THOMAS TURBERVILLE.

Of this author—Thomas Turberville—once famous in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, but now almost totally forgotten, and whose works are altogether omitted in most selections, we have preserved a little. He was a voluminous author, having produced, besides many original pieces, a translation of Ovid's Heroical Epistles, from which Warton has selected a short specimen.

IN PRAISE OP THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF WARWICK.

When Nature first in hand did take The clay to frame this Countess' corse, The earth a while she did forsake, And was compell'd of very force, With mould in hand, to flee to skies, To end the work she did devise.

The gods that then in council sate, Were half-amazed, against their kind,[1] To see so near the stool of state Dame Nature stand, that was assign'd Among her worldly imps[2] to wonne,[3] As she until that day had done.

First Jove began: 'What, daughter dear, Hath made thee scorn thy father's will? Why do I see thee, Nature, here, That ought'st of duty to fulfil Thy undertaken charge at home? What makes thee thus abroad to roam?

'Disdainful dame, how didst thou dare, So reckless to depart the ground That is allotted to thy share?' And therewithal his godhead frown'd. 'I will,' quoth Nature, 'out of hand, Declare the cause I fled the land.

'I undertook of late a piece Of clay a featured face to frame, To match the courtly dames of Greece, That for their beauty bear the name; But, O good father, now I see This work of mine it will not be.

'Vicegerent, since you me assign'd Below in earth, and gave me laws On mortal wights, and will'd that kind Should make and mar, as she saw cause: Of right, I think, I may appeal, And crave your help in this to deal.'

When Jove saw how the case did stand, And that the work was well begun, He pray'd to have the helping hand Of other gods till he had done: With willing minds they all agreed, And set upon the clay with speed.

First Jove each limb did well dispose, And makes a creature of the clay; Next, Lady Venus she bestows Her gallant gifts as best she may; From face to foot, from top to toe, She let no whit untouch'd to go.

When Venus had done what she could In making of her carcase brave, Then Pallas thought she might be bold Among the rest a share to have; A passing wit she did convey Into this passing piece of clay.

Of Bacchus she no member had, Save fingers fine and feat[4] to see; Her head with hair Apollo clad, That gods had thought it gold to be: So glist'ring was the tress in sight Of this new form'd and featured wight.

Diana held her peace a space, Until those other gods had done; 'At last,' quoth she, 'in Dian's chase With bow in hand this nymph shall run; And chief of all my noble train I will this virgin entertain.'

Then joyful Juno came and said, 'Since you to her so friendly are, I do appoint this noble maid To match with Mars his peer for war; She shall the Countess Warwick be, And yield Diana's bow to me.'

When to so good effect it came, And every member had his grace, There wanted nothing but a name: By hap was Mercury then in place, That said, 'I pray you all agree, Pandora grant her name to be.

'For since your godheads forged have With one assent this noble dame, And each to her a virtue gave, This term agreeth to the same.' The gods that heard Mercurius tell This tale, did like it passing well.

Report was summon'd then in haste, And will'd to bring his trump in hand, To blow therewith a sounding blast, That might be heard through Brutus' land. Pandora straight the trumpet blew, That each this Countess Warwick knew.

O seely[5] Nature, born to pain, O woful, wretched kind (I say), That to forsake the soil were fain To make this Countess out of clay: But, O most friendly gods, that wold, Vouchsafe to set your hands to mould.

[1] 'Kind:' nature. [2] 'Imps:' children. [3] 'Wonne:' dwell. [4] 'Feat:' neat. [5] 'Seely:' simple.

* * * * *

In reference to the Miscellaneous Pieces which close this period, we need only say that the best of them is 'The Soul's Errand,' and that its authorship is uncertain. It has, with very little evidence in any of the cases, been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh, to Francis Davison, (author of a compilation entitled 'A Poetical Rhapsody,' published in 1593, and where 'The Soul's Errand' first appeared,) and to Joshua Sylvester, who prints it in his volume of verses, with vile interpolations of his own. Its outspoken energy and pithy language render it worthy of any of our poets.

HARPALUS' COMPLAINT OF PHILLIDA'S LOVE BESTOWED ON CORIN, WHO LOVED HER NOT, AND DENIED HIM THAT LOVED HER.

1 Phillida was a fair maid, As fresh as any flower; Whom Harpalus the herdman pray'd To be his paramour.

2 Harpalus, and eke Corin, Were herdmen both yfere:[1] And Phillida would twist and spin, And thereto sing full clear.

3 But Phillida was all too coy For Harpalus to win; For Corin was her only joy, Who forced[2] her not a pin.

4 How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make Of cowslips and of columbine, And all for Conn's sake!

5 But Corin he had hawks to lure, And forced more the field: Of lovers' law he took no cure; For once he was beguiled.

6 Harpalus prevailed nought, His labour all was lost; For he was furthest from her thought, And yet he loved her most.

7 Therefore was he both pale and lean, And dry as clod of clay: His flesh it was consumed clean; His colour gone away.

8 His beard it not long be shave; His hair hung all unkempt: A man most fit even for the grave, Whom spiteful love had shent.[3]

9 His eyes were red, and all forwacht;[4] It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht, His face besprent with tears: In midst of his despairs.

10 His clothes were black, and also bare; As one forlorn was he; Upon his head always he ware A wreath of willow tree.

11 His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sat in the dale; And thus with sighs and sorrows shrill He 'gan to tell his tale.

12 'O Harpalus!' thus would he say; Unhappiest under sun! The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun.

13 'For thou went'st first by suit to seek A tiger to make tame, That sets not by thy love a leek, But makes thy grief a game.

14 'As easy it were for to convert The frost into the flame; As for to turn a froward hert, Whom thou so fain wouldst frame.

15 'Cerin he liveth careless: He leaps among the leaves: He eats the fruits of thy redress: Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves.

16 'My beasts, a while your food refrain, And hark your herdman's sound; Whom spiteful love, alas! hath slain, Through girt with many a wound,

17 'O happy be ye, beastes wild, That here your pasture takes: I see that ye be not beguiled Of these your faithful makes,[5]

18 'The hart he feedeth by the hind: The buck hard by the doe: The turtle-dove is not unkind To him that loves her so.

19 'The ewe she hath by her the ram: The young cow hath the bull: The calf with many a lusty lamb Do feed their hunger full.

20 'But, well-a-way! that nature wrought Thee, Phillida, so fair: For I may say that I have bought Thy beauty all too dear.

21 'What reason is that cruelty With, beauty should have part? Or else that such great tyranny Should dwell in woman's heart?

22 'I see therefore to shape my death She cruelly is prest,[6] To the end that I may want my breath: My days be at the best.

23 'O Cupid, grant this my request, And do not stop thine ears: That she may feel within her breast The pains of my despairs:

24 'Of Corin that is careless, That she may crave her fee: As I have done in great distress, That loved her faithfully.

25 'But since that I shall die her slave, Her slave, and eke her thrall, Write you, my friends, upon my grave This chance that is befall:

26 '"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus, By cruel love now slain: Whom Phillida unjustly thus Hath murder'd with disdain."'

[1] 'Yfere' together. [2] 'Forced' cared for. [3] 'Shent:' spoiled. [4] 'Forwacht:' from much watching. [5] 'Makes:' mates. [6] 'Prest:' ready.

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY.

1 Give place, you ladies, and begone, Boast not yourselves at all, For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.

2 The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.

3 In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.

4 I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.

5 She may be well compared Unto the phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find.

6 In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word, and eke in deed, steadfast; What will you more we say?

7 If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.

8 Her rosial colour comes and goes "With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, Within her lively face."

9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding, as astray.

10 The modest mirth that she doth use, Is mix'd with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.

11 O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.

12 Truly she doth as far exceed Our women now-a-days, As doth the gilliflower a wreed, And more a thousand ways.

13 How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff Which seem good corn to be.

14 This gift alone I shall her give, When death doth what he can: Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.

1 I see there is no sort Of things that live in grief, Which at sometime may not resort Where as they have relief.

2 The stricken deer by kind Of death that stands in awe, For his recure an herb can find The arrow to withdraw.

3 The chased deer hath soil To cool him in his heat; The ass, after his weary toil. In stable is up set.

4 The coney hath its cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list.

5 The owl, with feeble sight, Lies lurking in the leaves, The sparrow in the frosty night May shroud her in the eaves.

6 But woe to me, alas! In sun nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place, My burden to unlade.

7 But day by day still bears The burden on my back, With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, To hold my hope aback.

8 All things I see have place Wherein they bow or bend, Save this, alas! my woful case, Which nowhere findeth end.

FROM 'THE PHOENIX' NEST.'

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure, Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.

FROM THE SAME.

1 The gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, And beautified the land with flowers; The air doth savour with delight, The heavens do smile to see the sight, And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

2 The meads are mantled all with green, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, The birds with feathers new do sing; But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, Attire myself in mourning black, Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

3 And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, Whose hue is with the sun revived; So, in the April of mine age, My lively colours do assuage, Because my sunshine is deprived.

4 My heart, that wonted was of yore, Light as the winds, abroad to soar Amongst the buds, when beauty springs, Now only hovers over you, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

5 When every man is bent to sport, Then, pensive, I alone resort Into some solitary walk, As doth the doleful turtle-dove, Who, having lost her faithful love, Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

6 There to myself I do recount How far my woes my joys surmount, How love requiteth me with hate, How all my pleasures end in pain, How hate doth say my hope is vain, How fortune frowns upon my state.

7 And in this mood, charged with despair, With vapour'd sighs I dim the air, And to the gods make this request, That by the ending of my life, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

2 Go tell the Court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good and doth no good; If Church and Court reply, Then give them both the lie.

3 Tell potentates they live, Acting by others' actions, Not loved, unless they give, Not strong, but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.

4 Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

5 Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.

6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, Tell Love it is but lust, Tell Time it is but motion, Tell Flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

7 Tell Age it daily wasteth, Tell Honour how it alters, Tell Beauty how she blasteth, Tell Favour how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.

8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles In treble points of niceness, Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness; And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.

9 Tell Physic of her boldness, Tell Skill it is pretension, Tell Charity of coldness, Tell Law it is contention; And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.

10 Tell Fortune of her blindness, Tell Nature of decay, Tell Friendship of unkindness, Tell Justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.

11 Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell Schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming; If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.

12 Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell Manhood shakes off pity, Tell Virtue least preferreth; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.

13 And when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill.

* * * * *

SECOND PERIOD.

FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.



FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion with Fletcher afterwards.

After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play entitled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period.

TO BEN JONSON.

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the selfsame thing They know, they see, however absent) is Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this, It is our country's style) in this warm shine I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees, Brink apt to bring in drier heresies Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain, So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone. I think, with one draught man's invention fades: Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades. 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit, Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet; Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms, Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms; And so must I do this: And yet I think It is a potion sent us down to drink, By special Providence, keeps us from fights, Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, A medicine to obey our magistrates: For we do live more free than you; no hate, No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us; we are all equal: every whit Of land that God gives men here is their wit, If we consider fully, for our best And gravest men will with his main house-jest Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too: Here are none that can bear a painted show, Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow; Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind, Can make their gains alike with every wind; Only some fellows with the subtlest pate, Amongst us, may perchance equivocate At selling of a horse, and that's the most. Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest Held up at tennis, which men do the best, With the best gamesters: what things have we seen Done at the Mermaid; heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life: then when there had been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past; wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancell'd; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Eight witty; though but downright fools were wise. When I remember this, * * * I needs must cry I see my days of ballading grow nigh; I can already riddle, and can sing Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring Myself to speak the hardest words I find Over as oft as any with one wind, That takes no medicines, but thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know, Who, like trees of the garden, have growing souls. Only strong Destiny, which all controls, I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. Banish'd unto this home: Fate once again Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain The way of knowledge for me; and then I, Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be, To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee, Ben; when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine; I'll drink thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER.

Mortality, behold and fear, What a charge of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heap of stones: Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, They preach—in greatness is no trust. Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, Though gods they were, as men they died: Here are wands, ignoble things, Dropp'd from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

AN EPITAPH.

Here she lies, whose spotless fame Invites a stone to learn her name: The rigid Spartan that denied An epitaph to all that died, Unless for war, in charity Would here vouchsafe an elegy. She died a wife, but yet her mind, Beyond virginity refined, From lawless fire remain'd as free As now from heat her ashes be: Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest; Till it be call'd for, let it rest; For while this jewel here is set, The grave is like a cabinet.



SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

The verses attributed to this illustrious man are few, and the authenticity of some of them is doubtful. No one, however, who has studied his career, or read his 'History of the World,' can deny him the title of a great poet.

We cannot be expected, in a work of the present kind, to enlarge on a career so well known as that of Sir Walter Kaleigh. He was born in 1552, at Hayes Farm, in Devonshire, and descended from an old family there. He went early to Oxford, but finding its pursuits too tame for his active and enterprising spirit, he left it, and became a soldier at seventeen. For six years he fought on the Protestant side in France, besides serving a campaign in the Netherlands. In 1579, he went a voyage, which proved disastrous, to Newfoundland, in company with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert. There can be no doubt that this early apprenticeship to war and navigation was of material service to the future explorer and historian. In 1580, he fought in Ireland against the Earl of Desmond, who had raised a rebellion there, and on one occasion is said to have defended a ford of Shannon against a whole band of wild Irish rebels, till the stream ran purple with their blood and his own. With the Lord- Deputy, Lord Grey de Wilton, he got into a dispute, and to settle it came over to England. Here high favour awaited him. His handsome appearance, his graceful address, his ready wit and chivalric courtesy, dashed with a fine poetic enthusiasm, (see them admirably pictured in 'Kenilworth,') combined to exalt him in the estimation of Queen Elizabeth. On one occasion he flung his rich plush cloak over a miry part of the way, that she might pass on unsoiled. By this delicate piece of enacted flattery he 'spoiled a cloak and made a fortune.' The Queen sent him, along with some other courtiers, to attend the Duke of Anjou, who had in vain solicited her hand, back to the Netherlands. In 1584, he fitted two ships, and sent them out for the discovery and settlement of those parts of North America not already appropriated by Christian states, and the next year there followed a fleet of seven ships under the command of Sir Richard Grenville, Raleigh's kinsman. The attempt to colonise America at that time failed, but two important things were transplanted through means of the expedition from Virginia to Britain, namely, tobacco and the potato, —the former of which has ever since been offered up in smoky sacrifice to Raleigh's memory throughout the whole world, and the latter of which has become the most valuable of all our vegetable esculents. Raleigh first planted the potato in Ireland, a country of which it has long been the principal food. A ludicrous story is told about this. It is said that he had invited a number of his neighbours to an entertainment, in which the new root was to form a prominent part, but when the feast began Raleigh found, to his horror, that the servants had boiled the plums, a most unsavoury mess, and immediately, we suppose, 'tabulae solvuntur risu.' In 1584 the Queen had knighted him, and shortly after she granted him certain lucrative monopolies, and an estate in Ireland, in addition to one he had possessed for some years. In 1588, he was of material service as one of Her Majesty's Council of War, formed to resist the Spanish Armada, and as one of the volunteers who joined the English fleet with ships of their own. Next year he accompanied a number of his countrymen in an expedition, which had it in view to restore Don Antonio to the throne of Portugal, of which the Spaniards had deprived him. On his return he lost caste considerably, both with the Queen and country, by taking bribes, and otherwise abusing the influence he had acquired at Court. Yet, about this time, his active mind was projecting what he called an 'Office of Address,'—a plan for facilitating the designs of literary and scientific men, promoting intercourse between them, gaining, in short, all those objects which are now secured by our literary associations and philosophical societies. Raleigh was eminently a man before his age, but, alas! his age was too far behind him.

While visiting Ireland, after his expedition to Portugal, he contracted an intimacy with Spenser. (See our 'Life of Spenser,' vol. ii.) In 1592, he commanded a large naval expedition, destined to attack Panama and intercept the Spanish Plate-fleet, but was recalled by the Queen, not, however, till he had seized on an important prize, and, in common parlance, had 'feathered his nest.' On his return he excited Her Majesty's wrath, by an intrigue with Elizabeth Throgmorton, one of the maids of honour, and, although Raleigh afterwards married her, the Queen imprisoned both the offending parties for some months in the Tower. Spenser is believed to allude to this in the 4th Book of his great poem. (See vol. in. of our edition, p. 88.) Even after he was released from the Tower, Raleigh had to leave the Court in disgrace; instead, however, of wasting time in vain regrets, he undertook, at his own expense, an expedition against Guiana, where he captured the city of San Joseph, and which he occupied in the Queen's name. After his return he published an account of his expedition, more distinguished by glowing eloquence than by rigid regard to truth. In 1596, having in some measure regained the Queen's favour, he was appointed to a command in the expedition against Cadiz, under the Earl of Essex. In this, as well as in the expedition against the Spanish Plate-fleet the next year, he won laurels, but was unfortunate enough to excite the jealousy of his Commander-in-Chief. When the favourite got into trouble, Raleigh eagerly joined in the hunt, wrote a letter to Cecil urging him to the destruction of Essex, and witnessed his execution from a window in the Armoury. This is undoubtedly a deep blot on the escutcheon of our hero.

Cecil had been glad of Raleigh's aid in ruining Essex, but he bore him no good-will otherwise, and is said to have poisoned James, who now succeeded to the English throne, against him. Assuredly the new King was no friend of Raleigh's. Stimulated by Cecil, after first depriving him of his office of Captain of the Guards, he brought him to trial for high treason. He was accused of conspiring to establish Popery, to dethrone the King, and to put the crown on the head of Arabella Stewart. Sir Edward Coke, the Attorney-General, led the accusation, and disgraced himself by heaping on Raleigh's head every foul epithet, calling him 'viper,' 'damnable atheist,' 'monster,' 'traitor,' 'spider of hell,' &c., and by his violence, although to his own surprise, as he never expected to gain his cause in full, he browbeat the jury to bring in a verdict of high treason.

Raleigh's defence was a masterpiece of temper, dignity, strength of reasoning, and eloquence, and his enemies were ashamed of the decision to which they had driven the jury. He was therefore reprieved, and committed to the Tower, where his wife was allowed to bear him company, and where his youngest son was born. His estates were, in general, preserved to him, but Carr, the infamous minion of the King, under some pretext of a flaw in the conveyance of it by Raleigh to his son, seized upon his manor of Sherborne. In the Tower he continued for twelve years. These years his industry and genius rendered the happiest probably of his life. Immured in the

'towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed,'

his winged soul soared away, like the dove of the Deluge, over the wild ocean of the past. The Tower confined his body, but this great globe the world seemed too little for the sweep of his spirit. To fill up the vast void which a long imprisonment created around him, and to shew that his powers retained all their elasticity, he projected a work on the largest scale, and with the noblest purpose—'The History of the World.' In this undertaking he found literary men ready to lend him their aid. A hundred hands were generously stretched out to gather materials, and to bring them to the captive in the Tower. Cart-loads of books were sent. One Burrell, formerly his chaplain, assisted him in much of the critical and chronological drudgery. Rugged Ben Jonson sent in a piece of rugged writing on the Punic War, which Raleigh polished and set as a carved stone in his magnificent temple. Some have, on this account, sought to detract from the merit of the author. As if ever an architect could rear a building without hodmen! But in Raleigh's case the hodmen were Titans. 'The best wits in England assisted him in his undertaking;' and what a compliment was this to the strength and stature of the master-builder!

This great work was never finished. The part completed comprehended only the period from the Creation to the Downfall of the Macedonian Empire —one hundred and seventy years before Christ. He tarries too long amidst the misty and mythical ages which precede the dawn of history; his speculations on the site of the original Paradise, on the Flood, &c., are more ingenious than instructive; but his descriptions of the Greek battles—his account of the rise of Rome—the extensive erudition, on all subjects displayed in the book—the many acute, profound, and eloquently-expressed observations which are sprinkled throughout—and the style, massive, dignified, rich, and less involved in structure than that of almost any of his contemporaries—shall always rank it amongst the great literary treasures of the language. It was published in 1614. Besides it, Raleigh was the author of various works, all full of sagacious thought and brilliant imagery, such as 'The Advice to a Son on the Choice of a Wife,' 'The Sceptic,' 'Maxims of State,' &c. At last he was released by the advance of a large sum of money to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, James's favourite; and, to retrieve his fortunes, projected another expedition to America. James granted him a patent, under the Great Seal, for making a settlement in Guiana, but ungenerously did not grant him a pardon for the sentence which had been passed on him for treason. He set sail, 1617, in a ship built by himself, called the Destiny, with eleven other vessels. Having reached the Orinoco, he despatched a portion of his forces to attack the new Spanish settlement of St Thomas. This was captured, with the loss of Raleigh's eldest son. The expected plunder, however, proved of little value; and Sir Walter having in vain attempted to induce his captains to attack other settlements of the Spaniards, was compelled to return home—his golden dreams dissolved, and his prophetic soul forewarning him of the doom that awaited him on his native shores. In July 1618, he landed at Plymouth; 'whence,' says Howell, in his 'Familiar Letters,' 'he thought to make an escape, and some say he tampered with his body by physic to make him look sickly, that he might be the more pitied, and permitted to lie in his own house.' James was at this time seeking the hand of the Infanta for his son Charles, and was naturally disposed to side with the Spanish cause. He was, besides, stirred up by the Spanish ambassador, Count Gondomar, who sent to desire an audience with His Majesty, and said, that he had only one word to say to him. 'The King wondered what could be delivered in one word, whereupon, when he came before him, he said only, "Pirates! pirates! pirates!" and so departed.'

Raleigh consequently was arrested and sent back to his old lodgings in the Tower. He was not tried, as might have been expected, for the new offence of waging war against a power then at amity with England, but James, with consummate meanness and cruelty, determined to revive his former sentence. He was brought before the King's Bench, where his old enemy, Sir Edward Coke, now sat as Chief Justice, and officially condemned him to death. His language, however, was considerably modified to the prisoner. He said, 'I know you have been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your faith hath heretofore been questioned, but I am resolved you are a good Christian; for your book, which is an admirable work, doth testify as much. I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far better than I can give you. Yet will I (with the good neighbour in the Gospel, who, finding one in the way wounded and distressed, poured oil into his wounds and refreshed him) give unto you the oil of comfort, though, in respect that I am a minister of the law, mixed with vinegar.' Such was Coke's comfort to the brave and gifted man who stood untrembling before his bar.

On the 26th of October 1618, the day after his condemnation, Raleigh was beheaded. He met his fate with dignity and composure. Having addressed the multitude in vindication of his conduct, he took up the axe, and said to the sheriff, 'This is a sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all diseases.' He told the executioner that he would give the signal by lifting up his hand, and 'then,' he said, 'fear not, but strike home.' He next laid himself down, but was asked by the executioner to alter the position of the head. 'So the heart be right,' he replied, 'it is no matter which way the head lies.' The headsman became uncertain and tremulous when the signal was given, whereupon Ealeigh exclaimed, 'Why dost thou not strike? Strike, man!' and by two blows that gallant, witty, and richly-stored head was severed from the body. He was in his sixty-fifth year. He had the night before composed the following verse:—

Even such is Time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days.'

Thus perished Sir Walter Raleigh. There has been ever one opinion as to the breadth and brilliance of his genius. His powers were almost universal in their range. He commented on Scripture with the ingenuity of a Talmudist, and wrote love verses (see the lines in Campbell's 'Specimens,' entitled 'Dulcina') with the animus and graceful levity of a Thomas Moore. He was deep at once in 'all the learning of the Egyptians,' and in that of the Greeks and Romans. In his large mind lay dreams of golden lands, which even Australia has not yet fully verified, alongside of maxims of the most practical wisdom. He was learned in all that had been; well-informed as to all that was; and speculative and hopeful as to all that might be and was yet to be. Disgust at the scholastic methods, blended with the adventurous character of his mind, and perhaps also with some looseness of moral principle, led him at one time to the brink of universal scepticism; but disappointment, sorrow, and the solitude of the Tower, made him a sadder and wiser man, and he returned to the verities of the Christian religion. The stains on his character seem to have arisen chiefly from his position. He was, like some greater and some smaller men of eminence, undoubtedly, to a certain extent, a brilliant adventurer—a class to whom justice is seldom done, and against whom every calumny is believed. He was a novus homo, in an age of more than common aristocratic pretence; sprang, indeed, from an ancient family, but possessing nothing himself, save his cloak, his sword, his tact, and his genius. We all know how, in later times, such spirits, kindred in many points to Raleigh, in some superior, and in others inferior—as Burke, Sheridan, and Canning—were used, less for their errors of temper or of life, than because they had gained immense influence, not by birth or favour, but by the force of extraordinary talent and no less remarkable address. Raleigh, however, was undoubtedly imprudent in a high degree. He had once or twice outraged common morality; his enemies were constantly accusing him of gasconading and of 'pride.' His success at first was too early and too easy, and hence a reverse might have been anticipated as certain and as remarkable as his rise had been. His fall ultimately is understood to have been precipitated by the base complicity of James with the Spaniards, who were informed by the King of Raleigh's motions in America, and prepared to counteract them, as well as by the loud-sounding invectives and legal lies of the unscrupulous instruments of his tyrannical power. With all his faults and follies, (of 'crimes,' it has been justly said, Raleigh can hardly be accused,) he stood high in that crowd of giants who illustrated the reign of the Amazonian Queen. What an age it was! Bacon, with still brighter powers, and far darker and meaner faults than Raleigh, was sitting on the woolsack in body, while his spirit was presiding over the half-born philosophies of the future, and beholding the cold rod of Induction blossom in an after-day into the Aaronic flowers and fruits of a magnificent science; Cecil was nodding out wisdom or transcendental craft in the Cabinet; Sir Philip Sidney was carrying the spirit of 'Arcadia' into the field of battle; Spenser was dreaming his one beautiful lifelong Dream; and Shakspeare was holding up his calm mirror to the heart of man and the universe of nature; while, on the prow of the British vessel, carrying on those lofty spirits and enterprises, there appeared a daring mariner, the Poet and 'Shepherd of the Ocean,' with bright eye, sanguine countenance, step treading the deck like a throne, and look contemplating the sunset, as if it were the dawning, and the Evening, as if it were the Morning Star. It was the hopeful and the brilliant Raleigh, who, while he 'opened up to Europe the New World, was the historian of the Old.' Alas that this illustrious 'Marinere' was doomed to a life so troubled and a death so dreadful, and that the glory of one of England's prodigies is for ever bound up with the disgrace of one of England's and Scotland's princes!

THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.

1 Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldling's sports; Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be.

2 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find.

3 Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake, But blustering care could never tempest make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us.

* * * * *

4 Blest silent groves! oh, may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery! May pure contents, For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Find when we come a-fishing here.

THE SILENT LOVER.

1 Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come; They that are rich in words must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

2 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion.

3 Since if my plaints were not t' approve The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But fear t' exceed my duty.

4 For not knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection As all desire, but none deserve A place in her affection,

5 I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; Where glory recommends the grief, Despair disdains the healing.

6 Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

7 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love for secret passion; He smarteth most who hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.

A VISION UPON 'THE FAIRY QUEEN.'

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn: and passing by that way To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen, For they this Queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, And cursed the access of that celestial thief.

LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.

1 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?

2 Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, too; If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be?

3 Were her hand as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake, And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be?

4 No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show; Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be!



JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

Joshua Sylvester is the next in the list of our imperfectly-known, but real poets. Very little is known of his history. He was a merchant- adventurer, and died at Middleburg, aged fifty-five, in 1618. He is said to have applied, in 1597, for the office of secretary to a trading company in Stade, and to have been, on this occasion, patronised by the Earl of Essex. He was at one time attached to the English Court as a pensioner of Prince Henry. He is said to have been driven abroad by the severity of his satires. He seems to have had a sweet flow of conversational eloquence, and hence was called 'The Silver-tongued.' He was an eminent linguist, and wrote his dedications in various languages. He published a large volume of poems, very unequal in their value, and inserted in it 'The Soul's Errand,' with interpolations, as we have seen, which prove it not to be his own. His great work is the translation of the 'Divine Weeks and Works' of the French poet, Du Bartas, which is a marvellous medley of flatness and force—of childish weakness and soaring genius—with more seed poetry in it than any poem we remember, except 'Festus,' the chaos of a hundred poetic worlds. There can be little doubt that Milton was familiar with this work in boyhood, and many remarkable coincidences have been pointed out between it and 'Paradise Lost.' Sylvester was a Puritan, and his publisher, Humphrey Lownes, who lived in the same street with Milton's father, belonged to the same sect; and, as Campbell remarks, 'it is easily to be conceived that Milton often repaired to the shop of Lownes, and there met with the pious didactic poem.' The work, therefore, some specimens of which we subjoin, is interesting, both in itself, and as having been the prima stamina of the great masterpiece of English poetry.

TO RELIGION.

1 Religion, O thou life of life, How worldlings, that profane thee rife, Can wrest thee to their appetites! How princes, who thy power deny, Pretend thee for their tyranny, And people for their false delights!

2 Under thy sacred name, all over, The vicious all their vices cover; The insolent their insolence, The proud their pride, the false their fraud, The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, The impudent, their impudence.

3 Ambition under thee aspires, And Avarice under thee desires; Sloth under thee her ease assumes, Lux under thee all overflows, Wrath under thee outrageous grows, All evil under thee presumes.

4 Religion, erst so venerable, What art thou now but made a fable, A holy mask on folly's brow, Where under lies Dissimulation, Lined with all abomination. Sacred Religion, where art thou?

5 Not in the church with Simony, Not on the bench with Bribery, Nor in the court with Machiavel, Nor in the city with deceits, Nor in the country with debates; For what hath Heaven to do with Hell?

ON MAN'S RESEMBLANCE TO GOD. (FROM DU BARTAS.)

O complete creature! who the starry spheres Canst make to move, who 'bove the heavenly bears Extend'st thy power, who guidest with thy hand The day's bright chariot, and the nightly brand: This curious lust to imitate the best And fairest works of the Almightiest, By rare effects bears record of thy lineage And high descent; and that his sacred image Was in thy soul engraven, when first his Spirit, The spring of life, did in thy limbs inspire it. For, as his beauties are past all compare, So is thy soul all beautiful and fair: As he's immortal, and is never idle, Thy soul's immortal, and can brook no bridle Of sloth, to curb her busy intellect: He ponders all; thou peizest[1] each effect: And thy mature and settled sapience Hath some alliance with his providence: He works by reason, thou by rule: he's glory Of the heavenly stages, thou of th' earthly story: He's great High Priest, thou his great vicar here: He's sovereign Prince, and thou his viceroy dear.

For soon as ever he had framed thee, Into thy hands he put this monarchy: Made all the creatures know thee for their lord, And come before thee of their own accord: And gave thee power as master, to impose Fit sense-full names unto the host that rows In watery regions; and the wand'ring herds Of forest people; and the painted birds: Oh, too, too happy! had that fall of thine Not cancell'd so the character divine.

But, since our souls' now sin-obscured light Shines through the lanthorn of our flesh so bright; What sacred splendour will this star send forth, When it shall shine without this vail of earth? The Soul here lodged is like a man that dwells In an ill air, annoy'd with noisome smells; In an old house, open to wind and weather; Never in health not half an hour together: Or, almost, like a spider who, confined In her web's centre, shakes with every wind; Moves in an instant, if the buzzing fly Stir but a string of her lawn canopy.

[1] 'Peizest:' weighest.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Thou radiant coachman, running endless course, Fountain of heat, of light the lively source, Life of the world, lamp of this universe, Heaven's richest gem: oh, teach me where my verse May but begin thy praise: Alas! I fare Much like to one that in the clouds doth stare To count the quails, that with their shadow cover The Italian sea, when soaring hither over, Fain of a milder and more fruitful clime, They come with us to pass the summer time: No sooner he begins one shoal to sum, But, more and more, still greater shoals do come, Swarm upon swarm, that with their countless number Break off his purpose, and his sense encumber.

Day's glorious eye! even as a mighty king About his country stately progressing, Is compass'd round with dukes, earls, lords, and knights, (Orderly marshall'd in their noble rites,) Esquires and gentlemen, in courtly kind, And then his guard before him and behind. And there is nought in all his royal muster, But to his greatness addeth grace and lustre: So, while about the world thou ridest aye, Which only lives through virtue of thy ray, Six heavenly princes, mounted evermore, Wait on thy coach, three behind, three before; Besides the host of th' upper twinklers bright, To whom, for pay, thou givest only light. And, even as man (the little world of cares) Within the middle of the body bears His heart, the spring of life, which with proportion Supplieth spirits to all, and every portion: Even so, O Sun, thy golden chariot marches Amid the six lamps of the six low arches Which seele the world, that equally it might Richly impart them beauty, force, and light.

Praising thy heat, which subtilly doth pierce The solid thickness of our universe: Which in the earth's kidneys mercury doth burn, And pallid sulphur to bright metal turn; I do digress, to praise that light of thine, Which if it should but one day cease to shine, Th' unpurged air to water would resolve, And water would the mountain tops involve.

Scarce I begin to measure thy bright face Whose greatness doth so oft earth's greatness pass, And which still running the celestial ring, Is seen and felt of every living thing; But that fantastic'ly I change my theme To sing the swiftness of thy tireless team, To sing how, rising from the Indian wave, Thou seem'st (O Titan) like a bridegroom brave, Who, from his chamber early issuing out In rich array, with rarest gems about, With pleasant countenance and lovely face, With golden tresses and attractive grace, Cheers at his coming all the youthful throng That for his presence earnestly did long, Blessing the day, and with delightful glee, Singing aloud his epithalamie.



RICHARD BARNFIELD.

Of him we only know that he published several poetical volumes between 1594 and 1598. We give one beautiful piece, 'To a Nightingale,' which used to be attributed to Shakspeare.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. 'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; 'Teru, teru,' by and by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend: But, if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call; And with such-like flattering, 'Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown: They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need; If thou sorrow, he will weep, If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus, of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.



ALEXANDER HUME.

This Scottish poet was the second son of Patrick, fifth Baron of Polwarth. He was born about the middle of the sixteenth century, and died in 1609. He resided for some years, in the early part of his life, in France. Returning home, he studied law, and then tried his fortune at Court. Here he was eclipsed by a rival, named Montgomery; and after assailing his rival, who rejoined, in verse, he became a clergyman in disgust, and was settled in the parish of Logie. Here he darkened into a sour and savage Calvinist, and uttered an exhortation to the youth of Scotland to forego the admiration of classical heroes, and to read no love-poetry save the 'Song of Solomon.' In another poetic walk, however, that of natural description, Hume excelled, and we print with pleasure some parts of his 'Summer's Day,' which our readers may compare with Mr Aird's fine poem under the same title, and be convinced that the sky of Scotland was as blue, and the grass as green, and Scottish eyes as quick to perceive their beauty, in the sixteenth century as now.

THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY.

1 O perfect light which shade[1] away The darkness from the light, And set a ruler o'er the day, Another o'er the night.

2 Thy glory, when the day forth flies, More vively does appear, Nor[2] at mid-day unto our eyes The shining sun is clear.

3 The shadow of the earth anon Removes and drawis by, Syne[3] in the east, when it is gone, Appears a clearer sky.

4 Which soon perceive the little larks, The lapwing, and the snipe, And tune their song like Nature's clerks, O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

5 But every bold nocturnal beast No longer may abide, They hie away both maist and least,[4] Themselves in house to hide.

* * * * *

6 The golden globe incontinent Sets up his shining head, And o'er the earth and firmament Displays his beams abroad.[5]

7 For joy the birds with boulden[6] throats, Against his visage sheen,[7] Take up their kindly music notes In woods and gardens green.

8 Upbraids[8] the careful husbandman, His corn and vines to see, And every timeous[9] artisan In booths works busily.

9 The pastor quits the slothful sleep, And passes forth with speed, His little camow-nosed[10] sheep, And rowting kye[11] to feed.

10 The passenger, from perils sure, Goes gladly forth the way, Brief, every living creaeture Takes comfort of the day.

* * * * *

11 The misty reek,[12] the clouds of rain From tops of mountain skails,[13] Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapours take the vales.

12 Begaired[14] is the sapphire pend[15] With spraings[16] of scarlet hue; And preciously from end to end, Damasked white and blue.

13 The ample heaven, of fabric sure, In clearness does surpass The crystal and the silver, pure As clearest polish'd glass.

14 The time so tranquil is and clear, That nowhere shall ye find, Save on a high and barren hill, The air of passing wind.

15 All trees and simples, great and small, That balmy leaf do bear, Than they were painted on a wall, No more they move or steir.[17]

16 The rivers fresh, the caller[18] streams, O'er rocks can swiftly rin,[19] The water clear like crystal beams, And makes a pleasant din.

* * * * *

17 Calm is the deep and purple sea, Yea, smoother than the sand; The waves, that woltering[20] wont to be, Are stable like the land.

18 So silent is the cessile air, That every cry and call, The hills and dales, and forest fair, Again repeats them all.

19 The clogged busy humming bees, That never think to drown,[21] On flowers and flourishes of trees, Collect their liquor brown.

20 The sun most like a speedy post With ardent course ascends; The beauty of our heavenly host Up to our zenith tends.

* * * * *

21 The breathless flocks draw to the shade And freshure[22] of their fauld;[23] The startling nolt, as they were mad, Run to the rivers cauld.

22 The herds beneath some leafy trees, Amidst the flowers they lie; The stable ships upon the seas Tend up their sails to dry.

23 The hart, the hind, the fallow-deer, Are tapish'd[24] at their rest; The fowls and birds that made thee beare,[25] Prepare their pretty nest.

24 The rayons dure[26] descending down, All kindle in a gleid;[27] In city, nor in burrough town, May none set forth their head.

25 Back from the blue pavemented whun,[28] And from ilk plaster wall, The hot reflexing of the sun Inflames the air and all.

26 The labourers that timely rose, All weary, faint, and weak, For heat down to their houses goes, Noon-meat and sleep to take.

27 The caller[29] wine in cave is sought, Men's brothing[30] breasts to cool; The water cold and clear is brought, And sallads steeped in ule.[31]

28 With gilded eyes and open wings, The cock his courage shows; With claps of joy his breast he dings,[32] And twenty times he crows.

29 The dove with whistling wings so blue, The winds can fast collect, Her purple pens turn many a hue Against the sun direct.

30 Now noon is gone—gone is mid-day, The heat does slake at last, The sun descends down west away, For three o'clock is past.

* * * * *

31 The rayons of the sun we see Diminish in their strength, The shade of every tower and tree Extended is in length.

32 Great is the calm, for everywhere The wind is setting down, The reek[33] throws up right in the air, From every tower and town.

33 The mavis and the philomeen,[34] The starling whistles loud, The cushats[35] on the branches green, Full quietly they crood.[36]

34 The gloamin[37] comes, the clay is spent, The sun goes out of sight, And painted is the occident With purple sanguine bright.

* * * * *

35 The scarlet nor the golden thread, Who would their beauty try, Are nothing like the colour red And beauty of the sky.

* * * * *

36 What pleasure then to walk and see, Endlong[38] a river clear, The perfect form of every tree Within the deep appear.

37 The salmon out of cruives[39] and creels[40] Uphauled into scouts;[41] The bells and circles on the weills,[42] Through leaping of the trouts.

38 O sure it were a seemly thing, While all is still and calm, The praise of God to play and sing With trumpet and with shalm.

39 Through all the land great is the gild[43] Of rustic folks that cry; Of bleating sheep, from they be fill'd, Of calves and rowting kye.

40 All labourers draw home at even, And can to others say, Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Who sent this summer day.

[1] 'Shade:' for shaded. [2] 'Nor:' than. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Maist and least:' largest and smallest. [5] 'Abread:' abroad. [6] 'Boulden:' emboldened. [7] 'Sheen:' shining. [8] 'Upbraids:' uprises. [9] 'Timeous:' early. [10]'Camow-nosed:' flat-nosed. [11]'Rowting kye:' lowing kine. [12]'Reek:' fog. [13]'Skails:' dissipates. [14]'Begaired:' dressed out. [15]'Pend:' arch. [16]'Spraings:' streaks. [17] 'Steir:' stir. [18] 'Caller:' cool. [19] 'Rin:' run. [20] 'Woltering:' tumbling. [21] 'Drown:' drone, be idle. [22] 'Freshure:' freshness. [23] 'Fauld:' fold. [24] 'Tapish'd:' stretched as on a carpet. [25] 'Beare:' sound, music. [26] 'Rayons dure:' hard or keen rays. [27] 'Gleid:' fire. [28] 'Whun:' whinstone. [29] 'Caller:' cool. [30] 'Brothing:' burning. [31] 'Ule:' oil. [32] 'Dings:' beats. [33] 'Reek:' smoke. [34] 'The mavis and the philomeen:' thrush and nightingale. [35] 'Cushats:' wood-pigeons. [36] 'Crood:' coo. [37] 'Gloamin:' evening. [38] 'Endlong:' along. [39] 'Cruives:' cages for catching fish. [40] 'Creels:' baskets. [41] 'Scouts:' small boats or yawls. [42] 'Weills:' eddies. [43] 'Gild:' throng.

* * * * *

OTHER SCOTTISH POETS.

About the same time with Hume flourished two or three poets in Scotland of considerable merit, such as Alexander Scott, author of satires and amatory poems, and called sometimes the 'Scottish Anacreon;' Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, father of the famous Secretary Lethington, who, in his advanced years, composed and dictated to his daughter a few moral and conversational pieces, and who collected, besides, into a MS. which bears his name, the productions of some of his contemporaries; and Alexander Montgomery, author of an allegorical poem, entitled 'The Cherry and the Slae.'

The allegory is not well managed, but some of the natural descriptions are sweet and striking. Take the two following stanzas as a specimen:—

'The cushat croods, the corbie cries, The cuckoo conks, the prattling pies To geck there they begin; The jargon of the jangling jays, The cracking craws and keckling kays, They deav'd me with their din; The painted pawn, with Argus eyes, Can on his May-cock call, The turtle wails, on wither'd trees, And Echo answers all. Repeating, with greeting, How fair Narcissus fell, By lying, and spying His shadow in the well.

'The air was sober, saft, and sweet, Nae misty vapours, wind, nor weet, But quiet, calm, and clear; To foster Flora's fragrant flowers, Whereon Apollo's paramours Had trinkled mony a tear; The which, like silver shakers, shined, Embroidering Beauty's bed, Wherewith their heavy heads declined, In Maye's colours clad; Some knopping, some dropping Of balmy liquor sweet, Excelling and smelling Through Phoebus' wholesome heat.'

The 'Cherry and the Slae' was familiar to Burns, who often, our readers will observe, copied its form of verse.



SAMUEL DANIEL.

This ingenious person was born in 1562, near Taunton, in Somersetshire. His father was a music-master. He was patronised by the noble family of Pembroke, who probably also maintained him at college. He went to Magdalene Hall, Oxford, in 1579; and after studying there, chiefly history and poetry, for seven years, he left without a degree. When twenty-three years of age, he translated Paulus Jovius' 'Discourse of Rare Inventions.' He became tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, the elegant and accomplished daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. She, at his death, raised a monument to his memory, and recorded on it, with pride, that she had been his pupil. After Spenser died, Daniel became a 'voluntary laureat' to the Court, producing masques and pageants, but was soon supplanted by 'rare Ben Jonson.' In 1603 he was appointed Master of the Queen's Revels and Inspector of the Plays to be enacted by juvenile performers. He was also promoted to be Gentleman Extraordinary and Groom of the Chambers to the Queen. He was a varied and voluminous writer, composing plays, miscellaneous poems, and prose compositions, including a 'Defence of Rhyme' and a 'History of England,'—an honest, but somewhat dry and dull production. While composing his works he resided in Old Street, St Luke's, which was then thought a suburban residence; but he was often in town, and mingled on intimate terms with Selden and Shakspeare. When approaching sixty, he took a farm at Beckington, in Somersetshire—his native shire—and died there in 1619.

Daniel's Plays and History are now, as wholes, forgotten, although the former contained some vigorous passages, such as Richard II.'s soliloquy on the morning of his murder in Pomfret Castle. His smaller pieces and his Sonnets shew no ordinary poetic powers.

RICHARD II., THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN POMFRET CASTLE.

Whether the soul receives intelligence, By her near genius, of the body's end, And so imparts a sadness to the sense, Foregoing ruin, whereto it doth tend; Or whether nature else hath conference With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, And gives the heavv careful heart to fear:—

However, so it is, the now sad king, Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground; Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering; Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound; His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick, And much he ails, and yet he is not sick.

The morning of that day which was his last, After a weary rest, rising to pain, Out at a little grate his eyes he cast Upon those bordering hills and open plain, Where others' liberty makes him complain The more his own, and grieves his soul the more, Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor.

'O happy man,' saith he, 'that lo I see, Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields, If he but knew his good. How blessed he That feels not what affliction greatness yields! Other than what he is he would not be, Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. Thine, thine is that true life: that is to live, To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve.

'Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none: And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire Of my restraint, why here I live alone, And pitiest this my miserable fall; For pity must have part—envy not all.

'Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, And have no venture in the wreck you see; No interest, no occasion to deplore Other men's travails, while yourselves sit free. How much doth your sweet rest make us the more To see our misery and what we be: Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil.'

EARLY LOVE.

Ah, I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well?) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and conceived Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail, And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: and thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness! Yet still would give me flowers, still would show What she would have me, yet not have me know.

SELECTIONS FROM SONNETS.

I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither, Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise: Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: Sacred on earth; design'd a saint above; Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my anguish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my care, return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth; Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torments of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of to-morrow; Never let the rising sun prove you liars, To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.



SIR JOHN DAVIES.

This knight, says Campbell, 'wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on the "Art of Dancing." Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Moliere's comedy, exclaim, "La philosophie est quelque chose—mais la danse!" This, however, is more pointed than correct, since the first of these poems was written in 1592, when the author was only twenty-two years of age, and the latter appeared in 1599, when he was only twenty-nine.

Tisbury, in Wiltshire, was the birthplace of this poet, and 1570 the date of his birth. His father was a practising lawyer. John was expelled from the Temple for beating one Richard Martyn, afterwards Recorder, but was restored, and subsequently elected for Parliament. In 1592, as aforesaid, appeared his poem, 'Nosce Teipsum; or, The Immortality of the Soul.' Its fame soon travelled to Scotland; and when Davies, along with Lord Hunsdon, visited that country, James received him most graciously as the author of 'Nosce Teipsum.' His history became, for some time, a list of promotions. He was appointed, in 1603, first Solicitor and then Attorney-General in Ireland, was next made Sergeant, was then knighted, then appointed King's Sergeant, next elected representative of the county of Fermanagh, and, in fine, after a violent contest between the Roman Catholic and Protestant parties, was chosen Speaker of the House of Commons in the Protestant interest. While in Ireland he married Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, who turned out a raving prophetess, and was sent, in 1649, to the Tower, and then to Bethlehem Hospital, by the Revolutionary Government. In 1616, Sir John returned to England, continued to practise as a barrister, sat in Parliament for Newcastle- under-Lyne, and received a promise of being made Chief-Justice of England; but was suddenly cut off by apoplexy in 1626.

His poem on dancing, which was written in fifteen days, and left a fragment, is a piece of beautiful, though somewhat extravagant fancy. His 'Nosce Teipsum,' if it casts little new light, and rears no demonstrative argument on the grand and difficult problem of immortality, is full of ingenuity, and has many apt and memorable similes. Feeling he happily likens to the

'subtle spider, which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.'

In answering an objection, 'Why, if souls continue to exist, do they not return and bring us news of that strange world?' he replies—

'But as Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more, Did show she footing found, for all the flood, So when good souls, departed through death's door, Come not again, it shows their dwelling good.'

The poem is interesting from the musical use he makes of the quatrain, a form of verse in which Dryden afterwards wrote his 'Annus Mirabilis,' and as one of the earliest philosophical poems in the language. It is proverbially difficult to reason in verse, but Davies reasons, if not always with conclusive result, always with energy and skill.

INTRODUCTION TO THE POEM ON THE SOUL OF MAN.

1 The lights of heaven, which are the world's fair eyes, Look down into the world, the world to see; And as they turn or wander in the skies, Survey all things that on this centre be.

2 And yet the lights which in my tower do shine, Mine eyes, which view all objects nigh and far, Look not into this little world of mine, Nor see my face, wherein they fixed are.

3 Since Nature fails us in no needful thing, Why want I means my inward self to see? Which sight the knowledge of myself might bring, Which to true wisdom is the first degree.

4 That Power, which gave me eyes the world to view, To view myself, infused an inward light, Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true, Of her own form may take a perfect sight.

5 But as the sharpest eye discerneth nought, Except the sunbeams in the air do shine; So the best soul, with her reflecting thought, Sees not herself without some light divine.

6 O light, which mak'st the light which makes the day! Which sett'st the eye without, and mind within, Lighten my spirit with one clear heavenly ray, Which now to view itself doth first begin.

7 For her true form how can my spark discern, Which, dim by nature, art did never clear, When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn, Are ignorant both what she is, and where?

8 One thinks the soul is air; another fire; Another blood, diffused about the heart; Another saith, the elements conspire, And to her essence each doth give a part.

9 Musicians think our souls are harmonies; Physicians hold that they complexions be; Epicures make them swarms of atomies, Which do by chance into our bodies flee.

10 Some think one general soul fills every brain, As the bright sun sheds light in every star; And others think the name of soul is vain, And that we only well-mix'd bodies are.

11 In judgment of her substance thus they vary; And thus they vary in judgment of her seat; For some her chair up to the brain do carry, Some thrust it down into the stomach's heat.

12 Some place it in the root of life, the heart; Some in the liver, fountain of the veins; Some say, she's all in all, and all in every part; Some say, she's not contain'd, but all contains.

13 Thus these great clerks their little wisdom show, While with their doctrines they at hazard play; Tossing their light opinions to and fro, To mock the lewd, as learn'd in this as they.

14 For no crazed brain could ever yet propound, Touching the soul, so vain and fond a thought; But some among these masters have been found, Which in their schools the selfsame thing have taught.

15 God only wise, to punish pride of wit, Among men's wits hath this confusion wrought, As the proud tower whose points the clouds did hit, By tongues' confusion was to ruin brought.

16 But thou which didst man's soul of nothing make, And when to nothing it was fallen again, 'To make it new, the form of man didst take; And, God with God, becam'st a man with men.'

17 Thou that hast fashion'd twice this soul of ours, So that she is by double title thine, Thou only know'st her nature and her powers, Her subtle form thou only canst define.

18 To judge herself, she must herself transcend, As greater circles comprehend the less; But she wants power her own powers to extend, As fetter'd men cannot their strength express.

19 But thou bright morning Star, thou rising Sun, Which in these later times hast brought to light Those mysteries that, since the world begun, Lay hid in darkness and eternal night:

20 Thou, like the sun, dost with an equal ray Into the palace and the cottage shine, And show'st the soul, both to the clerk and lay, By the clear lamp of oracle divine.

21 This lamp, through all the regions of my brain, Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace, As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain Each subtle line of her immortal face.

22 The soul a substance and a spirit is, Which God himself doth in the body make, Which makes the man; for every man from this The nature of a man and name doth take.

23 And though this spirit be to the body knit, As an apt means her powers to exercise, Which are life, motion, sense, and will, and wit, Yet she survives, although the body dies.

THE SELF-SUBSISTENCE OF THE SOUL.

1 She is a substance, and a real thing, Which hath itself an actual working might, Which neither from the senses' power doth spring, Nor from the body's humours temper'd right.

2 She is a vine, which doth no propping need, To make her spread herself, or spring upright; She is a star, whose beams do not proceed From any sun, but from a native light.

3 For when she sorts things present with things past, And thereby things to come doth oft foresee; When she doth doubt at first, and choose at last, These acts her own,[1] without her body be.

4 When of the dew, which the eye and ear do take, From flowers abroad, and bring into the brain, She doth within both wax and honey make: This work is hers, this is her proper pain.

5 When she from sundry acts, one skill doth draw; Gathering from divers fights one art of war; From many cases like, one rule of law; These her collections, not the senses' are.

6 When in the effects she doth the causes know; And seeing the stream, thinks where the spring doth rise; And seeing the branch, conceives the root below: These things she views without the body's eyes.

7 When she, without a Pegasus, doth fly Swifter than lightning's fire from east to west; About the centre, and above the sky, She travels then, although the body rest.

8 When all her works she formeth first within, Proportions them, and sees their perfect end; Ere she in act doth any part begin, What instruments doth then the body lend?

9 When without hands she doth thus castles build, Sees without eyes, and without feet doth run; When she digests the world, yet is not fill'd: By her own powers these miracles are done.

10 When she defines, argues, divides, compounds, Considers virtue, vice, and general things; And marrying divers principles and grounds, Out of their match a true conclusion brings.

11 These actions in her closet, all alone, Retired within herself, she doth fulfil; Use of her body's organs she hath none, When she doth use the powers of wit and will.

12 Yet in the body's prison so she lies, As through the body's windows she must look, Her divers powers of sense to exercise, By gathering notes out of the world's great book.

13 Nor can herself discourse or judge of ought, But what the sense collects, and home doth bring; And yet the powers of her discoursing thought, From these collections is a diverse thing.

14 For though our eyes can nought but colours see, Yet colours give them not their power of sight; So, though these fruits of sense her objects be, Yet she discerns them by her proper light.

15 The workman on his stuff his skill doth show, And yet the stuff gives not the man his skill; Kings their affairs do by their servants know, But order them by their own royal will.

16 So, though this cunning mistress, and this queen, Doth, as her instruments, the senses use, To know all things that are felt, heard, or seen; Yet she herself doth only judge and choose.

17 Even as a prudent emperor, that reigns By sovereign title over sundry lands, Borrows, in mean affairs, his subjects' pains, Sees by their eyes, and writeth by their hands:

18 But things of weight and consequence indeed, Himself doth in his chamber then debate; Where all his counsellors he doth exceed, As far in judgment, as he doth in state.

19 Or as the man whom princes do advance, Upon their gracious mercy-seat to sit, Doth common things of course and circumstance, To the reports of common men commit:

20 But when the cause itself must be decreed, Himself in person in his proper court, To grave and solemn hearing doth proceed, Of every proof, and every by-report.

21 Then, like God's angel, he pronounceth right, And milk and honey from his tongue doth flow: Happy are they that still are in his sight, To reap the wisdom which his lips doth sow.

22 Right so the soul, which is a lady free, And doth the justice of her state maintain: Because the senses ready servants be, Attending nigh about her court, the brain:

23 By them the forms of outward things she learns, For they return unto the fantasy, Whatever each of them abroad discerns, And there enrol it for the mind to see.

24 But when she sits to judge the good and ill, And to discern betwixt the false and true, She is not guided by the senses' skill, But doth each thing in her own mirror view.

25 Then she the senses checks, which oft do err, And even against their false reports decrees; And oft she doth condemn what they prefer; For with a power above the sense she sees.

26 Therefore no sense the precious joys conceives, Which in her private contemplations be; For then the ravish'd spirit the senses leaves, Hath her own powers, and proper actions free.

27 Her harmonies are sweet, and full of skill, When on the body's instruments she plays; But the proportions of the wit and will, Those sweet accords are even the angels' lays.

28 These tunes of reason are Amphion's lyre, Wherewith he did the Theban city found: These are the notes wherewith the heavenly choir, The praise of Him which made the heaven doth sound.

29 Then her self-being nature shines in this, That she performs her noblest works alone: 'The work, the touchstone of the nature is; And by their operations things are known.'

[1] That the soul hath a proper operation without the body.

SPIRITUALITY OF THE SOUL.

1 But though this substance be the root of sense, Sense knows her not, which doth but bodies know: She is a spirit, and heavenly influence, Which from the fountain of God's Spirit doth flow.

2 She is a spirit, yet not like air or wind; Nor like the spirits about the heart or brain; Nor like those spirits which alchymists do find, When they in everything seek gold in vain.

3 For she all natures under heaven doth pass, Being like those spirits, which God's bright face do see, Or like Himself, whose image once she was, Though now, alas! she scarce his shadow be.

4 For of all forms, she holds the first degree, That are to gross, material bodies knit; Yet she herself is bodiless and free; And, though confined, is almost infinite.

5 Were she a body,[1] how could she remain Within this body, which is less than she? Or how could she the world's great shape contain, And in our narrow breasts contained be?

6 All bodies are confined within some place, But she all place within herself confines: All bodies have their measure and their space; But who can draw the soul's dimensive lines?

7 No body can at once two forms admit, Except the one the other do deface; But in the soul ten thousand forms do fit, And none intrudes into her neighbour's place.

8 All bodies are with other bodies fill'd, But she receives both heaven and earth together: Nor are their forms by rash encounter spill'd, For there they stand, and neither toucheth either.

9 Nor can her wide embracements filled be; For they that most and greatest things embrace, Enlarge thereby their mind's capacity, As streams enlarged, enlarge the channel's space.

10 All things received, do such proportion take, As those things have, wherein they are received: So little glasses little faces make, And narrow webs on narrow frames are weaved.

11 Then what vast body must we make the mind, Wherein are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and lands; And yet each thing a proper place doth find, And each thing in the true proportion stands?

12 Doubtless, this could not be, but that she turns Bodies to spirits, by sublimation strange; As fire converts to fire the things it burns: As we our meats into our nature change.

13 From their gross matter she abstracts the forms, And draws a kind of quintessence from things, Which to her proper nature she transforms, To bear them light on her celestial wings.

14 This doth she, when, from things particular, She doth abstract the universal kinds, Which bodiless and immaterial are, And can be only lodged within our minds.

15 And thus from divers accidents and acts, Which do within her observation fall, She goddesses and powers divine abstracts; As nature, fortune, and the virtues all.

16 Again; how can she several bodies know, If in herself a body's form she bear? How can a mirror sundry faces show, If from all shapes and forms it be not clear?

17 Nor could we by our eyes all colours learn, Except our eyes were of all colours void; Nor sundry tastes can any tongue discern, Which is with gross and bitter humours cloy'd.

18 Nor can a man of passions judge aright, Except his mind be from all passions free: Nor can a judge his office well acquit, If he possess'd of either party be.

19 If, lastly, this quick power a body were, Were it as swift as in the wind or fire, Whose atoms do the one down sideways bear, And the other make in pyramids aspire;