CHAPTER V

THE LYRICAL POET

As a dramatic writer second to one only of his contemporaries, as a lyrical poet Marlowe was chief of his clime and time. His death song of Hero and Leander, professedly a paraphrase from the Greek of the somewhat mythical Musæus, is the truest, purest, most beautiful poem of its age, rich as it was in lyrical poetry. It is unknown at what period of Marlowe's career the work was begun, and it is only known that it was left unfinished; but that it was the product of his latest life all things seem to testify. There is a finish and a dexterity in the manipulation of the rhyme, rhythm, and language, that no tyro could have attained. The poem is a fragment, incomplete in many respects, but, for all that, is full evidence in itself that its author was an experienced ‘maker,' a man whose skill had only been acquired by long practice.

Hero and Leander was entered on the Stationers Books on September 28, 1593, but, owing to some inexplicable cause, was not published until 1598. On its first appearance the posthumously published poem was dedicated by Edward Blunt, the publisher, to

Sir Thomas Walsingham, Marlowe's trusty friend, in the following terms:

'TO THE RIGHT-Worshipful SIR THOMAS Walsingham, Knight.

'SIR, we think not ourselves discharged of the duty we owe to our friend when we have brought the breathless body to the earth: for albeit the eye there taketh his ever-farewell of that beloved object, yet the impression of the man that hath been dear unto us, living an after-life in our memory, there putteth us in mind of farther obsequies due unto the deceased; and namely of the performance of whatsoever we may judge shall make to his living credit and to the effecting of his determinations prevented by the stroke of death. By these meditations (as by an intellectual will) I suppose myself executor to the unhappily deceased author of this poem; upon whom knowing that in his lifetime you bestowed many kind favours, entertaining parts of reckoning and worth which you found in him with good countenance and liberal affection, I cannot but see so far into the will of him dead, that whatsoever issue of his brain should chance to come abroad, that the first breath it should take might be the gentle air of your liking; for, since his self had been accustomed thereunto it would prove more agreeable and thriving to his right children, than any other foster countenance whatsoever. At this time seeing that this unfinished tragedy happens under my hands to be imprinted; of a double duty, the one to yourself, the other to the deceased, I present the same to your most favourable allowance, offering my utmost self now and ever to be ready at your worship's disposing:

'EDWARD BLUNT.'

This lovely fragment of Hero and Leander has done more to create and enhance Marlowe's reputation among poets and lovers of choice poetry, and to endear him to his readers, than have all the manifold beauties of his magnificent dramas. Its sensuousness, never deteriorating into sensuality, portraying as it so vividly does the true purity of nature and

the warmth of passion proper to and inherent in
youth, leaves an unforgetable fragrance in the
memory. The
The keynote of beauty is struck at the
beginning. Tenderly, but firmly, the outlines of
Hero's supernatural loveliness are depicted :

'Some say for her, the fairest, Cupid pined,
And, looking in her face, was strooken blind';

whilst fate-forestalled Leander had

'A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye,'

and every grace that youth could have:
'The men of wealthy Sestos every year
For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
Rose-cheeked Adonis, kept a solemn feast:
Thither resorted many a wandering guest
To meet their loves: such as had none at all
Came lovers home from this great festival.'

Of course the twain were doomed to meet :

'On this feast-day-O cursed day and hour!-
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
To Venus' temple, where unhappily,

As after chanced, they did each other spy.'

To meet, to see, and so to love, was inevitable, for,

as their minstrel sings,

'It lies not in our power to love or hate,

For will in us is overruled by fate.

When two are stript long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;

The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?'

And then Leander pleaded to her in his simple, boyish way, but with the eloquence love taught him; although Hero sought, yet half-heartedly, to put him off,

'Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war:
Women are won when they begin to jar.'

Marlowe now interposes, as incidental to his story, a sweet little pastoral tale of a love adventure of Hermes of how one day the much-bewinged deity

'Spied a country maid,

Whose careless hair, instead of pearl t'adorn it,
Glistered with dew, as one that seemed to scorn it;
Her breath as fragrant as the morning rose ;

Her mind as pure, and her tongue untaught to glose:
Yet proud she was (for lofty Pride that dwells
In towered courts, is oft in shepherds' cells),
And too-too well the fair vermilion knew

And silver tincture of her cheeks that drew
The love of every swain.'

Leaving this interlude and returning to the lovers, on whose behalf the god of Love himself now intervened, and so exerted his power that

'Sad Hero, with love unacquainted,

Viewing Leander's face, fell down and fainted.
He kissed her, and breathed life into her lips;
Wherewith, as one displeased, away she trips.'

But her flight was only feigned; for, 'having a thousand tongues to lure him and but one to bid him go,' they dallied the daylight out together.

'And now Leander, fearing to be missed,

Embraced her suddenly, took leave, and kissed:

Long was he taking leave, and loath to go,

And kissed again, as lovers use to do.

Sad Hero wrung him by the hand, and wept,
Saying, "Let your vows and promises be kept":
Then standing at the door, she turned about,
As loath to see Leander going out.'

Although the lovers had plighted their troth in the cloudy night, the news was speedily bruited abroad, 'For incorporeal Fame,

Whose weight consists in nothing but her name,
Is swifter than the wind';

and every one knew what had happened.
'Therefore even as an index to a book,

So to his mind was young Leander's look.

Leander's father knew where he had been,
And for the same mildly rebuked his son,
Thinking to quench the sparkles new-begun.
But love, resisted once, grows passionate,
And nothing more than counsel lovers hate;

The more he is restrained, the worse he fares:
What is it now but mad Leander dares?'

Spurred on by his insatiate passion, the headstrong youth determines to swim the Hellespont to Hero's distant tower. After After strange adventures, cold, wet, and weary, he reached at last the haven of his hopes,

'And knocked and called: at which celestial noise
The longing heart of Hero much more joys
Than nymphs and shepherds when the timbrel rings.
Or crooked dolphin when the sailor sings.
She stayed not for her robes, but straight arose,
And, drunk with gladness, to the door she goes;
Where seeing a naked man, she screeched for fear
(Such sights as this to tender maids are rare),
And ran into the dark herself to hide

(Rich jewels in the dark are soonest spied).