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, Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans; 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; I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee, Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'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; 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, Seated in thy silver chair, Earth, let not thy envious shade Bless us then with wishèd sight, 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, 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! But only melancholy; Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, These are the sounds we feed upon : Here is a delicious lyric from the same source: Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 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, Its moss and lichen freshen and revive; And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure, 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- 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 : 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; With the poor crooked scythe and spade! And must give up their murmuring breath, 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: |