XLIX. First she was silly, and knew not what he meant: This house, thus battered down, the Soul possessed anew. L. And whether by this change she lose or win, LI. Another part became the well of sense, The tender, well-armed feeling brain, from whence LII. Whoe'er thou beest that read'st this sullen writ, And blest Seth vexed us with astronomy. The only measure is, and judge Opinion. MICHAEL DRAYTON, THE author of 'Polyolbion,' was born in the parish of Atherston, in Warwickshire, about the year 1563. He was the son of a butcher, but displayed such precocity that several persons of quality, such as Sir Walter Aston and the Countess of Bedford, patronised him. In his childhood he was eager to know what strange kind of beings poets were; and on coming to Oxford, (if, indeed, he did study there,) is said to have importuned his tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. He was supported chiefly, through his life, by the Lady Bedford. He paid court, without success, to King James. In 1593 (having long ere this become that'strange thing a poet') he published a collection of his Pastorals, and afterwards his 'Barons' Wars' and 'England's Heroical Epistles,' which are both rhymed histories. In 1612-13 he published the first part of 'Polyolbion,' and in 1622 completed the work. In 1626 we hear of him being styled Poet Laureate, but the title then implied neither royal appointment, nor fee, nor, we presume, duty. In 1627 he published 'The Battle of Agincourt,' The Court of Faerie,' and other poems; and, three years later, a book called 'The Muses' Elysium.' He had at last found an asylum in the family of the Earl of Dorset; whose noble lady, Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke, and who had been, we saw, Daniel's pupil, after Drayton's death in 1631, erected him a monument, with a gold-lettered inscription, in Westminster Abbey. The main pillar of Drayton's fame is 'Polyolbion,' which forms a poetical description of England, in thirty songs or books, to which the learned Camden appended notes. The learning and knowledge of this poem are extensive, and many of the descriptions are true and spirited, but the space of ground traversed is too large, and the form of versification is too heavy, for so long a flight. Campbell justly remarks,-'On a general survey, the mass of his poetry has no strength or sustaining spirit equal to its bulk. There is a perpetual play of fancy on its surface; but the impulses of passion, and the guidance of judgment, give it no strong movements or consistent course.' Drayton eminently suits a 'Selection' such as ours, since his parts are better than his whole. DESCRIPTION OF MORNING. When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, breast. Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring east Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight: On which the mirthful choirs, with their clear open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere. The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sung Tawake the lustless sun, or chiding, that so long He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill; As nature him had mark'd of purpose, t' let us see spare, That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare, As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her. To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer; And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then, The red-sparrow, the nope, the redbreast, and the wren. The yellow-pate; which though she hurt the blooming tree, Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, And near to these our thicks, the wild and frightful herds, Not hearing other noise but this of chattering birds, Feed fairly on the lawns; both sorts of season'd deer: Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there: The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals strew'd, As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude. Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid; In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove, Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to rove) At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce queen, With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green, About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and near, Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here; Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds |