chord,
Touching this marble:  darkness, none knows how,
  And stars impenetrable of midnight, may. 
    So looms the likeness of thy soul, John Ford.

VII

JOHN WEBSTER