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On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear

The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir,

He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive,

As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.
And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes,
He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep;
When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep,
That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place:
And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase;
Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers,
Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears,
His body showing state, with unbent knees upright,
Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.
But when the approaching foes still following he perceives,
That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves:
And o'er the champain flies: which when the assembly
find,

Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind.
But being then imbost, the noble stately deer

When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear)
Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil:
That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil,
And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wooled

sheep,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep.

But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,

Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries. Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth

stand

To assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand,
The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo:
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen
follow;

Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything he meets now at his sad decay.
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,
Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed,
He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed.
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay,
With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperately assails; until oppress'd by force,
He who the mourner is to his own dying corse,
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

EDWARD FAIRFAX was the second, some say the natural, son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire. The dates of his birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in managing his elder brother, Lord Fairfax's property, and partly in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demonology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful translation of Tasso, which stamps him a true poet as well as

a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which Collins calls him

'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'

RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET.

1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined;
For in the east appear'd the morning gray,
And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined,
When to Mount Olivet he took his way,

And saw, as round about his eyes he twined,

Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine;

This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:

2 Thus to himself he thought: How many bright
And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high!
Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night,
Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky;
So framed all by their Creator's might,

That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die,
Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.'

3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went,

And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear;
His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent;

His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were-
The sins and errors, which I now repent,

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Of

my unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy

mercy fall,

And purge my faults and

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4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew
In golden weed the morning's lusty queen,
Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw,
His helm, his harness, and the mountain green:
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew
The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen;
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies,
A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies:

5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread,
To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem,
And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled,
And thence of purest white bright rays outstream:
So cheered are the flowers, late withered,
With the sweet comfort of the morning beam;
And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old
Adorns herself in new and native gold.

6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed
The prince perceived well and long admired;
Toward the forest march'd he on with speed,
Resolved, as such adventures great required:
Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread
Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired;
But not to him fearful or loathsome made
That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.

7 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before
He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was;
There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar,
There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they

pass;

There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore,
There sung the swan, and singing died, alas!

There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard,
And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard,
The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent,
Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward,
Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent;
Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared
For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went;
Nor in his way his passage ought withstood,
Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:

9 On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound,
Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd,
Which reaching out his stretched arms around,
All the large desert in his bosom held,

And through the grove one channel passage found;
This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd:

Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made,

And so exchanged their moisture and their shade.

10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pass, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd;

A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty mass,
On arches great of that rich metal rear'd:
When through that golden way he enter'd was,
Down fell the bridge; swelled the stream, and wear'd
The work away, nor sign left, where it stood,
And of a river calm became a flood.

11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so,
Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow;
The billows fierce, that tossèd to and fro,

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