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have opposed it to the diffuseness and conventional phraseology of "novels in verse."

"Places which pale passion loves."

Beaumont, while

writing this verse, perhaps the finest in the poem, probably had in his memory that of Marlowe, in his description of Tamburlaine.

Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion.



Here be grapes whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack them;
Deign, oh, fairest fair! to take them.

For these black-eyed Dryope

Hath oftentimes commanded me

With my claspèd knee to climb:

See how well the lusty time

Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red,

Such as on your lips is spread.

Here be berries for a queen,
Some be red-some be green;3

These are of that luscious meat

The great god Pan himself doth eat;

All these, and what the woods can yield,

The hanging mountain or the field,

I freely offer; and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;

Till when, humbly leave I take,

Least the great Pan do awake

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade:4-

I must go, I must run,

Swifter than the fiery sun.

3" Some be red, some be green.”—This verse calls to mind a beautiful one of Chaucer, in his description of a grove in spring:


In which were oakès great, straight as a line,
Under the which the grass, so fresh of hue,
Was newly sprung, and an eight foot or nine,
Ev-e-ry tree well from his fellow grew,
With branches broad, laden with leavès new,
That sprangen out against the sunny sheen,
Some very red, and some a glad light green.

The Flower and the Leaf.

Coleridge was fond of repeating it.

▲ “That sleeping lies," &c.-Pan was not to be waked too soon with impunity.

Ου θεμις, ω ποιμαν, το μεσαμβρινον, ου θεμις αμμιν
Τυρισδεν τον Πανα δεδοικαμες η γαρ απ' αγρας
Τανικα κεκμακως αμπαύεται· εντι δε πικρος

Και δι αει δριμεια χολα ποτι ῥινι καθηται.

Theocritus Idyll, i. v. 15.

No, shepherd, no; we must not pipe at noon :
We must fear Pan, who sleeps after the chase,
Ready to start in snappish bitterness

With quivering nostril.

What a true picture of the half-goat divinity!


Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells;
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines; caves and dells;
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes, to make many a ring

For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love;
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest.


See, the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak

Of subtle fire. The wind blows cold
While the morning doth unfold.

I have departed from my plan for once, to introduce this very small extract, partly for the sake of its beauty, partly to show the student that · great poets do not confine their pleasant descriptions to images or feelings pleasing in the commoner sense of the word, but include such as, while seeming to contradict, harmonize with them, upon principles of truth, and of a genial and strenuous

sympathy. The "subtle streak of fire" is obviously beautiful, but the addition of the cold wind is a truth welcome to those only who have strength as well as delicacy of apprehension,-or rather, that healthy delicacy which arises from the strength. Sweet and wholesome, and to be welcomed, is the chill breath of morning. There is a fine epithet for this kind of dawn in the elder Marston's Antonio and Melida :

Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, that flakes
With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?


Hear, ye ladies that despise

What the mighty Love has done;

Fear examples and be wise:

Fair Calisto was a nun;

Leda, sailing on the stream

To deceive the hopes of man,

Love accounting but a dream

Doted on a silver swan;

Danae, in a brazen tower,

Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,

What the mighty Love can do.

Fear the fierceness of the boy :

The chaste moon he makes to woo:

Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,

Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion in a short hour, higher

He can build, and once more fire.

5 “Where no love was.”—See how extremes meet, and passion writes as conceit does, in these repetitions of a word:

Where no love was, lov'd a shower.

So, still more emphatically, in the instance afterwards :

Fear the fierceness of the boy

than which nothing can be finer.

Wonder and

earnestness conspire to stamp the iteration of the sound.


Sung to Music; the EMPEROR VALENTINIAN sitting by, sick, in a chair.

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,-
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbesr ;-easy, sweet, 6
And as a purling stream, thou son of night,
Pass by his troubled senses:-sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain:
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

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