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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.

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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

2

3

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.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart

That sues for no compassion.

approve

Since if my plaints were not t'
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 imperfectlyknown, but real poets. Very little is known of his history. He was a merchant-adventurer, and died at Middelburg, aged fiftyfive, 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 Silvertongued.' 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 inter

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