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will not go from my mind; I have much to do, but to go hang my head all at one side, and sing it like poor Barbara :—

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow.

Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones,

Sing willow, willow, willow

Sing all a green willow must be

my garland."

Reluctantly as we leave the almost unexplored wealth of thought and imagery which cluster the pages of this magician of the pen, we yet must pass on to some of his contemporaries:

"Those shining stars that run

Their glorious course round Shakspeare's golden sun.

Among these were BEN JONSON, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, and others. Glancing over the life-records of these gifted, but, for the most part, erratic sons of genius, who can trace their checkered career without tender sympathy for their misfortunes, while cherishing reverence and admiration of their exalted endowments! BEN JONSON'S proud fame was allied with suffering and sorrow, for we find at his closing days the poet thanking his patron, the Earl of Newcastle, for bounties which, he says, had "fallen like the dew

of heaven on his necessities.'

The classic beauty of the following lyric of JONSON has ever been the admiration of all critics :

Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there it could not wither'd be ;
But thou thereon didst only breathe, and sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee.

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His song, entitled The Grace of Simplicity, is one of the most characteristic of its author:

Still to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd;
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,

That makes simplicity a grace;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,

Than all the adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Another of his exquisite songs is the well-known Hymn to Diana,'

1 Diana is here addressed as the moon, rather than the goddess of hunting.

in which the spirit of the classic lyre is beautifully illustrated. supposed to be derived from Philostratus:

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep :
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close;

Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever;

Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

It is

There is such a fulness of inspiration about the old poets, such prodigality of fancy and imagery, that their chief difficulty appears to have been to find place for their thick-coming fancies. For instance, take BEAUMONT's fine Ode to Melancholy:

Hence, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,

But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound;
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves,-
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a passing groan,

These are the sounds we feed upon :
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

Here is a delicious lyric from the same source:

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air!
Even in shadows you are fair.

Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.

Though your beauty be confin'd,

And soft Love a prisoner bound,

Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found;

Look out nobly, then, and dare

E'en the fetters that you wear!

What a fine figure has BEAUMONT employed in the following lines to illustrate the influence of woman :

The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath,
Feels in its barrenness some touch of Spring;
And in the April dew, or beam of May,

Its moss and lichen freshen and revive;

And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure,
Melts at the tear,—joys in the smile of woman.

SHIRLEY, the latest of the Elizabethan dramatists, wrote the fol

lowing:

Woodmen, shepherds, come away,

This is Pan's great holiday;

Throw off cares, with your heaven-aspiring airs-
Help us to sing,

While valleys with your echoes ring.

Nymphs that dwell within these groves,

Leave your arbours, bring your loves,

Gather posies, crown your golden hair with roses :

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The glories of our blood and state,

Are shadows, not substantial things ;

There is no armour against fate:

Death lays his icy hand on kings;
Sceptre and crown must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade!
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must vield,
They tame but one another still:
Early or late, they stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death!

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar, now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:

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