 | The Poetical Works of John Scott |  |
ELEGY;
WRITTEN AT AMWELL IN HERTFORDSHIRE, MDCCLXVIII.
I read enquiry in thy anxious eye,
Why my pale cheek the frequent tear distains,
Why from my bosom bursts the frequent sigh.
My mournful tale perchance escap'd thy ear:
Fresh grief to me the repetition yields;
Thy kind attention gives thee right to hear!
Thy Theron early from the world retir'd,
Left to the busy throng each boasted aim,
Nor aught, save peace in solitude, desir'd.
A few choice friends there oft amus'd the day;
There his lov'd Parents' slow-declining age,
Life's calm unvary'd ev'ning, wore away.
He chose an humble Virgin for his own;
A form with Nature's fairest gifts endow'd,
And pure as vernal blossoms newly blown:
By love engag'd, with gratitude imprest,
Free without folly, prudent without art,
With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue blest.
Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day!
One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore;
The fatal gift forbad the giver's stay.
In one sad spot where kindred ashes lie,
O'er wife, and child, and parents, clos'd the ground;
The final home of Man ordain'd to die!
Nor in my view the wretched hours retain,
That saw Disease on her dear life increase,
And Med'cine's lenient arts essay'd in vain.
Of Love's vain pray'rs to stay her fleeting breath!
Suspense that restless watch'd the flight of Time,
And helpless dumb Despair awaiting Death!
How o'er the couch of pain declin'd my head;
And took from dying lips the long farewel,
The last, last parting, ere her spirit fled.
‘In each calm moment all things else resign'd,
‘Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave
‘The lov'd companion she must leave behind.
Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd:
And soon Suspense gave place to dumb Despair,
And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd—’
No hope, no wish, beneath the sun remain'd;
Earth, air, and skies one dismal waste I found,
One pale, dead, dreary blank, with horror stain'd.
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime!
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!
Where is that form, that mind, my soul admir'd;
That form, with every pleasing charm adorn'd;
That mind, with every gentle thought inspir'd?
The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear:
Yet the lov'd features Mem'ry's eyes explore;
Yet the lov'd accents fall on Mem'ry's ear.
That sense of loss ineffable renews;
While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews.
The mould'ring veil her spirit left below,
Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains,
The soul-dissolving melody of woe.
Nor she alone the tear of Song obtains;
The Muse of Blagdon , o'er Constantia's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.
His heart, like mine, in its true partner blest;
Both from one cause the same distress sustain'd,
The same sad hours beheld us both distrest.
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy—
A sunny island in a stormy main,
A spot of azure in a cloudy sky!
Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee,
Lays for himself on earth his little plan,
Dreads not, or distant views mortality;
To rouse us ling'ring on earth's flowery plain,
To Virtue's path our wand'rings to controul,
Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!
AMWELL:
A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.
When pleas'd, their pleasure to extend to those
Of kindred taste; and thence th' inchanting arts
Of Picture and of Song, the semblance fair
Of Nature's forms produce. This fond desire
Of Amwell; which, so oft in early youth,
While novelty enhanc'd their native charms,
Gave rapture to my soul; and often, still,
On life's calm moments shed serener joy.
Of ancient Thames, thro' Richmond's shady groves,
And Sheen's fair vallies, once thy Thomson led ;
And once o'er green Carmarthen's woody dales,
And sunny landscapes of Campania's plain,
Thy other favour'd bard ; thou, who so late,
In bowers by Clent's wild peaks , to Shenstone's ear
Didst bring sweet strains of rural melody,
(Alas no longer heard!)—vouchsafe thine aid:
What best may please, assist me to select,
With art dispose, with energy describe,
And its full image on the mind impress.
Consum'd with me the social hour, while I
Your walk conducted o'er their loveliest spots,
And on their fairest objects fix'd your sight;
Accept this verse, which may to memory call
That social hour, and sweetly varied walk!
Mine, by the stronger union of the heart;
In whom the loss of parents and of friends,
And Her, the first fair partner of my joys,
All recompens'd I find; whose presence chears
The soft domestic scene; Maria, come!
The Country calls us forth; blithe Summer's hand
Illumines earth and air; Maria, come!
By winding pathways thro' the waving corn,
We reach the airy point that prospect yields,
Not vast and awful, but confin'd and fair;
Not the black mountain and the foamy main;
Not the throng'd city and the busy port;
But pleasant interchange of soft ascent,
And level plain, and growth of shady woods,
And twining course of rivers clear, and sight
Of rural towns and rural cots, whose roofs
Rise scattering round, and animate the whole.
In verdant meads, by Lee's cerulean stream,
Hertford's grey towers ascend; the rude remains
Of envious Time, and violence of War.
For War there once, so tells th' historic page,
Led Desolation's steps: the hardy Dane,
By Avarice lur'd, o'er Ocean's stormy wave,
To ravage Albion's plains, his favourite seat,
There fix'd awhile; and there his castles rear'd
Among the trees; and there, beneath yon ridge
Of piny rocks, his conquering navy moor'd,
With idle sails furl'd on the yard, and oars
Recumbent on the flood, and streamers gay
Triumphant fluttering on the passing winds.
In fear, the shepherd on the lonely heath
Tended his scanty flock; the ploughman turn'd,
In fear, his hasty furrow: oft the din
Of hostile arms alarm'd the ear, and flames
Of plunder'd towns thro' night's thick gloom from far
Gleam'd dismal on the sight: till Alfred came,
Till Alfred, father of his people, came,
And left a-ground the Danian fleet, and forc'd
The foe to speedy flight . Then Freedom's voice
Reviv'd the drooping swain; then Plenty's hand
Recloth'd the desart fields, and Peace and Love
Sat smiling by; as now they smiling sit,
Obvious to Fancy's eye, upon the side
Of yon bright sunny theatre of hills,
Where Bengeo's villas rise, and Ware-park's lawns
Spread their green surface, interpers'd with groves
Of broad umbrageous oak, and spiry pine,
Tall elm, and linden pale, and blossom'd thorn,
Of Indian islands. On the ample brow,
Where that white temple rears its pillar'd front
Half hid with glossy foliage, many a chief
Renown'd for martial deeds, and many a bard
Renown'd for song, have pass'd the rural hour.
The gentle Fanshaw there, from “noise of camps,
“From courts disease retir'd ,” delighted view'd
The gaudy garden fam'd in Wotton's page ;
Sat musing, and from smooth Italian strains
The soft Guarini's amorous lore transfus'd
Into rude British verse. The warrior's arm
Now rests from toil; the poet's tuneful tongue
In silence lies; frail Man his lov'd domains
Soon quits for ever! they themselves, by course
Of Nature often, or caprice of Art,
Experience change: even here, 'tis said of old
Steep rocky cliffs rose where yon gentle slopes
Mix with the vale; and fluctuating waves
Spread wide, where that rich vale with golden flowers
Shines; and where yonder winding chrystal rill
Slides thro' its smooth shorn margin, to the brink
Of Chadwell's azure pool. From Chadwell's pool
To London's plains, the Cambrian artist brought
His ample aqueduct ; suppos'd a work
How, from Prenesto's heights and Anio's banks,
By Tivoli, to Rome's imperial walls,
On marble arches came the limpid store,
And out of jasper rocks in bright cascades
With never-ceasing murmur gush'd; or how,
To Lusitanian Ulysippo's towers ,
The silver current o'er Alcant'ra's vale
Roll'd high in air, as ancient poets feign'd
Eridanus to roll thro' Heaven: to these
Not sordid lucre, but the honest wish
Of future fame, or care for public weal,
Existence gave; and unconfin'd, as dew
Falls from the hand of Evening on the fields,
They flow'd for all. Our mercenary stream,
No grandeur boasting, here obscurely glides
O'er grassy lawns or under willow shades.
As, thro' the human form, arterial tubes
The circulating sanguine fluid extend;
So, pipes innumerable to peopled streets
Transmit the purchas'd wave. Old Lee, meanwhile,
Beneath his mossy grot o'erhung with boughs
Of poplar quivering in the breeze, surveys
With eye indignant his diminish'd tide
That laves yon ancient priory's wall , and shows
In its clear mirrour Ware's inverted roofs.
Whilom the Gothic tournament's proud pomp
Brought Albion's valiant youth and blooming maids:
Pleas'd with ideas of the past, the Muse
In gilded barges on the glassy stream
Circled the reedy isles, the sportive dance
Along the smooth lawn led, or in the groves
Wander'd conversing, or reclin'd at ease
To harmony of lutes and voices sweet
Resign'd the enchanted ear; till sudden heard
The silver trumpet's animating sound
Summon'd the champions forth; on stately steeds,
In splendid armour clad, the ponderous lance
With strenuous hand sustaining, forth they came.
Or azure awnings stretch'd from tree to tree,
Mix'd with thick foliage, form'd a mimic sky
Of grateful shade (as oft in Agra's streets
The silken canopy from side to side
Extends to break the sun's impetuous ray,
While monarchs pass beneath); there sat the Fair,
A glittering train on costly carpets rang'd,
Of various feature and of various grace!
The pensive languish, and the sprightly air,
The engaging smile, and all the nameless charms
Which transient hope, or fear, or grief, or joy,
Wak'd in th' expressive eye, th' enamour'd heart
Of each young hero rous'd to daring deeds.
Nor this aught strange, that those whom love inspir'd
Prov'd ev'ry means the lovely sex to please:
This strange, indeed, how custom thus could teach
The tender breast complacence in the sight
Of barb'rous sport, where friend from hand of friend
The fatal wound full oft receiv'd, and fell
A victim to false glory; as that day
Fell gallant Pembroke, while his pompous show
Ended in silent gloom . One pitying tear
Pursues its pleasing course o'er neighb'ring hills,
Where frequent hedge-rows intersect rich fields
Of many a different form and different hue,
Bright with ripe corn, or green with grass, or dark
With clover's purple bloom; o'er Widbury's mount
With that fair crescent crown'd of lofty elms,
Its own peculiar boast; and o'er the woods
That round immure the deep sequester'd dale
Of Langley , down whose flow'r-embroider'd meads
Elysian scene! as from the living world
Secluded quite; for of that world, to him
Whose wanderings trace thy winding length, appears
No mark, save one white solitary spire
At distance rising thro' the tufted trees—
Elysian scene! recluse as that, so fam'd
For solitude, by Warwick's ancient walls,
Where under umbrage of the mossy cliff
Victorious Guy, so legends say, reclin'd
His hoary head beside the silver stream,
In meditation rapt——Elysian scene!
At evening often, while the setting sun
On the green summit of thy eastern groves
Pour'd full his yellow radiance; while the voice
Of Zephyr whispering midst the rustling leaves,
The sound of water murmuring thro' the sedge,
The turtle's plaintive call, and music soft
Of distant bells, whose ever varying notes
The soul to sweet solemnity of thought;
Beneath thy branchy bowers of thickest gloom,
Much on the imperfect state of Man I have mus'd:
How Pain o'er half his hours her iron reign
Ruthless extends; how Pleasure from the path
Of Innocence allures his steps; how Hope
Directs his eye to distant Joy, that flies
His fond pursuit; how Fear his shuddering heart
Alarms with fancy'd ill; how Doubt and Care
Perplex his thought; how soon the tender rose
Of Beauty fades, the sturdy oak of Strength
Declines to earth, and over all our pride
Stern Time triumphant stands. From general fate
To private woes then oft has Memory pass'd,
And mourn'd the loss of many a friend belov'd;
Of thee, De Horne, kind, generous, wise, and good!
And thee, my Turner, who in vacant youth,
Here oft in converse free, or studious search
From Ware's green bowers, to Devon's myrtle vales,
Remov'd a while, with prospect opening fair
Of useful life and honour in his view;
As falls the vernal bloom before the breath
Of blasting Eurus, immature he fell!
The tidings reach'd my ear, and in my breast,
Aching with recent wounds , new anguish wak'd.
That grief in soft forgetfulness to lose,
I have left the gloom for gayer scenes, and sought
Thro' winding paths of venerable shade,
The airy brow where that tall spreading beech
O'er-tops surrounding groves, up rocky steeps,
Tree over tree dispos'd; or stretching far
Their shadowy coverts down th' indented side
Of fair corn-fields; or pierc'd with sunny glades,
That yield the casual glimpse of flowery meads
And shining silver rills; on these the eye
Survey'd yon vale of Lee, in verdant length
Of level lawn spread out to Kent's blue hills,
And the proud range of glitt'ring spires that rise
In misty air on Thames's crowded shores.
Of these sweet pastoral landscapes! fair, perhaps,
As those renown'd of old, from Tabor's height,
Or Carmel seen; or those, the pride of Greece,
Tempè or Arcady; or those that grac'd
The banks of clear Elorus, or the skirts
Of thymy Hybla, where Sicilia's isle
Smiles on the azure main; there once was heard
The Muse's lofty lay.—How beautiful,
How various is yon view! delicious hills
Bounding smooth vales, smooth vales by winding streams
Divided, that here glide thro' grassy banks
Of aspen tall, or ancient elm, whose boughs
O'erhang grey castles, and romantic farms,
And humble cots of happy shepherd swains.
Delightful habitations! with the song
Of birds melodious charm'd, and bleat of flocks
From upland pastures heard, and low of kine
Grazing the rushy mead, and mingled sounds
Of falling waters and of whisp'ring winds—
Delightful habitations! o'er the land
Dispers'd around, from Waltham's osier'd isles
To where bleak Nasing's lonely tower o'erlooks
Her verdant fields; from Raydon's pleasant groves
And Hunsdon's bowers on Stort's irriguous marge,
By Rhye's old walls, to Hodsdon's airy street;
From Haly's woodland to the flow'ry meads
Of willow-shaded Stansted, and the slope
Of Amwell's Mount, that crown'd with yellow corn
There from the green flat, softly swelling, shows
Just rais'd above the horizon's azure bound.
The land of pomp and beauty, still his feet
On his own Albion joys to fix again;
So my pleas'd eye, which o'er the prospect wide
Has wander'd round, and various objects mark'd,
On Amwell rests at last, its favourite scene!
How picturesque the view! where up the side
Of that steep bank, her roofs of russet thatch
Rise mix'd with trees, above whose swelling tops
Ascends the tall church tow'r, and loftier still
The hill's extended ridge. How picturesque!
Where slow beneath that bank the silver stream
Glides by the flowery isle, and willow groves
Wave on its northern verge, with trembling tufts
Of osier intermix'd. How picturesque
The slender group of airy elm, the clump
Entwin'd; the walnut's gloomy breadth of boughs,
The orchard's ancient fence of rugged pales,
The haystack's dusky cone, the moss-grown shed,
The clay-built barn; the elder-shaded cot,
Whose white-wash'd gable prominent thro' green
Of waving branches shows, perchance inscrib'd
With some past owner's name, or rudely grac'd
With rustic dial, that scarcely serves to mark
Time's ceaseless flight; the wall with mantling vines
O'erspread, the porch with climbing woodbine wreath'd,
And under sheltering eves the sunny bench
Where brown hives range, whose busy tenants fill,
With drowsy hum, the little garden gay,
Whence blooming beans, and spicy herbs, and flowers,
Exhale around a rich perfume! Here rests
The empty wain; there idle lies the plough:
By Summer's hand unharness'd, here the steed,
Here bleats the nursling lamb, the heifer there
Waits at the yard-gate lowing. By the road,
Where the neat ale-house stands (so once stood thine,
Deserted Auburn! in immortal song
Consign'd to Fame ), the cottage sire recounts
The praise he earn'd, when cross the field he drew
The straightest furrow, or neatest built the rick,
Or led the reaper band in sultry noons
With unabating strength, or won the prize
At many a crowded wake. Beside her door,
The cottage matron whirls her circling wheel,
And jocund chants her lay. The cottage maid
Feeds from her loaded lap her mingled train
Of clamorous hungry fowls; or o'er the style
Leaning with downcast look, the artless tale
Of evening courtship hears. The sportive troop
Mix in rude gambols, or the bounding ball
Circle from hand to hand, or rustic notes
Wake on their pipes of jointed reed: while near
The careful shepherd's frequent-falling strokes
Fix on the fallow lea his hurdled fold.
Of interesting act, to swell the page
Of history or song; yet much the soul
Its sweet simplicity delights, and oft
From noise of busy towns, to fields and groves,
The Muse's sons have fled to find repose.
Fam'd Walton , erst, the ingenious fisher swain,
Oft our fair haunts explor'd; upon Lee's shore,
His sport suspending to admire their charms.
He, who in verse his Country's story told ,
Where his fair Argentile, from crowded courts
For pride self-banish'd, in sequester'd shades
Sojourn'd disguis'd, and met the slighted youth
Who long had sought her love—the gentle bard
Sleeps here, by Fame forgotten; (fickle Fame
Too oft forgets her favourites!) By his side
Sleeps gentle Hassal , who with tenderest care
Their hands oft join'd; oft heard, and oft reliev'd
Their little wants; oft heard and oft compos'd,
Sole arbiter, their little broils; oft urg'd
Dropt on their graves the tear, to early worth
Or ancient friendship due. In dangerous days,
When Death's fell Fury, pale-eyed Pestilence,
Glar'd horror round, his duty he discharg'd
Unterrified, unhurt; and here, at length,
Clos'd his calm inoffensive useful life
In venerable age: her life with him
His faithful consort clos'd; on earth's cold breast
Both sunk to rest together.—On the turf,
Whence Time's rude grasp has torn their rustic tombs,
I strew fresh flowers, and make a moment's pause
Of solemn thought; then seek th' adjacent spot,
From which, thro' these broad lindens' verdant arch,
The steeple's Gothic wall and window dim
In perspective appear; then homeward turn
By where the Muse, enamour'd of our shades,
Deigns still her favouring presence; where my friend,
To rural calm and letter'd ease retires.
Oft looking back, and lingering in her view,
So now reluctant this retreat I leave,
Look after look indulging; on the right,
Up to yon airy battlement's broad top
Half veil'd with trees, that, from th' acclivious steep,
Jut like the pendent gardens, fam'd of old,
Beside Euphrates' bank; then, on the left,
Down to those shaded cots, and bright expanse
Of water softly sliding by: once, where
That bright expanse of water softly slides,
O'erhung with shrubs that fring'd the chalky rock,
A little fount pour'd forth its gurgling rill,
In flinty channel trickling o'er the green,
From Emma nam'd; perhaps some sainted maid,
Fond Superstition many a pleasant grove,
And limpid spring, was wont to consecrate.
Of Emma's story nought Tradition speaks;
Conjecture, who, behind Oblivion's veil,
Along the doubtful past delights to stray,
Boasts now, indeed, that from her well the place
Receiv'd its appellation .—Thou, sweet Vill,
Farewell! and ye, sweet fields, where Plenty's horn
Pours liberal boons, and Health propitious deigns
Her chearing smile! you not the parching air
Of arid sands, you not the vapours chill
Of humid fens, annoy; Favonius' wing,
From off your thyme-banks and your trefoil meads,
Your swains industrious issue to their toil,
Till your rich glebe, or in your granaries store
Its generous produce: annual ye resound
The ploughman's song, as he thro' reeking soil
Guides slow his shining share; ye annual hear
The shouts of harvest, and the prattling train
Of chearful gleaners:—and th' alternate strokes
Of loud flails echoing from your loaded barns,
The pallid Morn in dark November wake.
But, happy as ye are, in marks of wealth
And population; not for these, or aught
Beside, wish I, in hyperbolic strains
Of vain applause, to elevate your fame
Above all other scenes; for scenes as fair
Have charm'd my sight, but transient was the view:
You, thro' all seasons, in each varied hour
For observation happiest, oft my steps
Have travers'd o'er; oft Fancy's eye has seen
To wake fresh flowers at morn; and Summer spread
His listless limbs, at noon-tide, on the marge
Of smooth translucent pools, where willows green
Gave shade, and breezes from the wild mint's bloom
Brought odour exquisite; oft Fancy's ear,
Deep in the gloom of evening woods, has heard
The last sad sigh of Autumn, when his throne
To Winter he resign'd; oft Fancy's thought,
In extasy, where from the golden east,
Or dazzling south, or crimson west, the Sun
A different lustre o'er the landscape threw,
Some Paradise has form'd, the blissful seat
Of Innocence and Beauty! while I wish'd
The skill of Claude, or Rubens, or of Him
Whom now on Lavant's banks, in groves that breathe
Enthusiasm sublime, the Sister Nymphs
Might permanence have lent!—Attachment strong
Springs from delight bestow'd; to me delight
Long ye have given, and I have given you praise!
In the beginning of the Heptarchy, the town of Hertford was accounted one of the principal cities of the East Saxons, where the kings of that province often kept their courts, and a parliamentary council, or national synod, was held, Sept. 24th, 673. Chauncy's Hertfordshire, p. 237.
Towards the latter end of the year 879, the Danes advanced to the borders of Mercia, and erected two forts at Hertford on the Lee, for the security of their ships, which they had brought up that river. Here they were attacked by the Londoners, who were repulsed. But Alfred advancing with his army, and viewing the nature of their situation, turned the course of the stream, so that their vessels were left on dry ground; a circumstance which terrified them to such a degree, that they abandoned their forts, and, flying towards the Severn, were pursued by Alfred as far as Quatbridge. Smollet's Hist. of England, 8vo Edition, vol. i. p. 182.
Sir Richard Fanshaw, translator of Guarini's Pastor Fido, the Lusiad of Camoens, &c. He was son of Sir Henry Fanshaw of Ware-Park, and is said to have resided much there. He was ambassador to Portugal, and afterwards to Spain, and died at Madrid in 1666. His body was brought to England and interred in Ware church, where his monument is still existing. In Cibber's Lives of the Poets, it is erroneously asserted that he was buried in All-Saints church, Hertford.
See Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, where the author makes a particular mention of the garden of Sir Henry Fanshaw at Warepark, “as a delicate and diligent curiosity,” remarkable for the nice arrangement of its flowers.
The New River brought from Chadwell, a spring in the meadows between Hertford and Ware, by Sir Hugh Middleton, a native of Wales.
A considerable part of the New River water is derived from the Lee, to the disadvantage of the navigation on that stream.
“In the 25th of Henry III. on the 27th of June, Gilbert Marshall, Earl of Pembroke, a potent Peer of the Realm, proclaimed here [at Ware] a disport of running on horseback with lances, which was then called a tournament.”
Chauncy's Hist. of Hertfordshire.“At this tournament, the said Gilbert was slain by a fall from his horse; Robert de Say, one of his knights, was killed, and several others wounded.”
Smollet's Hist. of England.This delightful retreat, commonly called Langley-bottom, is situated about half a mile from Ware, and the same distance from Amwell. The scene is adapted to contemplation, and possesses such capabilities of improvement, that the genius of a Shenstone might easily convert it to a second Leasowes. The transition from this solitude to Widbury-Hill, is made in a walk of a few minutes, and the prospect from that hill, in a fine evening, is beautiful beyond description.
Isaac Walton, author of The Complete Angler, an ingenious biographer, and no despicable poet. The scene of his Anglers' Dialogues, is the Vale of Lee, between Tottenham and Ware; it seems to have been a place he much frequented: he particularly mentions Amwell-hill.
William Warner, author of Albion's England, an Historical Poem; an episode of which, intitled Argentile and Curan, has been frequently reprinted, and is much admired by the lovers of old English Poetry. The ingenious Dr. Percy, who has inserted this piece in his Collection, observes that, “though Warner's name is so seldom mentioned, his contemporaries ranked him on a level with Spenser, and called them the Homer and Virgil of their age;” that “Warner was said to have been a Warwickshire man, and to have been educated at Magdalen Hall; that, in the latter part of his life, he was retained in the service of Henry Cary, Lord Hunsdon, to whom he dedicates his poem; but that more of his history is not known.” Mrs. Cooper, in her Muses' Library, after highly applauding his poetry, adds, “What were the circumstances and accidents of his life, we have hardly light enough to conjecture; any more than, by his dedication, it appears he was in the service of the Lord Hunsdon, and acknowledges very gratefully both father and son for his patrons and benefactors.”—By the following extract from the Parish Register of Amwell, it may be reasonably concluded, that Warner resided for some time at that village; and, as his profession of an attorney is particularly mentioned, it is pretty evident, that, whatever dependence he might have on Lord Hunsdon, it could not be in the capacity of a menial servant. Though Warner's merit, as a poet, may have been too highly rated, it was really not inconsiderable; his Argentile and Curan has many beauties; but it has also the faults common to the compositions of his age, especially a most disgusting indelicacy of sentiment and expression.
“Ma. William Warner, a man of good yeares and honest reputation, by his profession an Atturney at the Common Please, Author of Albion's England; dying soddenly in the night in his bedde, without any former complaynt or sicknesse, on Thursday night beeing the 9th of March, was buried the Saturday following, and lieth in the church at the upper end, under the stone of Gwalter Fader.”
Parish Register of Amwell, 1608-9.Thomas Hassal, vicar of Amwell; he kept the above-mentioned Parish Register with uncommon care and precision, enriching it with many entertaining anecdotes of the parties registered. He performed his duty in the most hazardous circumstances, it appearing that the plague twice raged in the village during his residence there; in 1603 when 26 persons, and in 1625 when 22 persons died of it, and were buried in his church-yard. The character here given of him must be allowed, strictly speaking, to be imaginary; but his composition, in the said register, appeared to me to breathe such a spirit of piety, simplicity, and benevolence, that I almost think myself authorised to assert that it was his real one. He himself is registered by his son Edmund Hassal, as follows:
“Thomas Hassal, Vicar of this parish, where he had continued resident 57 years 7 months and 16 days, in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles, departed this life September 24th, Thursday, and was buried September 26th, Saturday. His body was laid in the chancel of this church, under the priests or marble stone. Ætatis 84. Non erat ante, nec erit post te similis.
Edmund Hassal.” Register of Amwell, 1657.Elizabeth Hassal, wife of the said Thomas Hassal, died about the same time, aged 78 years 8 months, married 46 years and 4 months.
In Doomsday-book, this village of Amwell is written Emmevelle, perhaps originally Emma's well. When the New River was opened, there was a spring here which was taken into that aqueduct. Chadwell, the other source of that river, evidently received its denomination from the tutelar Saint, St. Chad, who seems to have given name to springs and wells in different parts of England.
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