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daughter of the Earl of Somerset； and a princess of the blood royal of
England； of whom he became enamored in the course of his captivity。
What gives it a peculiar value； is that it may be considered a
transcript of the royal bard's true feelings； and the story of his
real loves and fortunes。 It is not often that sovereigns write poetry；
or that poets deal in fact。 It is gratifying to the pride of a
common man； to find a monarch thus suing； as it were； for admission
into his closet； and seeking to win his favor by administering to
his pleasures。 It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual
competition； which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity；
brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow…men； and
obliges him to depend on his own native powers for distinction。 It
is curious； too； to get at the history of a monarch's heart； and to
find the simple affections of human nature throbbing under the ermine。
But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king： he was
schooled in adversity； and reared in the company of his own
thoughts。 Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts； or to
meditate their minds into poetry； and had James been brought up amidst
the adulation and gayety of a court； we should never； in all
probability； have had such a poem as the Quair。
I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which
breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation； or which
are connected with the apartment in the tower。 They have thus a
personal and local charm； and are given with such circumstantial
truth； as to make the reader present with the captive in his prison；
and the companion of his meditations。
Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit； and
of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the poem。 It
was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night； the stars； he says；
were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven： and 〃Cynthia
rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius。〃 He lay in bed wakeful and
restless； and took a book to beguile the tedious hours。 The book he
chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy； a work popular among
the writers of that day； and which had been translated by his great
prototype Chaucer。 From the high eulogium in which he indulges； it
is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison： and
indeed it is an admirable text…book for meditation under adversity。 It
is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit； purified by sorrow and
suffering； bequeathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of
sweet morality； and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning； by
which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life。 It
is a talisman； which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom； or；
like the good King James； lay upon his nightly pillow。
After closing the volume； he turns its contents over in his mind；
and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune；
the vicissitudes of his own life； and the evils that had overtaken him
even in his tender youth。 Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to
matins； but its sound； chiming in with his melancholy fancies； seems
to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story。 In the spirit of
poetic errantry he determines to comply with this intimation： he
therefore takes pen in hand； makes with it a sign of the cross to
implore a benediction； and sallies forth into the fairy land of
poetry。 There is something extremely fanciful in all this； and it is
interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the
simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are
sometimes awakened； and literary enterprises suggested to the mind。
In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar
hardness of his fate； thus doomed to lonely and inactive life； and
shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world； in which the
meanest animal indulges unrestrained。 There is a sweetness； however；
in his very complaints； they are the lamentations of an amiable and
social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and
generous propensities； there is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated；
they flow with a natural and touching pathos； and are perhaps rendered
more touching by their simple brevity。 They contrast finely with those
elaborate and iterated repinings； which we sometimes meet with in
poetry；… the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of
their own creating； and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending
world。 James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility； but
having mentioned them passes on； as if his manly mind disdained to
brood over unavoidable calamities。 When such a spirit breaks forth
into complaint； however brief； we are aware how great must be the
suffering that extorts the murmur。 We sympathize with James； a
romantic； active； and accomplished prince； cut off in the lustihood of
youth from all the enterprise； the noble uses； and vigorous delights
of life； as we do with Milton； alive to all the beauties of nature and
glories of art； when he breathes forth brief； but deep…toned
lamentations over his perpetual blindness。
Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice； we might
almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection were
meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story； and to
contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness； that
exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song； and foliage and flower；
and all the revel of the year； with which he ushers in the lady of his
heart。 It is this scene； in particular； which throws all the magic
of romance about the old Castle Keep。 He had risen； he says； at
daybreak； according to custom； to escape from the dreary meditations
of a sleepless pillow。 〃Bewailing in his chamber thus alone；〃
despairing of all joy and remedy； 〃for； tired of thought and
wobegone；〃 he had wandered to the window； to indulge the captive's
miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is
excluded。 The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the
foot of the tower。 It was a quiet； sheltered spot； adorned with arbors
and green alleys； and protected from the passing gaze by trees and
hawthorn hedges。
Now was there made； fast by the tower's wall；
A garden faire； and in the corners set
An arbour green with wandis long and small
Railed about； and so with leaves beset
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet；
That lyf* was none； walkyng there forbye
That might within scarce any wight espye。
So thick the branches and the leves grene；
Beshaded all the alleys that there were；
And midst of every arbour might be sene
The sharpe； grene； swete juniper；
Growing so fair； with branches here and there；
That as it seemed to a lyf without；
The boughs did spread the arbour all about。
And on the small grene twistis*（2） set
The