in which the spirit of the classic lyre is beautifully illustrated. It is supposed to be derived from Philostratus : Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, Earth, let not thy envious shade Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close; Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; There is such a fulness of inspiration about the old poets, such prodigality of fancy and imagery, that their chief difficulty appears to have been to find place for their thick-coming fancies. For instance, take BEAUMONT'S fine Ode to Melancholy : Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly! But only melancholy; · Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Here is a delicious lyric from the same source:— Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! Shut-up beauty is like fire, That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though your beauty be confin'd, And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found; Look out nobly, then, and dare What a fine figure has BEAUMONT employed in the following lines to illustrate the influence of woman:— The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath, Its moss and lichen freshen and revive; And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure, SHIRLEY, the latest of the Elizabethan dramatists, wrote the fol lowing: Woodmen, shepherds, come away, This is Pan's great holiday; Throw off cares, with your heaven-aspiring airs- While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves, Leave your arbours, bring your loves, Gather posies, crown your golden hair with roses: The glories of our blood and state, Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate: With the poor crooked scythe and spade! And must give up their murmuring breath, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now, See, where the victor-victim bleeds: All heads must come to the cold tomb; Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Listen to the sweet music and melancholy flow of this fine old Go sit by the summer sea, thou whom scorn wasteth, Mark, how o'er ocean's breast rolls the hoar billow's crest, Such is his heart's unrest who of love tasteth. Griev'st thou that hearts should change? Lo, where life reigneth, Or the free sight doth range, what long remaineth? Spring, with her flowers, doth die, fast fades the gilded sky, Smile, then, ye sage and wise, and if love sever CAREW, the "sprightly, polished, and perspicuous," wrote sundry love-ditties: one of his most popular begins— Ask me no more where Jove bestows, His other noted song commences thus :— He that loves a rosy cheek, or a coral lip admires, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, gentle thoughts and calm desires; Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never-dying fires. Here, also, we have some terse lines of his, touching things terrene : Fame's but a hollow echo-gold, pure clay,— Honour, the darling but of one short day; Beauty, the eye's idol-but a damask skin; State, but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds,-embroidered trains, |