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ADDRESS TO HIS NATIVE SOIL.

Hail thou, my native soil ! thou blessed plot
Whose equal all the world affordeth not !
Show me who can ? so many crystal rills,
Such sweet-clothed vallies, or aspiring hills,
Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy

mines,
Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines :
And if the earth can show the like again,
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
Time never can produce men to o'ertake
The fames of Grenville, Davis, Gilbert, Drake,
Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more,
That by their power made the Devonian shore
Mock the proud Tagus ; for whose richest spoil
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soil
Bankrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost
By winning this, though all the rest were lost.

At further end the creek, a stately wood
Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood)
Made up of trees, not less kend by each skiff
Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe,
Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young,
And hoary moss upon their branches hung ;
Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show,
Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow.
And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears,
None could allot them less than Nestor's years.
As under their command the thronged creek
Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek
Where he his little boat might safely hide,
Till it was fraught with what the world beside
Could not outvalue ; nor give equal weight
Though in the time when Greece was at her height.

EVENING.

Yet that their happy voyage might not be
Without time's short'ner, heav'n-taught melody
(Music that lent feet to the stable woods,
And in their currents turn’d the mighty floods,
Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping joy alive,
Sad discontent's most welcome corrosive,
The soul of art, best loved when love is by,
The kind inspirer of sweet poesy,
Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans would

fain
Have sung one song, and never sung again)
The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore,
Began this lay, and timed it with his oar.

As in an evening when the gentle air
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair,
I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear
My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear,
When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain
That likes me, straight I ask the same again,
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o'er
With some sweet relish was forgot before :
I would have been content, if he would play,
In that one strain to pass the night away ;
But fearing much to do his patience wrong,
Unwillingly have ask'd some other song:
So in this diff'ring key though I could well
A many hours but as few minutes tell,
Yet lest mine own delight might injure you
(Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.

Nevermore let holy Dee

O’er other rivers brave,
Or boast how (in his jollity)

Kings row'd upon his wave.
But silent be, and ever know
That Neptune for my fare would row.

FROM BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS.

Swell then, gently swell, ye floods,

As proud of what ye bear,
And nymphs that in low coral woods

String pearls upon your hair,
Ascend ; and tell if ere this day
A fairer prize was seen at sea.

BOOK II. SONG V.

BETWEEN two rocks (immortal, without mother)*
That stand as if outfacing one another,
There ran a creek up, intricate and blind,
As if the waters hid them from the wind,
Which never wash'd but at a higher tide
The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide,
Where never gale was longer known to stay
Than from the smooth wave it had swept away
The new divorced leaves, that trom each side
Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide.

See the salmons leap and bound

To please us as we pass,
Each mermaid on the rocks around

Lets fall her brittle glass,
As they their beauties did despise
And loved no mirror but your eyes,

* This description coincides very strikingly with the scenery of the Tamar, in Devonshire. Browne, who was a native of that county, must have studied it from nature.

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind,

From the forsaken shore,
And be as to the halcyon kind,

Till we have ferried o'er :
So may'st thou still have leave to blow,
And fan the way where she shall go.

THOMAS NABBES.

(Died, 1645.)

This was an inferior dramatist in the time of nobleman or prelate, at or near Worcester. He Charles I. who, besides his plays, wrote a con had a share in the poetical collection called tinnation of Knolles's History of the Turks. He Fancy's Theatre, with Tatham, Richard Brome, seems to have been secretary or domestic to some and others.

FROM " MICROCOSMUS, A MASQUE." 1637.

SONG BY LOVE AND THE VIRTUES TO PHYSANDER AND BELLANIMA.

Welcome, welcome, happy pair,
To these abodes, where spicy air
Breathes perfumes, and every sense
Doth find his object's excellence ;
Where's no heat, nor cold extreme,
No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam;
Where's no sun, yet never night,
Day always springing from eternal light.

Love. Welcome to Love, my new-loved heir,
Elysium's thine, ascend my chair :
For following sensuality
I thought to disinherit thee ;
But being row reform’d in life,
And reunited to thy wife,
Mine only daughter, fate allows
That Love with stars should crown your brows.
Join ye that were his guides to this,
Thus I enthrone you both—now kiss ;
Whilst you in endless measures move,
Led on to endless joys by Love.

Chorus. All mortal sufferings laid aside,

Here in endless bliss abide.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

(Died, 1649.) Thomas HEYWOOD was the most prolific writer and plain incidents fall not only beneath the ideal in the most fertile age of our drama*. In the beauty of art, but are often more fatiguing than midst of his theatrical labours as an actor and what we meet with in the ordinary and unselected poet, he composed a formidable list of prose circumstances of life. When he has hit upon works, and defended the stage against the puri- those occasions where the passions should obtans, in a work that is full of learning. One of viously rise with accumulated expression, he his projects was to write the lives of all poets lingers on through the scene with a dull and that were ever distinguished, from the time of level indifference. The term artlessness may be Homer downwards. Yet it has happened to the applied to Heywood in two very opposite senses. framer of this gigantic design to have no historian His pathos is often artless in the better meaning so kind to his own memory as to record either of the word, because its objects are true to life, the period of his death, or the spot that covers and their feelings naturally expressed. But he his remains. His merits entitled him to better betrays still more frequently an artlessness, or we remembrance. He composed indeed with a care should rather call it, a want of art, in deficiency less rapidity, and seems to have thought as little of contrivance. His best performance is, “ A of Horace's precept of “ sæpe stylum vertasas Woman killed with Kindness.” In that play the of most of the injunctions in the Art of Poetry. repentance of Mrs. Frankford, who dies of a But he possesses considerable power of interest broken heart, for her infidelity to a generous ing the affections, by placing his plain and husband, would present a situation consummately familiar characters in affecting situations. The moving, if we were left to conceive her death to worst of him is, that his common-place sentiments be produced simply by grief. But the poet most (* He had, as he himself tells us, “either an entire hand,

unskilfully prepares us for her death, by her ; or at the least a main finger, in two hundred and twenty

declaring her intentions to starve herself ; and plays." He was a native of Lincolnshire.)

| mars, by the weakness, sin, and horror of suicide,

an example of penitence that would otherwise be ford's crime was recent, and her repentance and sublimely and tenderly edifying. The scene of death immediately follow it ; but the guilt of the the death of Mrs. Frankford has been deservedly other tragic penitent, to whom Mr. S. alludes, noticed for its pathos by an eminent foreign is more remote, and less heinous ; and to precritic, Mr. Schlegel*, who also commends the scribe interminable limits, either in real or superior force of its inexorable morality to the imaginary life, to the generosity of individual reconciling conclusion of Kotzebue's drama on a forgiveness, is to invest morality with terrors, similar subject. The learned German perhaps which the frailty of man and the mercy of Heaven draws his inference too rigidly. Mrs. Frank do not justify.

FROM THE SAME.

SCENE IN THE TRAGEDY "A WOMAN KILLED
WITH KINDNESS."

DEATH OF MRS. FRANKFORD.
Grief of Frankford, after discovering his wife's infidelity,
and dismissing her.

Persons.-MR. MALBY, MRS. ANNE FRANKFORD, FRANK.

FORD, SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD, SIR FRANCIS ACTON. Enter CRANWEL, FRANKFORD, and NICHOLAS.

Mal. How fare you, Mrs. Frankford ? Cran. Why do you search each room about your Anne. Sick, sick, oh sick: Give me some air. I house,

pray Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away? Tell me, oh tell me, where's Mr. Frankford ?

Fran. O sir, to see that nothing may be left, Will he not deign to see me ere I die? That ever was my wife's : I loved her dearly, Mal. Yes, Mrs. Frankford : divers gentlemen And when I do but think of her unkindness, Your loving neighbours, with that just request My thoughts'are all in hell; to avoid which torment, Have moved and told him of your weak estate : I would not have a bodkin or a cuff,

Who, though with much ado to get belief, A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wier ;

Examining of the general circumstance, Nor any thing that ever was call'd her's,

Seeing your sorrow and your penitence, Left me, by which I might remember her. And hearing therewithal the great desire Seek round about.

(corner. You have to see him ere you left the world, Nic. .

Master, here's her lute flung in a He gave to us his faith to follow us, Fran. Her lute? Oh God! upon this instrument And sure he will be here immediately. Her fingers have ran quick division,

Anne. You have half revived me with the Swifter than that which now divides our hearts,

pleasing news : These frets have made me pleasant, that have now Raise me a little higher in my bed. Frets of my heart-strings made. Omaster Cranwel, Blush I not, brother Acton? Blush I not, sir Oft hath she made this melancholy wood

Charles ? (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek? Speak sweetly many a note; sound many a strain Is not my crime there ? tell me, gentlemen. To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung, Char. Alas! good mistress, sickness hath not What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung? Post with it after her ; now nothing's left; Blood in your face enough to make you blush. Of her and her's I am at once bereft.

Anne. Then sickness, like a friend, my fault

would hide. NICHOLAS overtakes MRS. FRANKFORD with her lute. Is my husband come ? My soul but tarries Nic. There.

His arrival, then I am fit for heaven. Anne. I know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee: Acton. I came to chide you, but my words of We both are out of tune, both out of time.

hate Nic. My master commends him unto ye; there's Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. all he can find that was ever yours : he hath I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee. own heart, and he could not afford you that all Here's Mr. Frankford now. that I have to deliver you is this; he prays you

Enter FRANKFORD. to forget him, and so he bids you farewell. Anne. I thank him ; he is kind, and ever was.

Fran. Good-morrow, brother; morrow, gentleAll you that have true feeling of my grief,

men! That know my loss, and have relenting hearts,

God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, Gird me about ; and help me, with your tears,

Might (had he pleased) have made our cause of To wash my spotted sins: my lute shall groan;

meeting It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. On a more fair and more contented ground:

But he that made us, made us to this woe. * Mr. Schlegel, however, is mistaken in speaking of anterior to Shakspeare, evidently confounding

Anne. And is he come? Methinks that voice him with an older poet of the name.

Fran. How do you, woman?

[I know.

left you

him as

SONG OF NYMPHS TO DIANA.

FROM "THE GOLDEN AGE."

Anne. Well, Mr. Frankford, well ; but shall be

better, I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe (Out of your grace and your humanity) To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ? Fran. This hand once held my heart in faster

bonds Than now 'tis griped by me. God pardon them That made us first break hold !

Anne. Amen, amen. Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I'm now bound, I was so impudent to wish you here; And once more beg your pardon. Oh! good man, And father to my children, pardon me. Pardon, O pardon me ! my fault so heinous is, That if you in this world forgive it not, Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees, That kneel I cannot : But on my heart's knees My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet To beg your gracious pardon : Pardon, O pardon

Hail, beauteous Dian, queen of shades,
That dwells beneath these shadowy glades,
Mistress of all these beauteous maids

That are by her allow'd ;
Virginity we all profess,
Abjure the worldly vain excess,
And will to Dian yield no less

Than we to her have vow'd.
The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fauns,
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns.

Come, to the forest let us go,
And trip it like the barren doe,
The fauns and satyrs will do so,

And freely thus they may do.
The fairies dance, and satyrs sing,
And on the grass tread many a ring,
And to their caves their ven’son bring,

And we will do as they do. The shepherds, satyrs, &c.

me !

Our food is honey from the bees,
And mellow fruits that drop from trees;
In chase we climb the high degrees

Of every steepy mountain ;
And when the weary day is past
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this our field repast,

We drink the pleasant fountain. The shepherds, satyrs, &c.

A WITLING SET UP BY A POET'S LEGACY.

PROM "THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE."

Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul As my Redeemer hath for us given his death, I pardon thee ; I will shed tears for thee ; Pray with thee ; and in mere pity of thy weak I'll wish to die with thee.

[estate, All. So do we all.

Acton. O, Mr. Frankford, all the near alliance I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee; You are my brother by the nearest way, Her kindred hath fallen off, but yours doth stay.

Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence Divorced our bodies, thy repentant tears Unite our souls.

Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford ; You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting Sus. How is it with you ?

[soul. Acton. How d’ye feel yourself ? Anne. Not of this world.

Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; Both those lost names I do restore thee back, And with this kiss I wed thee once again : Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name, And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest, Honest in heart, upon my soul thou diest. Anne. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven

art free Once more ! thy wife dies thus embracing thee. Acton. Peace with thee, Nan. Brothers and

gentlemen, (All we that can plead interest in her grief) Bestow upon her body funeral tears. Brother, had you with threats and usage bad Punish'd her sin, the grief of her offence Had not with such true sorrow touch'd her heart.

Cripple. Why, think’st thou that I cannot write Ditty, or sonnet, with judicial phrase, (a letter, As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, As any Ovid-imitating dunce In all the town?

Frank. I think thou canst not.

Crip. Yea, I'll swear I cannot :
Yet, sirrah, I could cony-catch the world,
Make myself famous for a sudden wit,
And be admired for my dexterity,
Were I disposed.

Frank. I prithee how !

Crip. Why thus: there lived a poet in this town (If we may term our modern writers poets), Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued, his pen of steel, His ink was temper'd with the biting juice, And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew : He never wrote but when the elements Of fire and water tilted in his brain. This fellow, ready to give up his ghost To Luciae's bosom, did bequeath to me His library, which was just nothing

But rolls and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit,
Such as durst never visit Paul's Churchyard :
Amongst them all I happend on a quire
Or two of paper fillid with songs and ditties,
And here and there an hungry epigram :
These I reserve to my own proper use,
And, paternoster-like, have conn’d them all.
I could now, when I am in company

At alehouse, tavern, or an ordinary,
Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty,
(Or one at least should seem extemporal),
Out of the abundance of this legacy,
That all would judge it, and report it too,
To be the infant of a sudden wit ;
And then were I an admirable fellow.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

(Born, 1585 Died, 1649.)

This poet was born at Hawthornden, his father's estate in Mid-Lothian, took a degree at the university of Edinburgh, studied the civil law in France, and, returning home, entered into possession of his paternal estate, and devoted himself to literature. During his residence at Hawthornden he courted, and was on the eve of marrying, a lady of the name of Cunningham. Her sudden death inspired him with a melancholy which he sought to dissipate by travelling. He accordingly visited France, Italy, and Germany, and, during a stay of eight years on the Continent, conversed with the most polished society, and studied the objects most interesting to curiosity and taste. He collected at the same time a number of books and manuscripts, some of which are still in the library of his native university.

On his second return to Scotland he found the kingdom distracted by political and religious ferment, and on the eve of a civil war.

What connexion this aspect of public affairs had with his quitting Hawthornden, his biographers have not informed us, but so it was, that he retired to the seat of his brother-in-law, Sir John Scot of Scotstarvet, a manaof letters, and probably of political sentiments congenial with his own. At his abode he wrote his History of the Five James's, Kings of Scotland, a work abounding in false eloquence and slavish principles. Having returned at length to settle himself at his own seat, he married a lady of the name of Logan, of the house of Restalrig, in whom he fancied a resemblance to his former mistress, and repaired the family mansion of Hawthornden, with an inscription importing his hopes of resting there in honourable ease. But the times were little suited to promote his wishes ; and on the civil war breaking out he involved himself with the covenanters, by writing in support of the opposite side, for which his enemies not only called him to a severe account, but compelled him to furnish his quota of men and arms to support the cause which he detested. His estate lying in different counties, he contributed halves and quarters of men to the forces that were raised ; and on this occasion he wrote an epigram, bitterly wishing that the imaginary

division of his recruits might be realised on their bodies. His grief for the death of Charles is said to have shortened his days. Such stories of political sensibility may be believed on proper evidence.

The elegance of Drummond's sonnets, and the humour of his Scotch and Latin macaronics, have been at least sufficiently praised : but when Milton has been described as essentially obliged to him, the compliment to his genius is stretched too far. A modern writer, who edited the works of Drummond, has affirmed, that, “ perhaps,” if we had had no Drummond, we should not have seen the finer delicacies of Milton's Comus, Lycidas, L'Allegro, and Il Penseroso. “ Perhaps” is an excellent leading-string for weak assertions. One or two epithets of Drummond may be recog. nised in Milton, though not in the minor poems already mentioned*. It is difficult to apply any precise idea to the tautology of “fine delicacies ;" but whatever the editor of Drummond meant by it, he may be assured that there is no debt on the part of Milton to the poet of Hawthornden, which the former could be the least impoverished by returning. Philips, the nephew of Milton, edited and extolled Drummond, and pronounced him equal to Tasso himself. It has been inferred from some passages of the Theatrum Poetarum that Milton had dictated several critical opinions in that performance ; and it has been taken for granted that Philips's high opinion of Drummond was imbibed from the author of Paradise Lost. But the parallel between Drummond and Tasso surely could not have been drawn by Milton. Philips had a turn for poetry, and in many of his critical opinions in the Theatrum Poetarum, showed a taste that could not be well attributed to his uncle--in none more than in this exaggerated comparison of a smooth sonneteer to a mighty poet. It is equally improbable that he imbibed this absurdity from Milton, as that he caught from him his admiration of Drummond's prose compositions and arbitrary principles.

(* The only passage in Milton that looks like borrow. ing from Drummond is in Lycidas: Gray, who borrowed always and ably, adopted one of his lines into his Elegy too exact and uncommon to be called a resemblance ;

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.]

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