“But I must rule and govern still,
        And always give the law,
    And have each subject at my will,
        And all to stand in awe.

    “But ’gainst my battery if I find
        Thou shun’st the prize so sore,
    As that thou set’st me up a blind
        I’ll never love thee more.

    “If in the Empire of thy heart,
        Where I should solely be,
    Another do pretend a part,
        And dares to vie with me: 

    “Or if committees thou erect,
        And goes on such a score,
    I’ll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
        and never love thee more.

    “But if thou wilt be constant then,
        And faithful to thy word,
    I’ll make thee glorious with my pen
        And famous by my sword.

    “I’ll serve thee in such noble ways
        Was never heard before,
    I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays
        And love thee more and more.”

In these few cavalier songs we can see the spirit of the times.  There is gay carelessness of death, strong courage in misfortune, passionate loyalty.  There is, too, the proud spirit of the tyrant, which is gentle and loving when obeyed, harsh and cruel if disobeyed.

There is another song by a cavalier poet which I should like to give you.  It is a love-song, too, but it does not tell of these stormy times, or ring with the noise of battle.  Rather it takes us away to a peaceful summer morning before the sun is up, when everything is still, when the dew trembles on every blade of grass, and the air is fresh and cool, and sweet with summer scents.  And in this cool freshness we hear the song of the lark: 

    “The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,
    And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
    He takes this window for the east;
    And to implore your light, he sings;
    ’Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise,
    Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.’

    “The merchant bow unto the seaman’s star,
    The ploughman from the Sun his season takes;
    But still the lover wonders what they are,
    Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 
    ‘Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn! 
    Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.’”

That was written by William Davenant, poet-laureate.  It is one our most beautiful songs, and he is remembered by it far more than by his long epic poem called Gondibert which few people now read.  But I think you will agree with me that his name is worthy of being remembered for that one song alone.

Chapter LV HERBERT—­THE PARSON POET

HAVING told you a little about the songs of the cavaliers I must now tell you something about the religious poets who were a feature of the age.  Of all our religious poets, of this time at least, George Herbert is the greatest.  He was born in 1593 near the town of Montgomery, and was the son of a noble family, but his father died when he was little more than three, leaving his mother to bring up George with his nine brothers and sisters.