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Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast,
Do not thy God forget,

But search within thy secret thoughts,

What deeds did thee befall,
And if thou find amiss in aught,
To God for mercy call.

Yea, though thou findest nought amiss
Which thou canst call to mind,
Yet evermore remember this,
There is the more behind:

And think how well soe'er it be
That thou hast spent the day,
It came of God, and not of thee,
So to direct thy way.

Thus if thou try thy daily deeds,
And pleasure in this pain,

Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds,
And thine shall be the gain:

But if thy sinful, sluggish eye,
Will venture for to wink,
Before thy wading will may try

How far thy soul may sink,
Beware and wake,1 for else thy bed,

Which soft and smooth is made,
May heap more harm upon thy head
Than blows of en'my's blade.

Thus if this pain procure thine ease,
In bed as thou dost lie,

Perhaps it shall not God displease,
To sing thus soberly:

'I see that sleep is lent me here,
To ease my weary bones,

1 Wake:' watch.

As death at last shall eke appear,
To ease my grievous groans.

My daily sports, my paunch full fed,
Have caused my drowsy eye,
As careless life, in quiet led,

Might cause my soul to die:

The stretching arms, the yawning breath,
Which I to bedward use,

Are patterns of the pangs of death,
When life will me refuse;

'And of my bed each sundry part, In shadows, doth resemble

The sundry shapes of death, whose dart

Shall make my flesh to tremble.

My bed it safe is, like the grave,

My sheets the winding-sheet,

My clothes the mould which I must have,
To cover me most meet.

'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh,
To worms I can compare,
Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh,

And leave the bones full bare:
The waking cock that early crows,
To wear the night away,

Puts in my mind the trump that blows
Before the latter day.

And as I rise up lustily,

When sluggish sleep is past,

So hope I to rise joyfully,

To judgment at the last.

Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep,

Thus will I hope to rise,

Thus will I neither wail nor weep,

But sing in godly wise.

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

THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET.

THIS was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters themselves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates' appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second,

which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham,' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'

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

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

ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES.

And first, within the porch and jaws of hell,
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell
Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent
To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament

With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain,
Would wear and waste continually in pain:

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there,
Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought,
So was her mind continually in fear,

Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought;
With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky,
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

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

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

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

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