'Like the lightning of a hope about to DIE For ever from the furrow'd brows of Hell's Eternity.'

Dante's smile may rather be compared to the RISING of a false and self- detected hope upon the lost brows where it is never to come to dawn, and where, nevertheless, it remains for ever, like a smile carved upon a sepulchre. Dunbar has a more joyous disposition than his Italian prototype and master, and he indulges himself to the top of his bent, but in a style (particularly in his 'Twa Married Women and the Widow,' and in 'The Friars of Berwick,' which is not, however, quite certainly his) too coarse and prurient for the taste of this age.

'The Merle and the Nightingale' is one of the finest of Moelibean poems. Beautiful is the contest between the two sweet singers as to whether the love of man or the love of God be the nobler, and more beautiful still their reconciliation, when

'Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, "Man, love God that has thee wrought." The Nightingale sang, "Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought." The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone." The Nightingale sang. "And with his death thee bought: All love is lost, but upon him alone."

'Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small.'

William Dunbar is said to have been born about the year 1465. He received his education at St Andrews, and took there the degree of M.A. in 1479. He became then a friar of the Franciscan order, (Grey Friars,) and in the exercise of his profession seems to have rambled over all Scotland, England, and France, preaching, begging, and, according to his own confession, cheating, lying, and cajoling. Yet if this kind of life was not propitious, in his case, to morality, it must have been to the development of the poetic faculty. It enabled him to see all varieties of life and of scenery, although here and there, in his verses, you find symptoms of that bitterness which is apt to arise in the heart of a wanderer. He was subsequently employed by James IV. in some official work connected with various foreign embassies, which led him to Spain, Italy, and Germany, as well as England and France. This proves that he was no less a man of business-capacity and habits than a poet. For these services he, in 1500, received from the King a pension of ten pounds, afterwards increased to twenty, and, in fine, to eighty. He is said to have been employed in the negotiations preparatory to the marriage of James with Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in 1503, and which our poet celebrated in his verses, 'The Thistle and the Rose.' He continued ever afterwards in the Court, hovering in position between a laureate and a court-fool, charming James with his witty conversation as well as his verses, but refused the benefices for which he petitioned, and gradually devoured by chagrin and disappointment. Seldom has genius so great been placed in a falser position, and this has given a querulous tinge to many of his poems. He seems to have died about 1520. Even after his death, misfortune pursued him. His works were, with the exception of two or three pieces, locked up in an obscure MS. till the middle of last century. Since then, however, their fame has been still increasing. In 1834, Mr David Laing, so favourably known as one of our first antiquarians, published a complete and elaborate edition of Dunbar's works; and in a newspaper this very day (May 23) we see another edition announced, in a popular and modernised shape, of the poetry of this great old Scottish Makkar.

THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL.

I.

Of Februar' the fifteenth night, Full long before the dayis light, I lay into a trance; And then I saw both Heaven and Hell; Methought among the fiendis fell, Mahoun[1] gart[2] cry a Dance, Of shrewis[3] that were never shrevin,[4] Against the feast of Fastern's even, To make their observance: He bade gallants go graith[5] a guise,[6] And cast up gamounts[7] in the skies, As varlets do in France.

II. * * * * * Holy harlottis in hautane[8] wise, Came in with many sundry guise, But yet laugh'd never Mahoun, Till priests came in with bare shaven necks, Then all the fiends laugh'd and made gecks,[9] Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.[10] * * * * *

III.

'Let's see,' quoth he, 'now who begins:' With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Began to leap at anis.[11] And first of all in dance was Pride, With hair wyld[12] back, and bonnet on side, Like to make wasty weanis;[13] And round about him, as a wheel, Hang all in rumples to the heel, His kethat[14] for the nanis.[15] Many proud trompour[16] with him tripped, Through scalding fire aye as they skipped, They girn'd[17] with hideous granis.[18]

IV.

Then Ire came in with sturt[19] and strife, His hand was aye upon his knife, He brandish'd like a beir; Boasters, braggers, and barganeris,[20] After him passed into pairis,[21] All bodin in feir of weir.[22] In jackis, scripis, and bonnets of steel, Their legs were chenyiet[23] to the heel, Froward was their affeir,[24] Some upon other with brands beft,[25] Some jaggit[26] others to the heft[27] With knives that sharp could shear.

V.

Next in the dance follow'd Envy, Fill'd full of feud and felony, Hid malice and despite, For privy hatred that traitor trembled; Him follow'd many freik[28] dissembled, With feigned wordis white. And flatterers into men's faces, And backbiters in secret places To lie that had delight, And rowneris[29] of false lesings;[30] Alas, that courts of noble kings Of them can never be quite![31]

VI.

Next him in dance came Covetice, Root of all evil and ground of vice, That never could be content, Caitiffs, wretches, and ockerars,[32] Hood-pikes,[33] hoarders, and gatherers, All with that warlock went. Out of their throats they shot on other Hot molten gold, methought, a fother,[34] As fire-flaucht[35] most fervent; Aye as they tumit[36] them of shot, Fiends fill'd them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.[37]

VII.

Syne[38] Sweirness[39] at the second bidding Came like a sow out of a midding,[40] Full sleepy was his grunyie.[41] Many sweir bumbard[42] belly-huddroun,[43] Many slute daw[44] and sleepy duddroun,[45] Him served aye with sounyie.[46] He drew them forth into a chenyie,[47] And Belial with a bridle-rennyie,[48] Ever lash'd them on the lunyie.[49] In dance they were so slow of feet They gave them in the fire a heat, And made them quicker of counyie.[50]

VIII.

Then Lechery, that loathly corse, Came bearing like a bagged horse,[51] And Idleness did him lead; There was with him an ugly sort[52] And many stinking foul tramort,[53] That had in sin been dead. When they were enter'd in the dance, They were full strange of countenance, Like torches burning reid. * * * * *

IX.

Then the foul monster Gluttony, Of wame[54] insatiable and greedy, To dance he did him dress; Him followed many a foul drunkart With can and collep, cop and quart,[55] In surfeit and excess. Full many a waistless wally-drag[56] With wames unwieldable did forth drag, In creish[57] that did incress; Drink, aye they cried, with many a gape, The fiends gave them hot lead to laip,[58] Their leveray[59] was no less.

X. * * * * * No minstrels play'd to them but[60] doubt, For gleemen there were holden out, By day and eke by night, Except a minstrel that slew a man; So till his heritage he wan,[61] And enter'd by brief of right. * * * * *

XI.

Then cried Mahoun for a Highland padyane,[62] Syne ran a fiend to fetch Mac Fadyane,[63] Far northward in a nook, By he the Correnoch had done shout,[64] Ersch-men[65] so gather'd him about In hell great room they took: These termagants, with tag and tatter, Full loud in Ersch began to clatter, And roup[66] like raven and rook. The devil so deaved[67] was with their yell, That in the deepest pot of hell He smored[68] them with smoke.

[1] 'Mahoun:' the devil. [2] 'Gart:' caused. [3] 'Shrewis:' sinners. [4] 'Shrevin:' confessed. [5] 'Graith:' prepare. [6] 'Guise:' masque. [7] 'Gamounts:' dances. [8] 'Hautane:' haughty. [9] 'Gecks:' mocks. [10] 'Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun:' names of spirits. [11] 'Anis:' once. [12] 'Wyld:' combed. [13] 'Wasty weanis:' wasteful children. [14] 'Kethat:' cassock. [15] 'Nanis:' nonce. [16] 'Trompour:' impostor. [17] 'Girn'd:' grinned. [18] 'Granis:' groans. [19] 'Sturt:' violence. [20] 'Barganeris:' bullies. [21] 'Into pairis:' in pairs. [22] 'Bodin in feir of weir:' arrayed in trappings of war. [23] 'Chenyiet:' covered with chain-mail. [24] 'Affeir:' aspect. [25] 'Beft:' struck. [26] 'Jaggit:' stabbed. [27] 'Heft:' hilt. [28] 'Freik:' fellows. [29] 'Rowneris:' whisperers. [30] 'Lesings:' lies. [31] 'Quite:' quit. [32] 'Ockerars:' usurers. [33] 'Hood-pikes:' misers. [34] 'Fother:' quantity. [35] 'Flaucht:' flake. [36] 'Tumit:' emptied. [37] 'Prent:' stamp. [38] 'Syne:' then. [39] 'Sweirness:' laziness. [40] 'Midding:' dunghill. [41] 'Grunyie:' grunt. [42] 'Bumbard:' indolent. [43] 'Belly-huddroun:' gluttonous sloven. [44] 'Slute daw:' slovenly drab. [45] 'Duddroun:' sloven. [46] 'Sounyie:' care. [47] 'Chenyie:' chain. [48] 'Rennyie:' rein. [49] 'Lunyie:' back. [50] 'Counyie:' apprehension. [51] 'Bagged horse:' stallion. [52] 'Sort:' number. [53] 'Tramort:' corpse. [54] 'Wame:' belly. [55] 'Can and collep, cop and quart:' different names of drinking-vessels. [56] 'Wally-drag:' sot. [57] 'Creish:' grease. [58] 'Laip:' lap. [59] 'Leveray:' desire to drink. [60] 'But:' without. [61] 'Wan:' got. [62] 'Padyane:' pageant. [63] 'Mac Fadyane:' name of some Highland laird. [64] 'By he the Correnoch had done shout:' by the time that he had raised the Correnoch, or cry of help. [65] 'Ersch-men:' Highlanders. [66] 'Roup:' croak. [67] 'Deaved:' deafened. [68] 'Smored:' smothered.

THE MERLE AND NIGHTINGALE.

In May, as that Aurora did upspring, With crystal een[1] chasing the cluddes sable, I heard a Merle[2] with merry notes sing A song of love, with voice right comfortable, Against the orient beamis, amiable, Upon a blissful branch of laurel green; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 'A lusty life in Love's service been.'

Under this branch ran down a river bright, Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, Against the heavenly azure skyis light, Where did upon the other side pursue A Nightingale, with sugar'd notes new, Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone; This was her song, and of a sentence true, 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

With notes glad, and glorious harmony, This joyful merle, so salust[3] she the day, While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May; Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray, As nature, has her taught, the noble queen, The fields be clothed in a new array; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Than made this merry gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran, Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale; 'O Merle!' quoth she, 'O fool! stint of thy tale, For in thy song good sentence is there none, For both is tint,[4] the time and the travail, Of every love but upon God alone.'

'Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale: Shall folk their youth spend into holiness? Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but[5] fable; Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness, Against the law of kind[6] thou goes express, That crooked age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse: A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild,[7] and every hour, The love of God most dear to man should be; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, And died himself, from death him to succour; Oh, whether was kythit[8] there true love or none? He is most true and steadfast paramour, And love is lost but upon him alone.'

The Merle said, 'Why put God so great beauty In ladies, with such womanly having, But if he would that they should loved be? To love eke nature gave them inclining, And He of nature that worker was and king, Would nothing frustir[9] put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his own making; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoof Put God such beauty in a lady's face, That she should have the thank therefor or love, But He, the worker, that put in her such grace; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space, And every goodness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in every place: All love is lost but upon God alone.'

'O Nightingale! it were a story nice, That love should not depend on charity; And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice, Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me; For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be: God bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen;[10] And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be? A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Bird, why does thou rave? Man may take in his lady such delight, Him to forget that her such virtue gave, And for his heaven receive her colour white: Her golden tressed hairis redomite,[11] Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, Should not him blind from love that is perfite; All love is lost but upon God alone.'

The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye, Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, Love makis knightis hardy at essay, Love makis wretches full of largeness, Love makis sweir[12] folks full of business, Love makis sluggards fresh and well beseen,[13] Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness; A lusty life in Love's service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary; Such frustis love it blindis men so far, Into their minds it makis them to vary; In false vain-glory they so drunken are, Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware, Till that all worship away be from them gone, Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well say I dare, All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then said the Merle, 'Mine error I confess: This frustis love is all but vanity: Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, To argue so against the verity; Wherefore I counsel every man that he With love not in the fiendis net be tone,[14] But love the love that did for his love die: All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, 'Man, love God that has thee wrought.' The Nightingale sang, 'Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought.' The Merle said, 'Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.' The Nightingale sang, 'And with his death thee bought: All love is lost but upon him alone.'

Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small; Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,[15] Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail; Me to recomfort most it does avail, Again for love, when love I can find none, To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale; 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

[1] 'Een:' eyes. [2] 'Merle:' blackbird. [3] 'Salust:' saluted. [4] 'Tint:' lost. [5] 'But:' without. [6] 'Kind:' nature. [7] 'Eild:' age. [8] 'Kythit:' shewn. [9] 'Frustrir:' in vain. [10] 'Spleen:' from the heart. [11] 'Redomite:' bound, encircled. [12] 'Sweir:' slothful. [13] 'Well beseen:' of good appearance. [14] 'Tone:' taken. [15] 'Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein:' whose close disputation made my thoughts yearn.



GAVIN DOUGLAS.

This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth Earl of Angus. He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. He studied at the University of Paris. He became a churchman, and yet united with attention to the duties of his calling great proficiency in polite learning. In 1513 he finished a translation, into Scottish verse, of Virgil's 'Aeneid,' which, considering the age, is an extraordinary performance. It occupied him only sixteen months. The multitude of obsolete terms, however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as a whole, illegible. After passing through various subordinate offices, such as the 'Provostship' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the 'Abbotship' of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dunkeld. Dunkeld was not then the paradise it has become, but Birnam hill and the other mountains then, as now, stood round about it, the old Cathedral rose up in mediaeval majesty, and the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to the ocean. And, doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quite as warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, he set up the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar inn, and thence delighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of enchantment which stretch around. The good Bishop was an ardent politician as well as a poet, and was driven, by his share in the troubles of the times, to flee from his native land, and take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The King received him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 he died at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy Church. He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to Rome to vindicate himself before the Pope against certain charges brought by his enemies. Besides the translation of the 'Aeneid,' Douglas is the author of a long poem entitled the 'Palace of Honour;' it is an allegory, describing a large company making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bears considerable resemblance to the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and some suppose that Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 'King Hart' is another production of our poet's, of considerable length and merit. It gives, metaphorically, a view of human life. Perhaps his best pieces are his 'Prologues,' affixed to each book of the 'Aeneid.' From them we have selected 'Morning in May' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine.

'Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c.

Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and grandeur of genius. His power is more in expression than in conception, and hence he has shone so much in translation. His version of the 'Aeneid' is the first made of any classic into a British tongue, and is the worthy progenitor of such minor miracles of poetical talent—all somewhat more mechanical than inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinate glory to our literature-as Fairfax's 'Tasso,' Dryden's 'Virgil,' and Pope's, Coper's, and Sotheby's 'Homer.' The fire in Douglas' original verses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning buried in flowery verbiage. Still he was an honour alike to the Episcopal bench and the Muse of Scotland. He was of amiable manners, gentle temperament, and a noble and commanding appearance.

MORNING IN MAY.

As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of[1] her saffron bed and ivor' house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet[2] the windows of her large hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis crystalline Unwarps broad, the world to illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings,[3] with gold and azure ment;[4] Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis forth his head, Of colour sore,[5] and somedeal brown as berry, For to alighten and glad our hemispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,[6] So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * While shortly, with the blazing torch of day, Abulyit[7] in his lemand[8] fresh array, Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz; For whose hue might none behold his face. * * The aureate vanes of his throne soverain With glittering glance o'erspread the oceane; The large floodes, lemand all of light, But with one blink of his supernal sight. For to behold, it was a glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene, The loune[9] illuminate air and firth amene. * * And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart[10] steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth[11] hues, Wood and forest, obumbrate with bews.[12] * * Towers, turrets, kirnals,[13] and pinnacles high, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city, Stood painted, every fane, phiol,[14] and stage,[15] Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage. Of Aeolus' north blasts having no dreid, The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.[16] * * The prai[17] besprent with springing sprouts disperse For caller humours[18] on the dewy night Rendering some place the gerse-piles[19] their light; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, Submit their heads to the young sun's safeguard. Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all; Forth of fresh bourgeons[20] the wine grapes ying[21] Endlong the trellis did on twistis hing; The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees O'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries; Soft grassy verdure after balmy showers, On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * * The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, And every flower unlapped in the dale. * * Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang; Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet, Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; * * Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. * * A paradise it seemed to draw near These galyard gardens and each green herbere. Most amiable wax the emerald meads; Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds, Over the lochis and the floodis gray, Searching by kind a place where they should lay. Phoebus' red fowl,[22] his cural crest can steer, Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear. Amid the wortis and the rootis gent Picking his meat in alleys where he went, His wives Toppa and Partolet him by— A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. The painted powne[23] pacing with plumes gym, Cast up his tail a proud pleasand wheel-rim, Yshrouded in his feathering bright and sheen, Shaping the print of Argus' hundred een. Among the bowis of the olive twists, Sere[24] small fowls, working crafty nests, Endlong the hedges thick, and on rank aiks[25] Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes. In corners and clear fenestres[26] of glass, Full busily Arachne weaving was, To knit her nettis and her webbis sly, Therewith to catch the little midge or fly. So dusty powder upstours[27] in every street, While corby gasped for the fervent heat. Under the boughis bene[28] in lovely vales, Within fermance and parkis close of pales, The busteous buckis rakis forth on raw, Herdis of hartis through the thick wood-shaw. The young fawns following the dun does, Kids, skipping through, runnis after roes. In leisurs and on leais, little lambs Full tait and trig sought bleating to their dams. On salt streams wolk[29] Dorida and Thetis, By running strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, Such as we clepe wenches and damasels, In gersy[30] groves wandering by spring wells; Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, Platting their lusty chaplets for their head. Some sang ring-songes, dances, leids,[31] and rounds. With voices shrill, while all thel dale resounds. Whereso they walk into their carolling, For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. One sang, 'The ship sails over the salt faem, Will bring the merchants and my leman hame.' Some other sings, 'I will be blithe and light, My heart is lent upon so goodly wight.'[32] And thoughtful lovers rounis[33] to and fro, To leis[34] their pain, and plain their jolly woe; After their guise, now singing, now in sorrow, With heartis pensive the long summer's morrow. Some ballads list indite of his lady; Some lives in hope; and some all utterly Despaired is, and so quite out of grace, His purgatory he finds in every place. * * Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part, Their blissful lay intoning every art, * * And all small fowlis singis on the spray, Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain, Welcome the birdis' bield[35] upon the brier, Welcome master and ruler of the year, Welcome welfare of husbands at the ploughs, Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and boughs, Welcome depainter of the bloomed meads, Welcome the life of every thing that spreads, Welcome storer of all kind bestial, Welcome be thy bright beamis, gladding all. * *

[1] 'Ished of:' issued from. [2] 'Unshet:' opened. [3] 'Spraings:' streaks. [4] 'Ment:' mingled. [5] 'Sore:' yellowish brown. [6] 'Neisthirls:' nostrils. [7] 'Abulyit:' attired. [8] 'Lemand:' glittering. [9] 'Loune:' calm. [10] 'Sulyart:' sultry. [11] 'Selcouth:' uncommon. [12] 'Bews:' boughs. [13] 'Kirnals:' battlements. [14] 'Phiol:' cupola. [15] 'Stage:' storey. [16] 'Yerd:' earth. [17] 'Prai:' meadow. [18] 'Caller humours:' cool vapours. [19] 'Gerse:' grass. [20] 'Bourgeons:' sprouts. [21] 'Ying:' young. [22] 'Red fowl:' the cook. [23] 'Powne:' the peacock. [24] 'Sere:' many. [25] 'Aiks:' oaks. [26] 'Fenestres:' windows. [27] 'Upstours:' rises in clouds. [28] 'Bene:' snug. [29] 'Wolk:' walked. [30] 'Gersy:' grassy. [31] 'Leids:' lays. [32] Songs then popular. [33] 'Rounis:' whisper. [34] 'Leis:' relieve. [35] 'Bield:' shelter.



HAWES, BARCLAY, &c.

Stephen Hawes, a native of Suffolk, wrote about the close of the fifteenth century. He studied at Oxford, and travelled much in France, where he became a master of French and Italian poetry. King Henry VII., struck with his conversation and the readiness with which he repeated old English poets, especially Lydgate, created him groom of the privy chamber. Hawes has written a number of poems, such as 'The Temple of Glasse,' 'The Conversion of Swearers,' 'The Consolation of Lovers,' 'The Pastime of Pleasure,' &c. Those who wish to see specimens of the strange allegories and curious devices of thought in which it abounds, may find them in Warton's 'History of English Poetry.'

In that same valuable work we find an account of Alexander Barclay, author of 'The Ship of Fools.' He was educated at Oriel College in Oxford, and after travelling abroad, was appointed one of the priests or prebendaries of the College of St Mary Ottery, in Devonshire—a parish famous in later days for the birth of Coleridge. Barclay became afterwards a Benedictine monk of Ely monastery; and at length a brother of the Order of St Francis, at Canterbury. He died, a very old man, at Croydon, in Surrey, in the year 1552. His principal work, 'The Ship of Fools,' is a satire upon the vices and absurdities of his age, and shews considerable wit and power of sarcasm.



SKELTON.

John Skelton is the name of the next poet. He flourished in the earlier part of the reign of Henry VIII. Having studied both at Oxford and Cambridge, and been laureated at the former university in 1489, he was promoted to the rectory of Diss or Dysse, in Norfolk. Some say he had acted previously as tutor to Henry VIII. At Dysse he attracted attention by satirical ballads against the mendicants, as well as by licences of buffoonery in the pulpit. For these he was censured, and even, it is said, suspended, by Nykke, Bishop of Norwich. Undaunted by this, he flew at higher game—ventured to ridicule Cardinal Wolsey, then in his power, and had to take refuge from the myrmidons of the prelate in Westminster Abbey. There Abbot Islip kindly entertained and protected him till his dying day. He breathed his last in the year 1529, and was buried in the adjacent church of St Margaret's.

Skelton as well as Barclay enjoyed considerable popularity in his own age. Erasmus calls him 'Britannicarum literarum lumen et decus!' How dark must have been the night in which such a Will-o'-wisp was mistaken for a star! He has wit, indeed, and satirical observation; but his wit is wilder than it is strong, and his satire is dashed with personality and obscenity. His style, Campbell observes, is 'almost a texture of slang phrases, patched with shreds of French and Latin.' His verses on Margaret Hussey, which we have quoted, are in his happiest vein. The following lines, too, on Cardinal Wolsey, are as true as they are terse:—

'Then in the Chamber of Stars All matter there he mars. Clapping his rod on the board, No man dare speak a word. For he hath all the saying, Without any renaying. He rolleth in his records; He sayeth, How say ye, my Lords? Is not my reason good? Good even, good Robin Hood. Some say, Yes; and some Sit still, as they were dumb.'

It is curious that Wolsey's enemies, in one of their charges against him in the Parliament of 1529, have repeated, almost in the words of Skelton, the same accusation.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything, Far, far passing, That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought. Far may be sought, Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower.



SIR DAVID LYNDSAY.

Returning to Scotland, we find a Skelton of a higher order and a brawnier make in Sir David Lyndsay, or, as our forefathers were wont familiarly to denominate him, 'Davie Lyndsay.' Lyndsay was descended from a noble family, a younger branch of Lyndsay of the Byres, and born in 1490, probably at the Mount, the family-seat, near Cupar-Fife. He entered the University of St Andrews in the year 1505, and four years later left it to travel in Italy. He must, however, have returned to Scotland before the 12th of October 1511, since we learn from the records of the Lord Treasurer that he was presented with a quantity of 'blue and yellow taffety to be a playcoat for the play performed in the King and Queen's presence in the Abbey of Holyrood.' On the 12th of April 1512, Lyndsay, then twenty-two years of age, was appointed gentleman-usher to James V., who had been born that very day. In his poem called 'The Dream,' he reminds the King of his having borne him in his arms ere he could walk; of having wrapped him up warmly in his little bed; of having sung to him with his lute, danced before him to make him laugh, and having carried him on his shoulders like a 'pedlar his pack.' He continued to be page and companion to the King till 1524, when, in consequence of the unprincipled machinations of the Queen- mother—who was acting as Regent—he, as well as Bellenden, the learned translator of Livy and Boece, was ejected from his office. When, however, in 1528, the young King, by a noble effort, emancipated himself from the thraldom of his mother and the Douglasses, Lyndsay wrote his 'Dream,' in which, amidst much poetic or fantastic matter, he congratulates James on his deliverance; reminds him, as aforesaid, of his early services; and takes occasion to paint the evils the country had endured during his minority, and to give him some bold and salutary advice as to his future conduct. The next year (1529) he produced 'The Complaint,' a poem in which he recurs to former themes, and remonstrates with great freedom and severity against the treatment he had undergone. Here, too, the religious reformer peeps out. He exhorts the King to compel the clergy to attend to the duties of their office; to preach more earnestly; to administer the sacraments according to the institution of Christ; and not to deceive their people with superstitious pilgrimages, vain traditions, and prayers to graven images, contrary to the written command of God. He with quaint iron says, that if his Grace will lend him

'Of gold ane thousand pound or tway,'

he will give him a sealed bond, obliging himself to repay the loan when the Bass and the Isle of May are set upon Mount Sinai; or the Lomond hills, near Falkland, are removed to Northumberland; or

'When kirkmen yairnis [desire] na dignity, Nor wives na soveranitie.'

Still finer the last lines of the poem. 'If not,' he says, 'my God

'Shall cause me stand content With quiet life and sober rent, And take me, in my latter age, Unto my simple hermitage, To spend the gear my elders won, As did Diogenes in his tun.'

This 'Complaint' proved successful, and in the next year (1530) Lyndsay was appointed Lion King-at-Arms—an office of great dignity in these days. The Lion was the chief judge of all matters connected with heraldry in the realm; was also the official ambassador from his sovereign to foreign countries; and was inaugurated in his office with a pomp and circumstance little inferior to those of a royal coronation, the King crowning him with his own hands, anointing him with wine instead of oil, and putting on his head the Royal Crown of Scotland, which he continued to wear till the close of the feast. It is of Lyndsay in the full accoutrements of this office that Sir Walter Scott speaks in his 'Marmion,' although he antedates by sixteen years the time when he assumed it:—

'He was a man of middle age, In aspect manly, grave, and sage, As on king's errand come; But in the glances of his eye, A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home— The flash of that satiric rage Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume; From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest Embroider'd round and round. The double treasure might you see, First by Achaius borne, The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, And gallant unicorn. So bright the king's armorial coat, That scarce the dazzled eye could note; In living colours, blazon'd brave, The lion, which his title gave. A train which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait; Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-Arms.'

Soon after this appointment, Lyndsay wrote 'The Complaint of the King's Papingo,' in which, through the mouth of a dying parrot, he gives some sharp counsel to the king, his courtiers and nobles, and administers severe satirical chastisement to the corruptions of the clergy. It is an exceedingly clever production, and has some beautiful poetry as well as stinging sarcasm. Take the following address to Edinburgh, Stirling, Linlithgow, and Falkland:—

Adieu, Edinburgh! thou high triumphant town, Within whose bounds right blitheful have I been; Of true merchandis, the rule of this region, Most ready to receive court, king, and queen; Thy policy and justice may be seen; Were devotion, wisdom, and honesty, And credence tint, they micht be found in thee.

Adieu, fair Snawdoun! [Stirling] with thy towers hie, Thy chapel-royal, park, and table round; May, June, and July would I dwell in thee, Were I a man to hear the birdis sound, Which doth against the royal rock rebound. Adieu, Lithgow! whose palace of pleasance Meets not its peer in Portingale or France.

Farewell, Falkland! the forteress of Fife, Thy velvet park under the Lomond Law; Sometime in thee I led a lusty life. The fallow deer to see them raik on raw [walk in a row], Caust men to come to thee, they have great awe, &c.

In the year 1535, Lyndsay wrote his remarkable drama, 'The Satire of the Three Estates'—Monarch, namely, Barons, and Clergy. It is made up in nearly three equal parts of ingenuity, wit, and grossness. It is a drama, and was acted several times—first, in 1535, at Cupar-Fife, on a large green mound called Moot-hill; then, in 1539, in an open park near Linlithgow, by the express desire of the king, who with all the ladies of the Court attended the representation; then in the amphitheatre of St Johnston in Perth; and in 1554, at Edinburgh, in the village of Greenside, which skirted the northern base of the Calton Hill, in the presence of the Queen Regent and an enormous concourse of spectators. Its exhibition appears to have occupied nearly the whole day. In the 'Pictorial History of Scotland,' chapter xxiv., our readers will find a full and able analysis with extracts of this extraordinary performance. It is said to have done much good in opening the eyes of the people to the evils of the Papacy, and in paving the way for the Reformation.

In 1536 Sir David, in company with Sir John Campbell of Lundie, was sent to the Court of France to demand in marriage for James V. a daughter of the House of Vendome; but the King chose rather to take the matter in his own hands, and, going over in person, wedded Magdalene, daughter of Francis. She died two months after her arrival in Scotland, universally regretted; and Lyndsay made the sad event the subject of a poem, entitled 'Deploration of the Death of Queen Magdalene,' whom he designates

'The flower of France, and comfort of Scotland.'

When James subsequently married Mary of Guise, Sir David's ingenuity was strained to the utmost in providing pageants, masques, and shows to welcome her Majesty. For forty days in St Andrews, festivities continued; and it was during this prolonged festival that the Lion King, as if sick and satiated with vanities, wrote two poems, one entitled 'The Justing between James Watson and John Barbour,' a dull satire on tournaments, &c., and the other a somewhat cleverer piece, entitled 'Supplication directed to the King's Grace in Contemptioun of Side Tails,' the long trains then worn by the ladies. It met, we presume,with the fate of Punch's sarcasms against crinoline,—the 'phylacteries' would for a season, instead of being lessened, be enlarged, till Fashion lifted up her omnipotent rod, and told it to be otherwise.

King James died prematurely on the 14th of December 1542, and Lyndsay closed his eyes at Falkland, and mourned for him as a brother. From that day forth he probably felt that there was 'less sunshine in the sky for him.' In the troublous times which succeeded this, he had to retire for a season from the Court, having become obnoxious to the rigid Papists on account of his writings. After the death of Cardinal Beatoun he wrote the tragedy of 'The Cardinal,' a poem in which the spectre of the Cardinal is the spokesman, and which teems with good advice to all and sundry. The execution, however, is not so felicitous as the plan. In 1548 Lyndsay went to Denmark to negotiate a free trade with Scotland. On his return in 1550 he wrote his very pleasing and chivalric 'History of Squire Meldrum,' founded on the actual adventures of William Meldrum, the Laird of Cleish and Binns, a distinguished friend of the poet, who had gained laurels as a warrior both in Scotland and in France. This poem is, in a measure, an anticipation of the rhymed romances of Scott, and is full of picturesque description and spirit-stirring adventure. In 1553 he completed his last and most elaborate work, which had occupied him for years, entitled 'The Monarchic,' containing an account of the most famous monarchies which have existed on earth, and carrying on the history to the general judgment. From this date we almost entirely lose sight of our poet. He seems to have retired into private life, and is supposed to have died about the close of 1557. He was probably buried in the family vault at Ceres, but no stone marks the spot. Dying without issue, his estates passed to his brother Alexander, and were continued in the possession of his descendants till the middle of last century. They now belong to the Hopes of Rankeillour. The office of Lord Lion was held by two of the poet's relatives successively—Sir David, his nephew, who became Lion King in 1591, and his son-in-law, Sir Jerome Lyndsay, who succeeded to it in 1621.

Sir David Lyndsay, unlike most satirists, was a good, a blameless, and a religious man. The occasional loftiness of his poetic vein, the breadth of his humour, the purity of his purpose, and his strong reforming zeal combined to make his poetry exceedingly popular in Scotland for a number of ages, particularly among the lower orders. Scott introduces Andrew Fairservice, in 'Rob Roy,' saying, in reference to Francis Osbaldistone's poetical efforts, 'Gude help him! twa lines o' Davie Lyndsay wad ding a' he ever clerkit,' and even still there are districts of the country where his name is a household word.

MELDRUM'S DUEL WITH THE ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBART.

Then clarions and trumpets blew, And warriors many hither drew; On every side came many man To behold who the battle wan. The field was in the meadow green, Where every man might well be seen: The heralds put them so in order, That no man pass'd within the border, Nor press'd to come within the green, But heralds and the champions keen; The order and the circumstance Were long to put in remembrance. When these two noble men of weir Were well accoutred in their geir, And in their handis strong burdouns,[1] Then trumpets blew and clariouns, And heralds cried high on height, 'Now let them go—God show the right.'

* * * * *

Then trumpets blew triumphantly, And these two champions eagerly, They spurr'd their horse with spear on breast, Pertly[2] to prove their pith they press'd. That round rink-room[3] was at utterance, But Talbart's horse with a mischance He outterit,[4] and to run was loth; Whereof Talbart was wonder wroth. The Squier forth his rink[5] he ran, Commended well with every man, And him discharged of his spear Honestly, like a man of weir.

* * * * *

The trenchour[6] of the Squier's spear Stuck still into Sir Talbart's geir; Then every man into that stead[7] Did all believe that he was dead. The Squier leap'd right hastily From his courser deliverly,[8] And to Sir Talbart made support, And humillie[9] did him comfort. When Talbart saw into his shield An otter in a silver field, 'This race,' said he, 'I sore may rue, For I see well my dream was true; Methought yon otter gart[10] me bleed, And bore me backward from my steed; But here I vow to God soverain, That I shall never joust again.' And sweetly to the Squier said, 'Thou know'st the cunning[11] that we made, Which of us two should tyne[12] the field, He should both horse and armour yield To him that won, wherefore I will My horse and harness give thee till.' Then said the Squier, courteously, 'Brother, I thank you heartfully; Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, For I have gotten that I would have.'

[1] 'Burdouns:' spears. [2] 'Pertly:' boldly. [3] 'Rink-room:' course-room. [4] 'Outterit:' swerved. [5] 'Kink:' course. [6] 'Trencliour:' head. [7] 'Stead:' place. [8] 'Deliverly:' actively. [9] 'Humillie:' humbly. [10] 'Gart:' made. [11] 'Cunning:' agreement. [12] 'Tyne:' lose.

SUPPLICATION IN CONTEMPTION OF SIDE TAILS,[1] (1538.)

Sovereign, I mene[2] of these side tails, Whilk through the dust and dubbes trails, Three quarters lang behind their heels, Express against all commonweals. Though bishops, in their pontificals, Have men for to bear up their tails, For dignity of their office; Right so a queen or an emprice; Howbeit they use such gravity, Conforming to their majesty, Though their robe-royals be upborne, I think it is a very scorn, That every lady of the land Should have her tail so side trailand; Howbeit they be of high estate, The queen they should not counterfeit.

Wherever they go it may be seen How kirk and causey they sweep clean. The images into the kirk May think of their side tailes irk;[3] For when the weather be most fair, The dust flies highest into the air, And all their faces does begary, If they could speak, they would them wary. * * But I have most into despite Poor claggocks[4] clad in raploch[5] white, Whilk has scant two merks for their fees, Will have two ells beneath their knees. Kittock that cleckit[6] was yestreen, The morn will counterfeit the queen. * * In barn nor byre she will not bide, Without her kirtle tail be side. In burghs, wanton burgess wives Who may have sidest tailes strives, Well bordered with velvet fine, But following them it is a pine: In summer, when the streetes dries, They raise the dust above the skies; None may go near them at their ease, Without they cover mouth and neese. * * I think most pain after a rain, To see them tucked up again; Then when they step forth through the street, Their faldings flaps about their feet; They waste more cloth, within few years, Nor would cleid[7] fifty score of freirs. * * Of tails I will no more indite, For dread some duddron[8] me despite: Notwithstanding, I will conclude, That of side tails can come no good, Sider nor[9] may their ankles hide, The remanent proceeds of pride, And pride proceedis of the devil; Thus alway they proceed of evil.

Another fault, Sir, may be seen, They hide their face all but the een; When gentlemen bid them good-day, Without reverence they slide away. * * Without their faults be soon amended, My flyting,[10] Sir, shall never be ended; But would your grace my counsel take, A proclamation ye should make, Both through the land and burrowstowns, To show their face and cut their gowns. Women will say, This is no bourds,[11] To write such vile and filthy words; But would they cleanse their filthy tails, Whilk over the mires and middings[12] trails, Then should my writing cleansed be, None other' mends they get of me.

Quoth Lyndsay, in contempt of the side tails, That duddrons[13] and duntibours[14] through the dubbes trails.

[1] 'Side tails:' long skirts. [2] 'Mene:' complain. [3] 'Irk:' May feel annoyed. [4] 'Claggocks:' draggle-tails. [5] 'Raploch:' homespun. [6] 'Cleckit:' born. [7] 'Cleid:' clothe. [8] 'Duddron:' slut. [9] 'Nor:' than. [10] 'Flyting:' scolding. [11] 'Bourds:' jest. [12] 'Middings:' dunghills. [13] 'Duddrons:' sluts. [14] 'Duntibours:' harlots.



THOMAS TUSSER.

Of Tusser we know only that he was horn in the year 1523, was well educated, commenced life as a courtier under the patronage of Lord Paget, but became a farmer, pursuing agriculture at Ratwood in Sussex, Ipswich, Fairsted in Essex, Norwich, and other places; that he was not successful, and had to betake himself to other occupations, such as those of a chorister, fiddler, &c.; and that, finally, he died a poor man in London in the year 1580. Tusser has left only one work, published in 1557, entitled 'A Hundred Good Points of Husbandrie,' written in simple but sometimes strong verse. It is our first, and not our worst didactic poem.

DIRECTIONS FOR CULTIVATING A HOP-GARDEN.

Whom fancy persuadeth, among other crops, To have for his spending sufficient of hops, Must willingly follow, of choices to choose, Such lessons approved as skilful do use.

Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay, Is naughty for hops, any manner of way. Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone, For dryness and barrenness let it alone.

Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould, Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should; Not far from the water, but not overflown, This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known.

The sun in the south, or else southly and west, Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest; But wind in the north, or else northerly east, To the hop is as ill as a fray in a feast.

Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold; Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn, And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn.

The hop for his profit I thus do exalt, It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth malt; And being well brew'd, long kept it will last, And drawing abide—if ye draw not too fast.

HOUSEWIFELY PHYSIC.

Good housewife provides, ere a sickness do come, Of sundry good things in her house to have some. Good aqua composita, and vinegar tart, Rose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine heart. Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn, That over-strong heat to good temper may turn. White endive, and succory, with spinach enow; All such with good pot-herbs, should follow the plough. Get water of fumitory, liver to cool, And others the like, or else lie like a fool. Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such, With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much. Ask Medicus' counsel, ere medicine ye take, And honour that man for necessity's sake. Though thousands hate physic, because of the cost, Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be lost. Good broth, and good keeping, do much now and than: Good diet, with wisdom, best comforteth man. In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best; In sickness, hate trouble; seek quiet and rest. Remember thy soul; let no fancy prevail; Make ready to God-ward; let faith never quail: The sooner thyself thou submittest to God, The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod.

MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE WIND.

Though winds do rage, as winds were wood,[1] And cause spring-tides to raise great flood; And lofty ships leave anchor in mud, Bereaving many of life and of blood: Yet, true it is, as cow chews cud, And trees, at spring, doth yield forth bud, Except wind stands as never it stood, It is an ill wind turns none to good.

[1] 'Wood:' mad.



VAUX, EDWARDS, &c.

In Tottell's 'Miscellany,' the first of the sort in the English language, published in 1557, although the names of many of the authors are not given, the following writers are understood to have contributed:—Sir Francis Bryan, a friend of Wyatt's, one of the principal ornaments of the Court of Henry VIII., and who died, in 1548, Chief Justiciary of Ireland; George Boleyn, Earl of Rochford, the amiable brother of the famous Anne Boleyn, and who fell a victim to the insane jealousy of Henry, being beheaded in 1536; and Lord Thomas Vaux, son of Nicholas Vaux, who died in the latter end of Queen Mary's reign. In the same Miscellany is found 'Phillide and Harpalus,' the 'first true pastoral,' says Warton, 'in the English language,' (see 'Specimens.') To it are annexed, too, a collection of 'Songes, written by N. G.,' which means Nicholas Grimoald, an Oxford man, renowned for his rhetorical lectures in Christ Church, and for being, after Surrey, our first writer of blank verse, in the modulation of which he excelled even Surrey. Henry himself, who was an expert musician, is said also to have composed a book of sonnets and one madrigal in praise of Anne Boleyn. In the same reign occur the names of Borde, Bale, Bryan, Annesley, John Rastell, Wilfred Holme, and Charles Bansley, all writers of minor and forgotten poems. John Heywood, called the Epigrammatist, was of a somewhat higher order. He was the favourite of Sir Thomas More and the pensioner of Henry VIII. He gained favour partly through his conversational humour, and partly through his writings. He is the author of various comedies; of six hundred epigrams, most of them very poor; of a dialogue, in verse, containing all the proverbs then afloat in the language; of an apologue, entitled 'The Spider and the Fly,' &c. Heywood, who was a rigid Papist, left the kingdom after the decease of Queen Mary, and died at Mechlin, in Brabant, in 1565. Warton has preserved some specimens of Sir Thomas More's poetry, which do not add much to our conception of his genius. In 1542, one Robert Vaughan wrote an alliterative poem, entitled 'The Falcon and the Pie.' In 1521, 'The Not-browne Maid,' (given by us in 'Percy's Reliques,') appeared in a curious collection, called 'Arnolde's Chronicle, or Customs of London.' In the same year Wynkyn de Worde printed a set of 'Christmas Carols,' and in 1529 'A Treatise of Merlin, or his Prophecies in Verse.' In Henry's days, too, there commences the long line of translators of the Psalms into English metre, commencing with Thomas Sternhold, groom of the robes to the King, who versified fifty-one psalms, which were published in 1549, and with John Hopkins, a clergyman and schoolmaster in Suffolk, who added fifty-eight more, and progressing with Whyttingham, Thomas Norton, (the joint author, along with Lord Buckhurst, of the curious old tragedy of 'Gorboduc,') Robert Wisdome, William Hunnis, William Baldwyn, Parker, the scholarly and celebrated Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. &c. Parker trans- lated all the Psalms himself; and John Day published in 1562, and attached to the Book of Common Prayer, the whole of Sternhold and Hopkins' 'Psalms, with apt notes to sing them withall.' In Edward's reign appeared a very different strain—the first drinking-song of merit in the language, 'Back and sides go bare'—(see 'Specimens,' vol. 2.) This song occurs at the opening of the second act of 'Gammer Gurton's Needle,' a comedy written (by a 'Mr S.') and printed in 1551, and afterwards acted at Christ's College in Cambridge.

In the reign of Mary, flourished Richard Edwards, a man of no small versatility of genius. He was a native of Somersetshire, was born about 1523, and died in 1566. He wrote two comedies, one entitled 'Damon and Pythias,' and the other 'Palamon and Arcite,' both of which were acted before Queen Elizabeth. He also contrived masques and wrote verses for pageants, and is said to have been the first fiddler, the most elegant sonnetteer, and the most amusing mimic of the Court. He is the author of a pleasing poem, entitled 'Amantium irae,' and of some lines under the title, 'He requesteth some friendly comfort, affirming his constancy.' We quote a few of them:—

'The mountains nigh, whose lofty tops do meet the haughty sky, The craggy rock, that to the sea free passage doth deny, The aged oak, that doth resist the force of blust'ring blast, The pleasant herb, that everywhere a pleasant smell doth cast, The lion's force, whose courage stout declares a prince-like might, The eagle, that for worthiness is borne of kings in fight— Then these, I say, and thousands more, by tract of time decay, And, like to time, do quite consume and fade from form to clay; But my true heart and service vow'd shall last time out of mind, And still remain, as thine by doom, as Cupid hath assign'd.'

Edwards also contributed some beautiful things to the well-known old collection, 'The Paradise of Dainty Devices.'



GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

Gascoigne was born in 1540, in Essex, of an ancient family. He was educated at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn, but was disinherited by his father for extravagance, and betook himself to Holland, where he obtained a commission from the Prince of Orange. After various vicissitudes of fortune, being at one time taken prisoner by the Spaniards, and at another receiving a reward from the Prince of three hundred guilders above his pay for his brave conduct at the siege of Middleburg, he returned to England. In 1575, he accompanied Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses, and wrote for her a mask, entitled 'The Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth.' He is said to have died at Stamford in 1578. He is the author of two or three translated dramas, such as 'The Supposes,' a comedy from Ariosto, and 'Jocasta,' a tragedy from Euripides, besides some graceful and lively minor pieces, one or two of which we append.

GOOD-MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest, And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east; Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, Come help me now to sing: Each willing wight come, bear a part, To praise the heavenly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress, Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress; Yet bear a part in doleful wise, Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness Had overspread the light; And sluggish sleep with drowsiness Had overpress'd our might: A glass wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath, Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little space, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth show his pleasant face: So must we hope to see God's face, At last in heaven on high, When we have changed this mortal place For immortality.

And of such haps and heavenly joys As then we hope to hold, All earthly sights, and worldly toys, Are tokens to behold. The day is like the day of doom, The sun, the Son of man; The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb, Wherein we rest till than.

The rainbow bending in the sky, Bedcck'd with sundry hues, Is like the seat of God on high, And seems to tell these news: That as thereby He promised To drown the world no more, So by the blood which Christ hath shed, He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime, And overcast the skies, Are like to troubles of our time, Which do but dim our eyes. But as such dews are dried up quite, When Phoebus shows his face, So are such fancies put to flight, Where God doth guide by grace.

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, Which cries against the rain, Both for her hue, and for the rest, The devil resembleth plain: And as with guns we kill the crow, For spoiling our relief, The devil so must we o'erthrow, With gunshot of belief.

The little birds which sing so sweet, Are like the angels' voice, Which renders God His praises meet, And teach[1] us to rejoice: And as they more esteem that mirth, Than dread the night's annoy, So much we deem our days on earth But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain, God grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain, In heaven to have a place, When we may still enjoy that light, Which never shall decay: Lord, for thy mercy lend us might, To see that joyful day.

[1] 'Teach:' for teacheth.

GOOD-NIGHT.

When thou hast spent the ling'ring day In pleasure and delight, Or after toil and weary way, Dost seek to rest at night; Unto thy pains or pleasures past, Add this one labour yet, Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast, Do not thy God forget,

But search within thy secret thoughts, What deeds did thee befall, And if thou find amiss in aught, To God for mercy call. Yea, though thou findest nought amiss Which thou canst call to mind, Yet evermore remember this, There is the more behind:

And think how well soe'er it be That thou hast spent the day, It came of God, and not of thee, So to direct thy way. Thus if thou try thy daily deeds, And pleasure in this pain, Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, And thine shall be the gain:

But if thy sinful, sluggish eye, Will venture for to wink, Before thy wading will may try How far thy soul may sink, Beware and wake,[1] for else thy bed, Which soft and smooth is made, May heap more harm upon thy head Than blows of en'my's blade.

Thus if this pain procure thine ease, In bed as thou dost lie, Perhaps it shall not God displease, To sing thus soberly: 'I see that sleep is lent me here, To ease my weary bones, As death at last shall eke appear, To ease my grievous groans.

'My daily sports, my paunch full fed, Have caused my drowsy eye, As careless life, in quiet led, Might cause my soul to die: The stretching arms, the yawning breath, Which I to bedward use, Are patterns of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse;

'And of my bed each sundry part, In shadows, doth resemble The sundry shapes of death, whose dart Shall make my flesh to tremble. My bed it safe is, like the grave, My sheets the winding-sheet, My clothes the mould which I must have, To cover me most meet.

'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, To worms I can compare, Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh, And leave the bones full bare: The waking cock that early crows, To wear the night away, Puts in my mind the trump that blows Before the latter day.

'And as I rise up lustily, When sluggish sleep is past, So hope I to rise joyfully, To judgment at the last. Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, Thus will I hope to rise, Thus will I neither wail nor weep, But sing in godly wise.

'My bones shall in this bed remain My soul in God shall trust, By whom I hope to rise again From, death and earthly dust.'

[1] 'Wake:' watch.



THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET.

This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of 'Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters them- selves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell 'a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates' appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'—

'Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at Deaths door; Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief—the shape and messenger of Death.'

Politics diverted Sackville from poetry. This is deeply to be regretted, as his poetic gift was of a very rare order. In 1566, on the death of his father, he was promoted to the title of Lord Buckhurst. In the fourteenth year of Elizabeth's reign he was employed by her in an embassy to Charles IX. of France. In 1587 he went as an ambassador to the United Provinces. He was subsequently made Knight of the Garter and Chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he became Lord High Treasurer of England. In March 1604 he was created Earl of Dorset by James I., but died suddenly soon after, at the council table, of a disease of the brain. He was, as a statesman, almost immaculate in reputation. Like Burke and Canning, in later days, he carried taste and literary exactitude into his political functions, and, on account of his eloquence, was called 'the Bell of the Star-Chamber.' Even in that Augustan age of our history, and in that most brilliantly intellectual Court, it may be doubted if, with the sole exception of Lord Bacon, there was a man to be compared to Thomas Sackville for genius.

ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES.

And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain:

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear, Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look, Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair; 'Stoin'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire; Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or Veng'd by death to be.

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another set we met; When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:

His face was lean, and some deal pined away And eke his hands consumed to the bone; But what his body was I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast:

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his feres, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers; His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But he is up, and to his work yrun; But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath; Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel's ease, the still night's fere was he, And of our life in earth the better part; Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be; Without respect, esteeming equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad, Old Age we found: His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him assign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life:

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint. Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek!

But, an the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast cannot return again, This one request of Jove yet prayed he That in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, As eld, accompanied with her loathsome train, Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, He might a while yet linger forth his life,

And not so soon descend into the pit; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, With reckless hand in grave doth cover it: Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had ne'er into the world been brought:

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast—as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone— He would have mused, and marvell'd much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain, And knows full well life doth but length his pain:

Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled,[1] and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door; Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.

And fast by him pale Malady was placed: Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see! We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of Famine might we see: With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; Her body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone.

And that, alas! was gnawen everywhere, All full of holes; that I ne might refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade Than any substance of a creature made:

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas! her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise As made hell-gates to shiver with the might; Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death Enthirling[2] it, to rieve her of her breath:

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight; No peers, nor princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower, But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:

His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took, And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook, That most of all my fears affrayed me; His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued: In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all:

Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd: His face forhew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

[1] 'Piled:' bare. [2] 'Enthirling:' piercing.

HENRY DUKE OP BUCKINGHAM IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS.

Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled,[1] and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, Oft spread his arms, stretch'd hands he joins as fast With rueful cheer, and vapour'd eyes upcast.

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat; His hair all torn, about the place it lain: My heart so molt to see his grief so great, As feelingly, methought, it dropp'd away: His eyes they whirl'd about withouten stay: With stormy sighs the place did so complain, As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale, And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice; At each of which he shrieked so withal, As though the heavens rived with the noise; Till at the last, recovering of his voice, Supping the tears that all his breast berain'd, On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plain'd.

[1] 'Piled:' bare.



JOHN HARRINGTON.

Of Harrington we know only that he was born in 1534 and died in 1582; that he was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth; and after the accession of the latter to the throne, was favoured and promoted by her; and that he has written some pretty verses of an amatory kind.

SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM,

WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS IN THE COURT-YARD.

Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, ''Tis Cupid's fire;' Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek Yet not a heart to save my pain; O Venus, take thy gifts again; Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own.

VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT, MY TRUE FRIEND.

I.

Why didst thou raise such woeful wail, And waste in briny tears thy days? 'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, At last gave proof of woman's ways; She did, in sooth, display the heart That might have wrought thee greater smart.

II.

Why, thank her then, not weep or moan; Let others guard their careless heart, And praise the day that thus made known The faithless hold on woman's art; Their lips can gloze and gain such root, That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.

III.

But, ere the blossom fair doth rise, To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, Creepeth disdain in canker-wise, And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast: There is no hope of all our toil; There is no fruit from such a soil.

IV.

Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er; She might have poison'd all thy life; Such wayward mind had bred thee more Of sorrow, had she proved thy wife: Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, And bless thyself that so art freed.

V.

No youth shall sue such one to win. Unmark'd by all the shining fair, Save for her pride and scorn, such sin As heart of love can never bear; Like leafless plant in blasted shade, So liveth she—a barren maid.



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

All hail to Sidney!—the pink of chivalry—the hero of Zutphen—the author of the 'Arcadia,'—the gifted, courteous, genial and noble-minded man! He was born November 29, 1554, at Penshurst, Kent. His father's name was Henry. He studied at Shrewsbury, at Trinity College, Cambridge, and at Christ Church, Oxford. At the age of eighteen he set out on his travels, and, in the course of three years, visited France, Flanders, Germany, Hungary, and Italy. On his return he was introduced at Court, and became a favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who sent him on an embassy to Germany. He returned home, and shortly after had a quarrel at a tournament with Lord Oxford. But for the interference of the Queen, a duel would have taken place. Sidney was displeased at the issue of the affair, and retired, in 1580, to Wilton, in Wiltshire, where he wrote his famous 'Arcadia,'—that true prose-poem, and a work which, with all its faults, no mere sulky and spoiled child (as some have called him in the matter of this retreat) could ever have produced. This production, written as an outflow of his mind in its self-sought solitude, was never meant for publication, and did not appear till after its author's death. As it was written partly for his sister's amusement, he entitled it 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.' In 1581, Sidney reappeared in Court, and distinguished himself in the jousts and tournaments celebrated in honour of the Duke of Anjou; and on the return of that prince to the Continent, he accompanied him to Antwerp. In 1583 he received the honour of knighthood. He published about this time a tract entitled 'The Defence of Poesy,' which abounds in the element the praise of which it celebrates, and which is, besides, distinguished by acuteness of argument and felicity of expression. In 1585 he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland; but Queen Elizabeth, afraid of 'losing the jewel of her times,' prevented him from accepting this honour, and prevented him also from accompanying Sir Francis Drake on an expedition against the Spanish settlements in America. In the same year, however, she made him Governor of Flushing, and subsequently General of the Cavalry, under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, who commanded the troops sent to assist the oppressed Dutch Protestants against the Spaniards. Here our hero greatly distinguished himself, particularly when capturing, in 1586, the town of Axel. His career, however, was destined to be short. On the 22d of September of the same year he accidentally encountered a convoy of the enemy marching toward Zutphen. In the engagement which followed, his party triumphed; but their brave commander received a shot in the thigh, which shattered the bone. As he was carried from the field, overcome with thirst, he called for water, but while about to apply it to his lips, he saw a wounded soldier carried by who was eagerly eyeing the cup. Sidney, perceiving this, instantly delivered to him the water, saying, in words which would have made an ordinary man immortal, but which give Sir Philip a twofold immortality, 'Thy necessity is greater than mine.' He was carried to Arnheim, and lingered on till October 17, when he died. He was only thirty-two years of age. His death was an earthquake at home. All England wore mourning for him. Queen Elizabeth ordered his remains to be carried to London, and to receive a public funeral in St Paul's. He was identified with the land's Poetry, Politeness, and Protestantism; and all who admired any of the three, sorrowed for Sidney.

Sidney's 'Sonnets and other Poems' contain much that is quaint, but also much that is beautiful and true; yet they are the least poetical of his works. His 'Arcadia' is a glorious unfinished and unpolished wilderness of fancy. It is a vineyard, the scattered clusters of which are so heavy, that, like the grapes of Eshcol of old, they must be carried on a staff. Here is one of those rich clusters:—

'There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; here a shepherd's boy, piping as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess, knitting and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'

From 'The Defence of Poesy' we could cull, did space permit, a hundred passages even superior to the above, full of dexterous reasoning, splendid rhetoric, and subtle fancy, and substantiating all that has been said in favour of Sir Philip Sidney's accomplishments, chivalric earnestness, and richly-endowed genius.

TO SLEEP.

FROM THE 'ARCADIA.'

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.

With shield of proof shield me from out the prease[1] Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

[1] 'Prease:' press, throng.

SONNETS.

I.

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise. Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass; But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

II.

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

III.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

IV.

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address; While with the people's shouts, I must confess, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, 'I would no less. Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries; My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

V.

Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain, And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain: Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so 'fraid, Though strongly hedged of bloody Lion's paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause— But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.

VI.

O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine: And fain those Oeol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, With sight thereof, cried out, 'O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'



ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

Robert Southwell was born in 1560, at St. Faith's, Norfolk. His parents were Roman Catholics, and sent him when very young to be educated at the English College of Douay, in Flanders. Thence he went to Borne, and when sixteen years of age he joined the Society of the Jesuits—a strange bed for the rearing of a poet. In 1585, he was appointed Prefect of Studies, and was soon after despatched as a missionary of his order to England. There, notwithstanding a law condemning to death all members of his profession found in this country, he laboured on for eight years, residing chiefly with Anne, Countess of Arundel, who died afterwards in the Tower. In July 1592, Southwell was arrested in a gentleman's house at Uxendon in Middlesex. He was thrust into a dungeon so filthy that when he was brought out to be examined his clothes were covered with vermin. This made his father—a man of good family—petition Queen Elizabeth that if his son was guilty of anything deserving death he might suffer it, but that, meanwhile, being a gentleman, he should be treated as a gentleman. In consequence of this he was somewhat better lodged, but continued for nearly three years strictly confined to prison; and as the Queen's agents imagined that he was in the secret of some conspiracies against the Government, he was put to the torture ten times. In despair, he entreated to be brought to trial, whereupon Cecil coolly remarked, 'that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' On the 20th of February 1595, he was brought to trial at King's Bench, and having confessed himself a Papist and a Jesuit, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn next day, with all the nameless barbarities enjoined by the treason laws of these unhappy times. He is believed to have borne all his sufferings with unalterable serenity of mind and sweetness of temper. 'It is fitting,' says Burke, 'that those made to suffer should suffer well.' And suffer well throughout all his short life of sorrow, Southwell did.

He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward Irving's 'Preface to Ben Ezra'—that modern Areopagitica—combining the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode—has forgot the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 'The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving translated from Spanish into his own noble English prose, and he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the 'good old Jesuit' in a better world. To this probably small class of exceptions to a general rule (it surely is no uncharity to say this, since the annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with falsehood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that he had any connexion with the treacherous and bloody designs of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with unwearied assiduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits.

His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common in his time —distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and unrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in prison,) rests on the most of his poems.

LOOK HOME.

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.

The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit had equal power of will. Device of man in working hath no end; What thought can think, another thought can mend.

Man's soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to discern this bliss, a native light, To frame God's image as his worth required; His might, his skill, his word and will conspired.

All that he had, his image should present; All that it should present, he could afford; To that he could afford his will was bent; His will was follow'd with performing word. Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, He should, he could, he would, he did the best.

THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.' But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I am used to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual seat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

* * * * *

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core.

* * * * *

May never was the month of love; For May is full of flowers: But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers.

With soothing words, inthralled souls She chains in servile bands! Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain.

[1] 'Fine:' end.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.



THOMAS WATSON.

He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His sonnets—one or two of which we subjoin—have considerable merit; but we agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.

THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday: For though this clime was blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before. O beauteous queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight: O beauteous queen!

Now birds record new harmony, And trees do whistle melody: And everything that nature breeds Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.

SONNET.

Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport, Both shape and life for looking but awry: Diana was afraid he would report What secrets he had seen in passing by. To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, By viewing her for whom I daily die; I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind, Does bear a breast more hard than any stock; And former form of limbs is changed quite By cares in love, and want of due delight. I leave my life, in that each secret thought Which I conceive through wanton fond regard, Doth make me say that life availeth nought, Where service cannot have a due reward. I dare not name the nymph that works my smart, Though love hath graven her name within my heart.