Brilliants.

BEAUTY.

Ah, fair Zenocrate ! divine Zenocrate!
Fair is too foul an epithet for thee,
That in thy passion for thy country's love,
And fear to see thy kingly father's harm,
With hair dishevell'd wip'st thy wat❜ry cheek;
And, like to Flora in her morning pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the air,
Rain'st on the earth resolved pearl in showers,
And sprinklest sapphires on thy shining face,
Where Beauty, mother to the Muses, sits
And comments volumes with her iv'ry pen,
Taking instructions from thy flowing eyes;
Eyes, when that Ebena steps to heaven,
In silence, of thy solemn evening's walk,
Making the mantle of the richest night,
The moon, the planets, and the meteors, light.
MARLOWE.

WELCOME.

O my reviving joy! thy quickening presence
Makes the sad night of threescore and ten years
Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood.

I cannot make thy welcome rich enough
With all the wealth of words.

HONORABLE EMPLOYMENTS.

MIDDLETON.

Oh, my lord, lie not idle:

The chiefest action for a man of great spirit

Is never to be out of action.

We should think;

The soul was never put into the body,

Which has so many rare and curious pieces
Of mathematical motion, to stand still.

Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds;

In the trenches for the soldier; in the wakeful study

For the scholar; in the furrows of the sea

For men of our profession : of all which
Arise and spring up honour.

WEBSTER.

A MASTER SPIRIT.

Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea
Loves to have his sails fill'd with a lusty wind,
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack,
And his rapt ship run on her side so low,
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air,
There is no danger to a man, that knows
What life and death is: there's not any law
Exceeds his knowledge; neither is it lawful
That he should stoop to any other law.

CHAPMAN.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

Who would have thought it? She that could no more
Forsake my company, than can the day
Forsake the glorious presence of the sun,
When I was absent, then her gall'd eyes
Would have shed April showers, and outwept
The clouds in that same o'er-passionate mood

When they drown'd all the world: yet now forsakes me.
Women, your eyes shed glances like the sun;
Now shines your brightness, now your light is done.
On the sweet'st flowers you shine, 'tis but by chance,
And on the basest weed you'll waste a glance.

MARSTON.

ABDICATION OF EDWARD II.

Here, take my crown; the life of Edward too;
Two kings in England cannot reign at once.
But stay awhile,-let me be king till night,
That I may gaze upon this glittering crown;
So shall my eyes receive their last content,
My head, the latest honour due to it,
And jointly both yield up their wish'd right.
Continue ever, thou celestial sun;
Let never silent night possess this clime;
Stand still, you watches of the element;
All times and seasons, rest you at a stay,
That Edward may be still fair England's king.

MARLOWE.

LOVERS' QUARRELS.

prithee forgive me,

I did but chide in jest: the best loves use it
Sometimes; it sets an edge upon affection.
When we invite our best friends to a feast,
'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before 'em ;
There's something sharp and salt, both to whet appetite,
And make 'em taste their wine well: so methinks,
After a friendly sharp and savory chiding,

A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the grape.

MIDDLETON.

SINGLE LIFE.

O fie upon this single life: forego it.
We read how Daphne, for her peevish flight,
Became a fruitless bay-tree: Syrinx turn'd
To the pale empty reed: Anaxarate

Was frozen into marble; whereas those

Which married, or proved kind unto their friends,
Were, by a gracious influence, transshaped
Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry ;

Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars.

WEBSTER.

QUALITIES OF A COURTIER.

"Tis not a black coat and a littleband,

A velvet-caped cloak, faced before with serge,
And smelling to a nosegay all the day,
Or holding of a napkin in your hand,
Or saying a long grace at a table's end,
Or making low legs to a nobleman,

Or looking downward with your eyelids close,
And saying, truly, an't may please your honour,
Can get you any favour with great men ;
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,
And now and then stab, as occasion serves.

MARLOWE.

LITTLE FANNY.

The subject of this poem is a daughter who died in childhood. The writer is ROBERT STORY, a Northumberland peasant.

WE often laugh'd at Fanny,

But we loved her while we laugh'd;
She was so odd a mixture

Of simplicity and craft.

Whate'er she thought she utter'd,

And her words she-" reckon'd nou't"
Of the fine flash talk of London :
Hers was Yorkshire out and out!
While her little schemes of cunning,
Which she thought so veil'd, were still
As obvious as the channel

Of the purest mountain rill.
Thus her heart being good and gentle,
And transparent all her craft,
We often laugh'd at Fanny,

But we loved her while we laugh'd!

A short life was my Fanny's,
And slight the warning given!
But her sins were those of childhood,
And her spirit is in heaven.

All through her words, when dying,
Ran a vein of solemn thought;
And we felt how wise was Fanny,-

We had laugh'd more than we ought.

Yet even in those moments

Came out a phrase, a word,

That reminded us of periods

When the same with mirth we heard.

And we oft recall her sayings,

Her playfulness and craft;

But now 'tis odd-we weep the most
At what the most we laugh'd!

86

VOL. VI.

H

HOURS LIKE THOSE.

By J. J. CALLANAN.

[James Joseph Callanan was born in the county, if not in the city, of Cork in 1795. Being destined for the priesthood he was sent to Maynooth College, but feeling little sympathy for the clerical vocation he quitted that establishment in 1816. He pursued his classical studies afterwards in Trinity College, Dublin, and gained there two poetic prizes. One may suppose he was of that dreamy nature which so often unfits the possessor for the active pursuits of life, for Callanan seems never to have settled down to any. He is described, too, as of a procrastinating disposition, acting on the system of that noble lord who would "never do anything to-day he could possibly put off till tomorrow." He was a great favourite in society, and this helped to idle him also, the call of social pleasure having for him a Siren voice. Only one thing could draw him from that fascination, and that was his deeper love for the beauties of nature; and it is quite touching to find in his memoirs how he was wont to rush back, time after time, to the mountain region of South Munster, and wander alone through its wild scenery, on which his poetic fancy feasted, and which he has so beautifully described in his ode to "Gougane Barra," (given in Vol. 4, p. 21, of this Selection.) He left Ireland in 1827 in a bad state of health, and resided in Lisbon for two years; but his health still declined, and in 1829 he embarked to return to Ireland, wishing to breathe his last in his native land. But the wish was not gratified. Symptoms of dissolution set in before the vessel sailed, and he was put on shore, and died at Lisbon in his thirty-fourth year.]-Irish Lyrics.

HOURS like those I spent with you,
So bright, so passing, and so few,
May never bless me more-farewell!
My heart can feel, but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light
Thus snatch'd from sorrow's cheerless night.

'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue;
'Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue;
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow,
That thus would win or charm me now;
It is thy heart's warm light, that glows
Like sunbeams on December snows.

It is thy wit, that flashes bright
As lightning on a stormy night,