And yet whose force fear I have I so lost Myself? my strength too with my innocence ? Come, try who dares, heaven, earth, whate'er dost A borrow'd being, make thy bold defence. [boast

Come thy Creator too, what though it cost
Me yet a second fall? we'd try our strengths.
Heavens saw us struggle once: as brave a fight
Earth now shall see, and tremble at the sight.

THE mother of this poet, who was daughter to Lord Morley, is reported to have written the famous letter of warning, in consequence of which the gunpowder plot was discovered. His father, who had been suspected of a share in Babington's conspiracy, and who had owed his release to his being godson to Queen Elizabeth, was a second time imprisoned, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the agents in the gunpowder plot; but by Lord Morley's interest was pardoned, on condition of confining himself to Worcestershire, of which county he lived to write a voluminous history.

The family were catholics; and his son, the poet, was sent to St. Omer's, we are told, with a view to make him a Jesuit, which he declined. The same intention never failed to be ascribed to all English families who sent their children to that seminary. On his return from the Continent he lived chiefly with his father, who was his pre

TO CASTARA, INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER.
WHY doth the stubborn iron prove
So gentle to th' magnetic stone?
How know you that the orbs do move;
With music too? since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.

'Tis not thy virtues, each a star
Which in thy soul's bright sphere do shine,
Shooting their beauties from afar,

To make each gazer's heart like thine;
Our virtues often meteors are.
"Tis not thy face, I cannot spy,
When poets weep some virgin's death,
That Cupid wantons in her eye,
Or perfumes vapour from her breath,
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.

Nor is't thy birth. For I was ne'er
So vain as in that to delight:
Which, balance it, no weight doth bear,
Nor yet is object to the sight,
But only fills the vulgar ear.

Nor yet thy fortunes: since I know
They, in their motion like the sea

Ebb from the good, to the impious flow:
And so in flattery betray,

That raising they but overthrow.

ceptor. Of the subsequent course of his life nothing more seems to be on record than his marriage and his literary works. The latter consisted of effusions entitled Castara, the poetical name of his mistress; the Queen of Arragon, a tragi-comedy; a History of Edward IV.; and Observations upon History.

Habington became a poet from the courtship of the lady whom he married, Lucy, daughter to Lord Powis. There is no very ardent sensibility in his lyrics, but they denote a mind of elegant and chaste sentiments. He is free as any of the minor poets of his age from the impurities which were then considered as wit. He is indeed rather ostentatiously platonic, but his love language is far from being so elaborate as the complimentary gallantry of the preceding age. A respectable gravity of thought, and succinct fluency of expression, are observable in the poems of his later life.

And yet these attributes might prove
Fuel enough t'inflame desire;
But there was something from above,
Shot without reason's guide, this fire.
I know, yet know not, why I love.

CUPIO DISSOLVI.

THE Soul which doth with God unite,
Those gaieties how doth she slight
Which o'er opinion sway!
Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars or on martyrs' shrines,
How doth she burn away!

How violent are her throes till she
From envious earth deliver'd be,

Which doth her flight restrain !
How doth she doat on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And every murdering pain!

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame's more precious breath;
And every gaudy circumstance
That doth the pomp of life advance,
At the approach of death!

The cunning of astrologers
Observes each motion of the stars,

Placing all knowledge there :
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.

The wandering pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind,
Still gazing on the pole.
The politician scorns all art

But what doth pride and power impart,
And swells the ambitious soul.

But he whom heavenly fire doth warm,
And 'gainst these powerful follies arm,
Doth soberly disdain

All these fond human mysteries
As the deceitful and unwise
Distempers of our brain.

He as a burden bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away
On every idle cause:

But with the same untroubled eye
Can or resolve to live or die,

Regardless of th' applause.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great,
And treachery of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul t'enthrone Above impure corruption;

What should I grieve or fear,

To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear.

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?
And when thou shalt my soul refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,

Shall I grieve for the dross?

SONG.

FROM THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON. A Tragi-Comedy.

Nor the Phoenix in his death,

Nor those banks where violets grow,
And Arabian winds still blow,
Yield a perfume like her breath.

But O marriage makes the spell,
And 'tis poison if I smell.

The twin-beauties of the skies,
(When the half-sunk sailors haste
To rend sail, and cut their mast,)
Shine not welcome, as her eyes.

But those beams, than storms more black,
If they point at me, I wrack.

Then for fear of such a fire,

Which kills worse than the long night

Which benumbs the Muscovite,

I must from my life retire.

But O no! for if her eye

Warm me not, I freeze, and die.

I BELIEVE the only notice of this poet that is to be found is in Langbaine, who informs us that he was a physician at Shaftesbury, in Dorsetshire, in the reigns of Charles I. and II. He wrote a single tragi-comedy, "Love's Victory," which was acted after the Restoration under the new title of "Wits led by the Nose, or the Poet's Revenge." His Pharonnida, an heroic poem, in five books, which Langbaine says has nothing to recommend it, is one of the most interesting stories that was ever told in verse, and contained so much amusing matter as to be made into a prose novel in the reign of Charles II. What Dr. Johnson said unjustly of Milton's Comus, that it was like gold hid under a rock, may unfortunately be applied with too much propriety to Pharonnida. Never perhaps was so much beautiful design in poetry marred by infelicity of execution his ruggedness of versification, abrupt transitions, and a style that is at once slovenly and quaint, perpetually interrupted in enjoying the splendid figures and spirited pas

sions of this romantic tablet, and make us catch them only by glimpses. I am well aware that from a story so closely interwoven a few selected passages, while they may be more than sufficient to exemplify the faults, are not enough to discover the full worth of Chamberlayne. His sketches, already imperfect, must appear still more so in the shape of fragments; we must peruse the narrative itself to appreciate the rich breadth and variety of its scenes, and we must perhaps accustom our vision to the thick medium of its uncouth style to enjoy the power and pathos of his characters and situations. Under all the defects of the poem, the reader will then indeed feel its unfinished hints affect the heart and dilate the imagination. From the fate of Chamberlayne a young poet may learn one important lesson, that he who neglects the subsidiary graces of taste has every chance of being neglected by posterity, and that the pride of genius must not prompt him to disdain the study of harmony and of style.

Argalia being brought before the Princess Pharonnida on a false accusation of murder, they fall in love with each other, although the Princess is obliged, with a reluctant heart, to condemn him on false evidence.

HIGH mounted on an ebon throne on which
Th' embellish'd silver show'd so sadly rich
As if its varied form strove to delight

Those solemn souls which death-pale fear did fright,
In Tyrian purple clad, the princess sate,
Between two sterner ministers of fate,
Impartial judges, whose distinguish'd tasks
Their various habit to the view unmasks.
One, in whose looks, as pity strove to draw
Compassion in the tablets of the law,
Some softness dwelt, in a majestic vest

Of state-like red was clothed; the other, dress'd
In dismal black, whose terrible aspect
Declared his office, served but to detect
Her slow consent, if, when the first forsook
The cause, the law so far as death did look.
Silence proclaim'd, a harsh command calls forth
Th' undaunted prisoner, whose excelling worth
In this low ebb of fortune did appear
Such as we fancy virtues that come near
The excellence of angels-fear had not
Rifled one drop of blood, nor rage begot
More colour in his cheeks-his soul in state,
Throned in the medium, constant virtue sat.

Yet, though now depress'd

Even in opinion, which oft proves the best
Support to those whose public virtues we
Adore before their private guilt we see,
His noble soul still wings itself above
Passion's dark fogs; and like that prosperous dove
The world's first pilot, for discovery sent,
When all the floods that bound the firmament
O'erwhelm'd the earth, conscience' calm joys to
increase,

Returns, freight with the olive branch of peace.
Thus fortified from all that tyrant fear
O'erawed the guilty with, he doth appear.
Not all

His virtues now protect him, he must fall
A guiltless sacrifice, to expiate

No other crime but their envenom'd hate.
An ominous silence-such as oft precedes
The fatal sentence-while the accuser reads
His charge, possess'd the pitying court in which
Presaging calm Pharonnida, too rich
In mercy, heaven's supreme prerogative,
To stifle tears, did with her passion strive
So long, that what at first assaulted in
Sorrow's black armour, had so often been
For pity cherish'd, that at length her eyes
Found there those spirits that did sympathise

With those that warm'd her blood, and unseen, move That engine of the world, mysterious love.

[sheet.

The beauteous princess, whose free soul had been
Yet guarded in her virgin ice, and now
A stranger is to what she doth allow
Such easy entrance. By those rays that fall
From either's eyes, to make reciprocal
Their yielding passions, brave Argalia felt,
Even in the grasp of death, his functions melt
To flames, which on his heart an onset make
For sadness, such as weary mortals take
Eternal farewells in. Yet in this high
Tide of his blood, in a soft calm to die,
His yielding spirits now prepare to meet
Death, clothed in thoughts white as his winding-
That fatal doom, which unto heaven affords
The sole appeal, one of the assisting lords
Had now pronounced whose horrid thunder could
Not strike his laurell'd brow; that voice which
Have petrified a timorous soul, he hears [would
With calm attention. No disorder'd fears
Ruffled his fancy, nor domestic war
Raged in his breast; his every look so far
From vulgar passions, that, unless, amazed
At beauty's majesty he sometime gazed
Wildly on that as emblems of more great
Glories than earth afforded, from the seat
Of resolution his fix'd soul had not

Been stirr❜d to passion, which had now begot
Wonder, not fear, within him. No harsh frown
Contracts his brow; nor did his thoughts pull down
One fainting spirit, wrapt in smother'd groans,
To clog his heart. From her most eminent thrones
Of sense, the eyes, the lightning of his soul
Flew with such vigour forth, it did control
All weaker passions, and at once include
With Roman valour Christian fortitude.

BOOK III. CANTO II.

The father of Pharonnida, having discovered her attachment to Argalía, breaks into rage and thus threatens her.

SILENT with passion, which his eyes inflamed,
The prince awhile beholds her ere he blamed
The frailty of affection; but at length,
Through the quick throng of thoughts, arm'd with

a strength,

Which crush'd the soft paternal smiles of love,
He thus begins "And must, O must that prove
My greatest curse on which my hopes ordain'd
To raise my happiness? Have I refrain'd
The pleasures of a nuptial bed, to joy
Alone in thee, nor trembled to destroy
My name, so that advancing thine I might
Live to behold my sceptre take its flight
To a more spacious empire? Have I spent
My youth till, grown in debt to age, she hath sent

| Diseases to arrest me that impair

My strength and hopes e'er to enjoy an heir,

Which might preserve our name, which only now
Must in our dusty annals live; whilst thou
Transfer'st the glory of our house on one,
Which had not I warm'd into life, had gone,
A wretch forgotten of the world, to th' earth [birth
From whence he sprung? But tear this monstrous
Of fancy from thy soul, quick as thou❜dst fly
Descending wrath if visible, or I
Shall blast thee with my anger till thy name
Rot in my memory; not as the same
That once thou wert behold thee, but as some
Dire prodigy, which to foreshow should come
All ills which through the progress of my life
Did chance were sent. I lost a queen and wife,
Thy virtuous mother, who for goodness might
Have here supplied, before she took her flight
To heaven, my better angel's place; have since
Stood storms of strong affliction; still a prince
Over my passions until now, but this
Hath proved me coward. Oh! thou dost amiss
To grieve me thus, fond girl."-With that he shook
His reverend head; beholds her with a look
Composed of grief and anger, which she sees
With melting sorrow; but resolved love frees
Her from more yielding pity-

She falls
Prostrate at's feet; to his remembrance calls
Her dying mother's will, by whose pale dust
She now conjures him not to be unjust
Unto that promise, with which her pure soul
Fled satisfied from earth-as to control
Her freedom of affection.-

She then

Calls to remembrance who relieved him when
Distress'd within Aleythius' walls; the love
His subjects bore Argalia, which might prove
Her choice her happiness; with all, how great
A likelihood, it was but the retreat
Of royalty to a more safe disguise
Had show'd him to their state's deluded eyes
So mean a thing. Love's boundless rhetoric
About to dictate more, he, with a quick
And furious haste, forsakes the room, his rage
Thus boiling o'er-" And must my wretched age
Be thus by thee tormented? but take heed,
Correct thy passions, or their cause must bleed,
Until he quench the flame-"

Her soul, oppress'd,
Sinks in a pale swoon, catching at the rest
It must not yet enjoy; swift help lends light,
Though faint and glimmering, to behold what night
Of grief o'ershadow'd her. You that have been
Upon the rack of passion, tortured in

The engines of forbidden love, that have
Shed fruitless tears, spent hopeless sighs, to crave

A rigid parent's fair aspect, conceive
What wild distraction seized her. I must leave
Her passions' volume only to be read

Within the breasts of such whose hearts have bled

At the like dangerous wounds.

BOOK III. CANTO III.

THROUGH the dark path of dusty annals we,
Led by his valour's light, return to see
Argalia's story, who hath, since that night
Wherein he took that strange distracted flight
From treacherous Ardenna, perform'd a course
So full of threat'ning dangers, that the force
Of his protecting angel trembled to
Support his fate, which crack'd the slender clew
Of destiny almost to death: his stars,
Doubting their influence when such horrid wars
The gods proclaim'd, withdrew their languish'd

beams

Beneath heaven's spangled arch; in pitchy streams
The heavy clouds unlade their wombs, until
The angry winds, fearing the floods should fill
The air, the region where they ruled, did break
Their marble lodgings; Nature's self grew weak
With these distemperatures, and seem'd to draw
Tow'rd dissolution-her neglected law
Each element forgot. Th' imprison'd flame,
When the clouds' stock of moisture could not tame
Its violence, in sulph'ry flashes broke
Thorough the glaring air; the swoln clouds spoke
In the loud voice of thunder; the sea raves
And foams with anger, hurls his troubled waves
High as the moon's dull orb, whose waning light
Withdrew to add more terror to the night.

ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS.

THE Turks had ought

Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought
Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now,
Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow
Their stubborn resolutions with the strength
Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length
Of the chronical disease extended had
To some few months, since to oppress the sad
But constant islanders, the army lay,
Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay
From battle rusts the soldier's valour in
His tainted cabin, there had often been,
With all variety of fortune, fought

Brave single combats, whose success had brought
Honour's unwither'd laurels on the brow
Of either party; but the balance, now
Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined
Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined
In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard
The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appear'd
The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck
A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look
Who next the lists should enter; each desires
The task were his, but honour now requires
A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies
The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice;
To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free
Consent of all, Argalia comes to be

Their happy champion. Truce proclaim'd, until
The combat ends, th' expecting people fill
The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake
Their tents, of whom the city ladies take
A dreadful view, till a more noble sight
Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight
With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat
They toil for victory. The conflict's heat
Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed
Than burning calentures could do; both blamed
The feeble influence of their stars, that gave
No speedier conquest; each neglects to save
Himself, to seek advantage to offend
His eager foe.

But now so long

The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong

Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength Cool'd, on the ground, with his blood-he fell at length,

Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew
O' the villains that did at a distance view
Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot,
Running to succour him, begin a hot
And desperate combat with those knights that stand
To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand
Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent
His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent
His scatter'd troops.

Argalia lies in chains, ordain'd to die
A sacrifice unto the cruelty

Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in
The combat late he slew; yet had not been
In that so much unhappy, had not he,
That honour'd then his sword with victory,
Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright
But cruel lady, whose refined delight

Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not
Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot
Contention of her blood, which he foresaw
That heavy news would from her anger draw,
To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent
Him living to her, that her anger, spent
In flaming torments, might not settle in
The dregs of discontent. Staying to win
Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were
Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there

To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest
Argalia sever'd, soon hopes to be blest
With speedy death, though waited on by all
The hell-instructed torments that could fall
Within invention's reach; but he's not yet
Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit
Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use
Of th' Turkish pride, which triumphs in th' abuse
Of suffering Christians, once, before they take
The ornaments of nature off, to make
Their prisoners public to the view, that all
Might mock their miseries: this sight did call
Janusa to her palace-window, where,
Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear