Chapter VI (2)

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.