[WILLIAM BROWNE was born at Tavistock, in Devonshire, in 1590, was educated at Oxford, and entered the Inner Temple, but did not follow the law as a profession. He lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke, and realized the means of purchasing an estate. He died in 1645.

His best poems were written before he was twenty years of age; and as he published none of them after he was thirty, they contain marks of puerility and imitations of other authors, and are without much vigour.]

For whose declining on the western shore
The oriental hills black mantles wore,
And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,
That had from hideous caverns usherèd
All-drowsy night; who, in a car of jet,

By steeds of iron-gray (which mainly sweat
Moist drops on all the world) drawn through the sky,
The helps of darkness waited orderly.

First, thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains:

Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins
Were conduit pipes to many a crystal spring:
From standing pools and fens were following
Unhealthy fogs: each river, every rill

Sent up their vapours to attend her will.
These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven,
And as Night's chariot through the air was driven,
Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song,
And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue
Talk'd to the echo; satyrs broke their dance,
And all the upper world lay in a trance:
Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;
And little gales, that from the green leaf swept
Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisperings stirr'd,
As loath to waken any singing bird.

"THRICE HAPPY HE WHO BY SOME SHADY

GROVE."

BY WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

[WILLIAM DRUMMOND was born at Hawthornden, in Scotland, in 1585. He was intended for the bar, and studied civil law for four years in France; but he abandoned the legal profession when he succeeded to his paternal estate, and returned to Hawthornden, where he wrote some beautiful poetry. The death of a lady to whom he was betrothed affected him very much, and he sought a solace for his grief in travel. On his return, after an absence of some years, he saw a person who strongly resembled the former object of his love, and asking her hand, he obtained it. He died in 1649, it is said of grief at the execution of Charles I. to whose cause he was greatly attached.

Drummond's poetry is sweet and harmonious. His chief productions are remarkable for purity of language not less than for harmony, and play of fancy. His sonnets are amongst the finest in the English language.]

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.

Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

TO THE THRUSH.

A SONNET.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care;
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,

A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

BY PHINEAS FLETCHER.

[PHINEAS FLETCHER, the elder brother of Giles Fletcher, was born in 1584, and was educated at Cambridge. He took orders, and obtained the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he died in 1650.

His "Purple Island "—the subject of which is very different from what might be expected from its name is an anatomical and physiological description of the human body. It has many beauties, but is marred by the tediousness inseparable from a protracted allegory.]

THRICE, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!

When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shut out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns: No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are the innocent sheep.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Y