X.-CUPID'S PASTIME. * THIS beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I., is printed from the 4th edition of Davidson's Poems, etc, 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, entitled Le Prince d'Amour, 1660, 8vo.Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen of Scots. These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi." IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain, That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain Espied a dainty nymph asleep. Her golden hair o'erspred her face; Her breast lay bare to every blast. The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill ; Nought durst he do; nought durst he say; Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will, Did guide the god of love that way. The crafty boy that sees her sleep, There come, he steals her shafts away, But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone, but she awakes, And spies the shepherd standing by : Her bended bow in haste she takes, And at the simple swain lets flye. Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain: Yet up again forthwith he start, And to the nymph he ran amain. Amazed to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain. Her angry eyes were great with tears, She blames her hand, she blames her The bluntness of her shafts she fears, Yet try she will, and pierce some bare; Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare, That made the shepherd senseless stand. That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart; At feeling of this new-come guest, Lord! how this gentle nymph did start? She runs not now; she shoots no more; Away she throws both shaft and bow: She seeks for what she shunn'd before, She thinks the shepherds haste too slow. Though mountains meet not, lovers may : What other lovers do, did they : The god of love sate on a tree, See the full title in vol. ii. Book iii. No. iv. XI. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. THIS little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eaton in 1639, æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, 1651, 12mo; compared with one or two other copies. How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not anothers will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill:' Whose passions not his masters are ; Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Not ty'd unto the world with care Of princes ear, or vulgar breath: Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat : Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruine make oppressors great: Who envies none, whom chance doth raise, Or vice: Who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace and gifts to lend ; And entertaines the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or feare to fall; Lord of himselfe, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all. XII. GILDEROY. A FAMOUS Scotch robber, who for daring acts of violence was executed at Edinburgh in 1638, with five of his followers. In Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius is a copy of this ballad, which though corrupt and interpolated, contains the following lines, which appear to be of genuine antiquity :— "The Queen of Scots possessed nought, That my love let me want: For cow and ew to me he brought, And ein whan they were scant.' The version of "Gilderoy" here given to the reader is printed from a written copy. GILDEROY was a bonnie boy, Had roses tull his shoone, To see sae trim a boy; My handsome Gilderoy. Oh! sike twa charming een he had, He gain'd the luve of ladies gay, Nane eir tull him was coy: Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day For my dear Gilderoy. My Gilderoy and I were born, Baith in one toun together, We scant were seven years beforn, We gan to luve each other; Our dadies and our mammies thay, Were fill'd wi mickle joy, To think upon the bridal day, Twixt me and Gilderoy. For Gilderoy that luve of mine, Which I receiv'd wi' joy, Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, Till we were baith sixteen, Among the leaves sae green; My handsome Gilderoy. Oh! that he still had been content, His courage bauld would try; For my dear Gilderoy. Nane eir durst meet him man to man, He was sae brave a boy; Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To hang a man for gear, To 'reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or horse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae strick, I neir had lost my joy, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek, For my dear Gilderoy. Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been; Ah! what sair cruelty is this, To hang sike handsome men : To hang the flower o' Scottish land, Sae sweet and fair a boy; Nae lady had sae white a hand, As thee, my Gilderoy. Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong, Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung: They hung him high aboon the rest, He was sae trim a boy; Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best, My handsome Gilderoy. Thus having yielded up his breath, I bare his corpse away, Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, XIII.-WINIFREDA. THIS beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was first printed in a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. Lewis, 1726, 8vo. It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation "from the ancient British language." WAS published in a small collection of poems, entitled Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, etc., 1756, written, in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following copy was furnished by the late Mr. Shenstone, with some variations and corrections of his own, which he had taken the liberty to propose, and for which the author's indulgence was entreated. Wokey-hole is a noted cavern near Wells, in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybils Cave, in Italy. It goes winding a great way underground, is crossed by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem. IN aunciente days tradition showes The Witch of Wokey hight: Deep in the dreary dismall cell, Here screeching owls oft made their nest, No wholesome herb could here be found; And blister'd every flock. Her haggard face was foull to see; She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill; All in her prime, have poets sung, By dint of hellish charms. From Glaston came a lerned wight, He chauntede out his godlie booke, Full well 'tis known adown the dale: I'm bold to say, there's never a one, That has not seen the witch in stone, With all her household gear. But tho' this lernede clerke did well; With grieved heart, alas! I tell, She left this curse behind: That Wokey nymphs forsaken quite, Tho' sense and beauty both unite, Should find no leman kind. For lo! even, as the fiend did say, The sex have found it to this day, That men are wondrous scant: Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd, With all that's good and virtuous join'd, Yet hardly one gallant. Shall then sich maids unpitied moane? They might as well, like her, be stone, As thus forsaken dwell. Since Glaston now can boast no clerks ; Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks, And, oh! revoke the spell. Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair; I hear the gracious voice: XV.-BRYAN AND PEREENE. A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD, Is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of St. Christophers about the beginning of the reign of George III. The editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger, physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1767. THE north-east wind did briskly blow, Pereene, the pride of Indian dames, His heart long held in thrall; And whoso his impatience blames, I wot, ne'er lov'd at all. A long long year, one month and day, Nor once in thought or deed would stray, For Bryan he was tall and strong, |