Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start,
Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cry'd—
Ah! never do me such a spiteful part,
To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride;
Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart
Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; [unkind,
For through this breast, and through this heart,
To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.
He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd,
And she her form to other shape did change;
Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid,
Oft in their idle fancies roam and range:
Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made;
Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange;
A giantess before him high she stands,
Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands:
With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright,
She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cry'd and
fought;

Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight,
A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought,
But on the myrtle smote with all his might,
Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh
brought;

The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell: Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below Roared aloud; that thunder'd, and this shook : Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow;

The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took,

Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended
Then fled the spirits all, the charms all ended.
The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still
The wood returned to its wonted state,
Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill,
Of horror full, but horror there innate;
He further tried, if ought withstood his will
To cut those trees, as did the charms of late,
And finding nought to stop him,smiled and said—
O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!
From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the
knight;

The hermit cry'd, up-starting from his seat,
Now of the wood the charms have lost their might;
The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat;
See where he comes !-Array'd in glitt'ring white
Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high and great;
His eagle's silver wings to shine begun
With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun.
The camp received him with a joyful cry,—
A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd;
Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high;
His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd:
To yonder dreadful grove, quoth he, went I,
And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd,
Have driven the sprites away; thither let be
Your people sent, the way is safe and free.

THE history of this author is quite unknown, except that he was a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. Ritson has mustered a numerous catalogue of his works, to which the compilers of the Censura Literaria have added some articles. It has been remarked by the latter, that his muse is generally found in low company, from which it is inferred that he frequented the haunts of dissipation. The conclusion is unjust-Fielding was not a blackguard, though he wrote the adventures of

LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN.
FROM "THE KNAVE OF SPADES."

Two serving men, or rather two men-servers,
For unto God they were but ill deservers,
Conferr'd together kindly, knave with knave,
What fitting masters for their turns they have.
"Mine," quoth the one, "is of a bounteous sprite,
And in the tavern will be drunk all night,
Spending most lavishly he knows not what,
But I have wit to make good use of that:
And is for tavern and for bawdy house,.
He hath some humours very strange and odd,
As every day at church, and not serve God;
With secret hidden virtues other ways,
As often on his knees, yet never prays."

Jonathan Wild. His descriptions of contemporary follies have considerable humour. I think he has afforded in the following story of Smug the Smith a hint to Butler for his apologue of vicarious justice, in the case of the brethren who hanged a "poor weaver that was bed-rid," instead of the cobbler who had killed an Indian,

"Not out of malice, but mere zeal, Because he was an Infidel."

HUDIBRAS, Part II. Canto II. 1. 420.

Quoth t'other, "How dost prove this obscure talk?"[to walk; Why, man, he haunts the church that's Paul's, And for his often being on the knee, 'Tis drinking healths, as drunken humours be." "It's passing good, I do protest," quoth t'other, "I think thy master be my master's brother; For sure in qualities they may be kin, Those very humours he is daily in, For drinking healths, and being churched so, They cheek-by-jowl may with each other go. Then, pray thee, let us two in love go drink, And on these matters for our profit think; To handle such two masters turn us loose; Shear thou the sheep, and I will pluck the goose."

Q

TRAGEDY OF SMUG THE SMITH.

FROM "THE NIGHT RAVEN."

A SMITH for felony was apprehended,
And being condemn'd for having so offended,
The townsmen, with a general consent,
Unto the judge with a petition went,

Affirming that no smith did near them dwell,
And for his art they could not spare him well;
For he was good at edge-tool, lock, and key,
And for a farrier most rare man, quoth they.
The discreet judge unto the clowns replied,
How shall the law be justly satisfied?

A thief that steals must die therefore, that's flat.
O Sir, said they, we have a trick for that:
Two weavers dwelling in our town there are,
And one of them we very well can spare;
Let him be hang'd, we very humbly crave-
Nay, hang them both, so we the smith may save.
The judge he smiled at their simple jest,
And said, the smith would serve the hangman best.

THE VICAR.

FROM HIS EPIGRAMS, NO. XXXVII.

In the Letting of Humour's Blood, in the Head Vein.
First published in 1600.

AN honest vicar and a kind consort,
That to the ale-house friendly would resort,
To have a game at tables now and then,
Or drink his pot as soon as any man;
As fair a gamester, and as free from brawl,
As ever man should need to play withal;
Because his hostess pledged him not carouse,
Rashly, in choler, did forswear her house:

Taking the glass, this was his oath he swore-
"Now, by this drink, I'll ne'er come hither more.'
But mightily his hostess did repent,
For all her guests to the next ale-house went,
Following the vicar's steps in every thing,
He led the parish even by a string;
At length his ancient hostess did complain
She was undone, unless he came again;
Desiring certain friends of hers and his,
To use a policy, which should be this:

Because with coming he should not forswear him, To save his oaths they on their backs should bear him.

Of this good course the vicar well did think,
And so they always carried him to drink.

FOOLS AND BABES TELL TRUE.
FROM "THE KNAVE OF SPADES."

Two friends that met would give each other wine,
And made their entrance at next bush and sign,
Calling for claret, which they did agree,
(The season hot) should qualified be
With water and sugar: so the same being brought
By a new boy, in vintners' tricks untaught,
They bad him quickly bring fair water in,
Who look'd as strange as he amazed had bin.
Why dost not stir," quoth they, "with nimble
feet?"

66

"'Cause, gentlemen," said he, "it is not meet To put in too much water in your drink, For there's enough already, sure, I think; Richard the drawer, by my troth I vow, Put in great store of water even now."

THE MARRIED SCHOLAR.

A SCHOLAR, newly enter'd marriage life,
Following his study, did offend his wife,
Because when she his company expected,
By bookish business she was still neglected:
Coming unto his study, "Lord," quoth she,
"Can papers cause you love them more than me?
I would I were transform'd into a book,

That your affection might upon me look

But in my wish withal be it decreed,

I would be such a book you love to read. [take?"
Husband (quoth she) which book's form should I
"Marry," said he, "'twere best an almanack:
The reason wherefore I do wish thee so,
Is, every year we have a new, you know."*

[Malone attributes this saying to Dryden, but it was said before Dryden was born; is in Rowlands, and among the jests of Drummond of Hawthornden.-C.]

THE life of Donne is more interesting than his poetry. He was descended from an ancient family; his mother was related to Sir Thomas More, and to Heywood, the epigrammatist. A prodigy of youthful learning, he was entered of Hart Hall, now Hertford College, at the unprecedented age of eleven; he studied afterwards with an extraordinary thirst for general knowledge, and seems to have consumed a considerable patrimony on his education and travels. Having accompanied the Earl of Essex in his expedition to Cadiz, he purposed to have set out on an extensive course of travels, and to have visited the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem. Though compelled to give up his design by the insuper

able dangers and difficulties of the journey, he did not come home till his mind had been stored with an extensive knowledge of foreign languages and manners, by a residence in the south of Europe. On his return to England, the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere made him his secretary, and took him to his house. There he formed a mutual attachment to the niece of Lady Ellesmere, and without the means or prospect of support, the lovers thought proper to marry. The lady's father, Sir George More, on the declaration of this step, was so transported with rage, that he insisted on the chancellor's driving Donne from his protection, and even got him imprisoned, together with the witnesses of the marriage. He

was soon released from prison, but the chancellor would not again take him into his service; and the brutal father-in-law would not support the unfortunate pair. In their distress, however, they were sheltered by Sir Francis Wolley, a son of Lady Ellesmere by a former marriage, with whom they resided for several years, and were treated with a kindness that mitigated their sense of dependence.

Donne had been bred a catholic, but on mature reflection had made a conscientious renunciation of that faith. One of his warm friends, Dr. Morton, afterwards bishop of Durham, wished to have provided for him, by generously surrendering one of his benefices: he therefore pressed him to take holy orders, and to return to him the third day with his answer to the proposal. "At hearing of this," (says his biographer,) "Mr. Donne's faint breath and perplexed countenance gave visible testimony of an inward conflict. He did not however return his answer till the third day; when, with fervid thanks, he declined the offer, telling the bishop that there were some errors of his life which, though long repented of, and pardoned, as he trusted, by God, might yet be not forgotten by some men, and which might cast a dishonour on the sacred office." We are not told what those irregularities were; but the conscience which could dictate such an

THE BREAK OF DAY.

STAY, oh sweet! and do not rise:
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not-it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

"Tis true, it's day-what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?

Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should, in despite of light, keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,

This were the worst that it could say,
That, being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her that had them go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
O, that's the worst disease of love!
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busy man.

He which hath business and makes love, doth do
Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.

THE DREAM.

IMAGE of her whom I love more than she
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me
As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value-go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me.

answer was not likely to require great offences for a stumbling-block. This occurred in the poet's thirty-fourth year.

After the death of Sir F. Wolley, his next protector was Sir Robert Drury, whom he accompanied on an embassy to France. His wife, with an attachment as romantic as poet could wish for, had formed the design of accompanying him as a page. It was on this occasion, and to dissuade her from the design, that he addressed to her the verses, beginning," By our first strange and fatal interview." Isaak Walton relates, with great simplicity, how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in his chamber in Paris, saw the vision of his beloved wife appear to him with a dead infant in her arms, a story which wants only credibility to be interesting. He had at last the good fortune to attract the regard of King James; and, at his majesty's instance, as he might now consider that he had outlived the remembrance of his former follies, he was persuaded to become a clergyman. In this capacity he was successively appointed chaplain to the king, lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, vicar of St. Dunstan's Fleet Street, and dean of St. Paul's. His death, at a late age, was occasioned by consumption. He was buried in St. Paul's, where his figure yet remains in the vault of St. Faith's, carved from a painting for which he sat a few days before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.

Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and reason gone with you,
Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do,
Convenient, and more proportional.

So if I dream I have you, I have you,
For all our joys are but fantastical,
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all.
After such a fruition I shall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make,
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent.
But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough.
Though you stay here you pass too fast away,
For even at first life's taper is a snuff.
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.

ON THE LORD HARRINGTON, &c.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

FAIR Soul! which wast not only, as all souls be,
Then when thou wast infused, harmony,
But didst continue so, and now dost bear
A part in God's great organ, this whole sphere;
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find that any way is pervious
"Twixt heaven and earth, and that men's actions do
Come to your knowledge and affections too,
See, and with joy, me to that good degree
Of goodness grown, that I can study thee;

And by these meditations refined,
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind;
And so can make, by this soft ecstasy,
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest,
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest
To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard gravé,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps: when the condemned man,
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then,
Again by death!) although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep.
Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon;
All the world grows transparent, and I see
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee...

SONG.

SWEETEST love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me.
But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;

He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:

Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.....

THOMAS

Or this author I have been able to obtain no farther information, than that he belonged to the Inner Temple, and translated a great number of John Owen's Latin epigrams into English. His

FROM SONGS, SONNETS, AND ELEGIES, BY T. PICKE.
THE night, say all, was made for rest;
And so say I, but not for all;
To them the darkest nights are best,
Which give them leave asleep to fall;
But I that seek my rest by light,
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night.
Bright was the moon, as bright as day,
And Venus glitter'd in the west,
Whose light did lead the ready way,
That led me to my wished rest;
Then each of them increased their light,
While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight.

PICKE.

songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it are pilfered.

Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind
To shine so bright above your wont?
Would Phoebe fair Endymion find,
Would Venus see Adonis hunt?
No, no, you feared by her sight,
To lose the praise of beauty bright.

At last for shame you shrunk away,
And thought to reave the world of light;
Then shone my dame with brighter ray,
Than that which comes from Phœbus' sight;
None other light but hers I praise,
Whose nights are clearer than the days.

"HOLY George Herbert," as he is generally called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is said to have consulted him about some of his writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton.

[In saying but thus much of George Herbert, it seems to me that Campbell did him less than justice. He was a younger brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and was educated at Westminster and Cambridge. He was a favourite with Bishop Andrews as well as with Bacon, and he would probably have risen at court but for the death of James, after which, having no more hopes in that quarter, he retired into Kent, where he lived with great privacy, and taking a survey of

his past life determined to devote his remaining years to religion; in his own words, "to consecrate all my learning and all my abilities to advance the glory of that God which gave them, knowing that I can never do too much for Him that hath done so much for me as to make me a Christian." He took orders, was married, and after a few years was presented with the living of Bemerton, near Salisbury, into which he was inducted in 1630. Here he passed the remainder of his days in the faithful discharge of the duties of a parish minister, as delineated by himself in "The Country Parson," and by Isaak Walton in his pleasant biography. He died, of consumption, în February, 1632. Herbert's "Temple, or SacredPoems," have been many times reprinted in Eng

land and in this country. Its popularity when first published was so great that when Walton wrote, more than twenty thousand copies of it had been sold. Baxter says: "I must confess that next the Scripture Poems, there are none so savory to me as our George Herbert's. I know that Cowley and others far excel Herbert in wit and accurate composure; but as Seneca takes with me above all his contemporaries, because he speaketh by words feelingly and seriously, like a man that is past jest, so Herbert speaks to God,

like a man that really believeth in God, and whose business in the world is most with God: heartwork and heaven-work make up his books." Coleridge, the best of critics, alludes to Herbert as "the model of a man, a gentleman, and a clergyman," and adds, "that the quaintness of some of his thoughts (not of his diction, than which nothing could be more pure, manly, and unaffected) has blinded modern readers to the great general merit of his poems, which are for the most part excellent in their kind.”—G.]

THE merry world did on a day

With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay,

And all in sport to jeer at me.

First Beauty crept into a rose,

Which when I pluck'd not, "Sir," said she, "Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came: and, chinking still, "What tune is this, poor man?" said he; "I heard in music you had skill:"

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by,

In silks that whistled "who but he?" He scarce allow'd me half an eye;

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be; And, to be short, make an oration:

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of thy design

To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large; say, I am thine;

And then they have their answer home.

GRACE.

My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve;
O, let Thy graces, without cease,
Drop from above!

If still the sun should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives; O, let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth every morning fall,
And shall the dew outstrip Thy dove?
The dew for which grass cannot call
Drop from above!

O come, for Thou dost know the way, Or, if to me Thou will not move, Remove me where I need not say, Drop from above!

BUSINESS.

CANST be idle, canst thou play Foolish soul, who sinned to-day? Rivers run, and springs each one Know their home, and get them gone: Hast thou tears, or hast thou none?

If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Wouldst thou had no fault or fears!
Who hath those, those ills forbears!
Winds still work, it is their plot
Be the season cold or hot:
Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not?

If thou hast no sighs or groans,
Would thou hadst no flesh and bones:
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.

But if yet thou idle be,

Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,
To assume thy flesh and bone?
Had He life, or had He none?

If He had not lived for thee
Thou hadst died most wretchedly;
And two deaths had been thy fee.

He so far thy good did plot,
That his own self He forgot-
Did He die, or did He not?