That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him

to weep;

When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep,

That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place:

And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase. Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers,

Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears,

His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.

But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives,

That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves :

And o'er the champain flies: which when th' assembly find,

Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind.

But being then imbost, the noble stately deer When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear)

Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil:

That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shagwool'd sheep,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had

their keep.

But when as all his shifts his safety still denies, Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows

tries.

Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand

T'assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand, The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hallo :

When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow;

Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength,

His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything he meets now at his sad decay.
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters

near,

This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,

Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed,

He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed. The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,

And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.

The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately assails; until opprest by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.

TO HIS COY LOVE.

FROM HIS ODES.

I PRAY thee, love, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me;

I but in vain that saint adore,

That can, but will not save me : These poor half kisses kill me quite ; Was ever man thus served ?

Amidst an ocean of delight,

For pleasure to be starved.

Show me no more those snowy breasts,
With azure rivers branched,

Where whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not staunched.
O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!
By me thou art prevented;
"Tis nothing to be plagued in hell,

But thus in heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me ;
O, these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me.
But see how patient I am grown,

In all this coil about thee;
Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,
I cannot live without thee.

BALLAD OF DOWSABEL.

FAR in the country of Arden,
There won'd a knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent,
In battle and in tournament,

As was the good Sir Topas.
He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleped Dowsabel,

A maiden fair and free.
And for she was her father's heir,
Full well she was ycond the leir

Of mickle courtesy.

The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine march-pine,

And with the needle work :
And she couth help the priest to say
His mattins on a holy-day,

And sing a psalm in kirk.
She wore a frock of frolic green,
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,

Iwrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above,
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lythe as lass of Kent.

Her skin as soft as Lemster wool, As white as snow, on Peakish Hull, Or swan that swims in Trent. This maiden in a morn betime,

Went forth when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setywall,
The honey-suckle, the harlock,
The lily, and the lady-smock,

To deck her summer hall.

Thus as she wander'd here and there,
And picked off the bloomy brier,
She chanced to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank,
Like chanticleer he crowned crank,
And piped full merrily.

He learn'd his sheep, as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,

To feed about him round.
Whilst he full many a carol sang,
Until the fields and meadows rang,
And all the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamerlane,

Which held proud kings in awe :
But meek as any lamb might be ;
And innocent of ill as he

Whom his lewd brother slaw.
The shepherd wore a sheep-gray cloak,
Which was of the finest lock,

That could be cut with sheer.
His mittens were of bauzons' skin,
His cockers were of cordiwin,

His hood of miniveer.
His awl and lingel in a thong,
His tar-box on his broad belt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue.
Full crisp and curled were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popinjay,

Which liked Dowsabel;

That would she ought, or would she nought, This lad would never from her thought,

She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frock,
White as a lily was her smock,

She drew the shepherd nigh:
But then the shepherd piped a good,
That all his sheep forsook their food,
To hear this melody.

Thy sheep, quoth she, cannot be lean,
That have a jolly shepherd swain,

The which can pipe so well:
Yea but (saith he) their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away,
In love of Dowsabel.

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep,
Quoth she, look well unto thy sheep,

Lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabel
Come forth to gather May.
With that she gan to veil her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said.
With that the shepherd 'gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.
Saith she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
And all for love of thee.

My cote, saith he, nor yet my fold,
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.

Saith she, yet lever I were dead,
Than I should lose my maidenhead,
And all for love of men.
Saith he, yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.
And I to thee will be as kind,
As Colin was to Rosalind,

Of courtesy the flower.

Then will I be as true, quoth she,

As ever maiden yet might be

Unto her paramour.

With that she bent her snow-white knee, Down by the shepherd kneeled she,

And him she sweetly kist.

With that the shepherd whoop'd for joy ; Quoth he, there's never shepherd's boy That ever was so blest.

SONNET

TO HIS FAIR IDEA.

IN pride of wit, when high desire of fame
Gave life and courage to my labouring pen,
And first the sound and virtue of my name
Won grace and credit in the ears of men ;
With those the thronged theatres that press,
I in the circuit for the laurel strove,
Where, the full praise, I freely must confess,
In heat of blood, a modest mind might move.
With shouts and claps, at every little pause,
When the proud round on every side hath rung,
Sadly I sit unmoved with the applause,
As though to me it nothing did belong :
No public glory vainly I pursue;
The praise I strive, is to eternize you.

EDWARD FAIRFAX, the truly poetical translator of Tasso, was the second son of Sir Thomas Fairfax, of Denton, in Yorkshire. His family were all soldiers; but the poet, while his brothers were seeking military reputation abroad, preferred the quiet enjoyment of letters at home. He married and settled as a private gentleman at Fuyston, a place beautifully situated between the family seat at Denton and the forest of Knaresborough. Some of his time was devoted to the management of his brother Lord Fairfax's property, and to superintending the education of his lordship's children. The prose MSS. which he left in the library of Denton sufficiently attest his literary industry. They have never been published, and, as they relate chiefly to religious controversy, are not likely to be so; although his treatise on witchcraft, recording its supposed operation upon his own family, must form a curious relic of superstition. Of Fairfax it might, therefore, well be said

"Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic powers which he sung*."

Of his original works in verse, his History of Edward the Black Prince has never been pub

lished; but Mr. A. Chalmers (Biog. Dict. art. Fairfax) is, I believe, as much mistaken in supposing that his Eclogues have never been collectively printed, as in pronouncing them entitled to high commendation for their poetry. A more obscurely stupid allegory and fable can hardly be imagined than the fourth eclogue, preserved in Mrs. Cooper's Muse's Library: its being an imitation of some of the theological pastorals of Spenser is no apology for its absurdity. When a fox is described as seducing the chastity of a lamb, and when the eclogue writer tells us that

"An hundred times her virgin lip he kiss'd, As oft her maiden finger gently wrung," who could imagine that either poetry, or ecclesiastical history, or sense or meaning of any kind, was ever meant to be conveyed under such a conundrum ?

The time of Fairfax's death has not been discovered; it is known that he was alive in 1631; but his translation of the Jerusalem was published when he was a young man, was inscribed to Queen Elizabeth, and forms one of the glories of her reign.

To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.

He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, Oft in their idle fancies roam and range :

A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd;
Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high;
His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd:
To yonder dreadful grove, quoth he, went I,
And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd,
Have driven the sprites away; thither let be
Your people sent, the way is safe and free.