The wofull prisoner Palemon,

And Troylus eke, Kinge Pyramus sonne,
Constrained by love did never mone
As I my deer for thee have done-

Let pitie then requite my paines

My life and death in thee remaines.

If constant love may reap his hire
And faith unfained may purchase,

Great hope I have to my desire

Your gentle heart will grant me grace,

Till then, my deer! in few wordes plaine

In pensive thoughts I shall remaine.

"The Phoenix Neste," another valuable collection of small poems, printed within a few years of the volume we have just quoted from, contains a Lover's description of his Love,

and who wishes

die in her love.

about whose gentle eye

A thousand Cupids flie,

to pursue no sweeter life than to Here are a few of the stanzas.

The lillie in the fielde,

That glories in his white

For pureness now must yeelde,

And render up his right

Heaven pictur'd in her face
Doth promise ioy and grace.

Faire Cinthia's siluer light,
That beates on running streames,
Compares not with her white,
Whose haires are all sunbeames,
Hir virtues so doe shine
As daie vnto mine eine.

With this there is a red,

Exceeds the damaske rose;

Which in her cheekes is spred;
Whence euery fauor groes

In skie there is no starre,

That she surmounts not farre,

When Phoebus from the bed,
Of Thetis doth arise,
The morning blushing red,
In faire carnation wise-

He sheues it in her face
As Queene of every grace.

Our old poets seemed to imagine as too true what the Duke of Orleans wrote on his copy of manuscript poems preserved in the British Museum, that "the god Cupide, and Venus the goddess hau pour on all worldly gladness."

Ritson places Marlowe at the head of the songwriters of Elizabeth's reign, not more," says he,

by reason of his priority, than on account of his merits." Had Marlowe alone written the little song of the Shepherd to his Love, (" in which," Mr. Campbell writes, "there are found the combined beauties of sweet wild spirit, and an exquisite finish of expression,"). his name would descend to posterity as a writer of both high and pure fancy— though his "mighty lines," as Jonson calls them, had never been either composed or preserved. Raleigh's reply to the Shepherd, wanting the originality, has all the same feeling, grace, and delicacy of Marlowe's song. Gifford, Lilly, Fulke Greville, and Greene, have each left some pretty specimens of lyrical talent, but nothing particularly to distinguish them from others.

Had Breton written always with the simplicity and sweetness found in his Phillida and Corydon, his name would have been more widely known.

The song beginning, "Take, oh take those lips away," is worthy of any age or of any poet-it is far superior in exquisite delicacy of thought to any of Shakspeare's very admirable songs varied as they are. Chalkhill's song well merits the commendation of Isaak Walton as choicely good.' Wotton wrote with the feeling of a true poet, and old Donne in 'the Bait,' left his rugged lines and artificial pleasantries for something of simplicity and truth.

e

Ben Jonson's songs are the most artfully imagined, and the most delightfully finished of any in our language. Those beginning, Drink to me only with thine eyes,' and 'Oh do not wanton with those eyes,' are the richest gems of this collection, fanciful, elegant, and refined. There is much sweetness and beauty about the lyrics of both Beaumont and Fletcher.

The ballads by George Wither, are universal and deserved favourites,-they breathe the air of Britain, and will be admired while Nature exists and poetry is felt. Mr. Campbell has justly styled Herrick's address to the virgins as sweetly Anacreontic.' 'Herrick has passages,' Campbell adds,' where the thoughts seem to dance into numbers from his very heart, and where he frolics like a being made up of melody and pleasure.' Shirley's Death's Final Conquest,' is full of the finest moral grandeur.

Carew has been called by Pope a bad Waller— but neither Waller or Pope have happier touches of truth than are frequently found in Carew, who de-.

servedly ranks among the earliest of those who a cultivated grace to our lyrical strains.*

gave

Of The Address to Althea from prison by Lovelace, Mr. Southey has said that it will live as long as the English language. Suckling wrote with ease, sprightliness, and gaiety, while the songs of Brome have, what may be called a great merit, variety.

We now arrive at the Revolution of 1660, when a complete change took place in our literature by the cultivated taste and exquisite ear of Dryden. By many it is thought that true feeling degenerated, and that nature really gave way to art: among this class of perhaps just thinkers is Mr. Procter, better known as Barry Cornwall. There have been few or no songs since the Revolution that can compare with the little lyrics found in our old dramatists—

Like orient pearls at random strung

but I can see no good grounds for Mr. Procter's assertion that" from the period of the Revolution to the time of Thomson and Collins, all our songs, and most of our poems were evidently written by the celebrated Lady of Quality.'"

6

Dryden has spoken of Lord Dorset's songs as 'the delight and wonder of his age;' and flatteringly adds, they will be the envy of the next.' Time has stripped the leaves from the laure! bough that courtiers put around the brow of Dorset, and

* Campbell.

his fame as a man of talent rests solely upon his address written at sea during the Dutch war, to the Ladies at Whitehall. Dryden's genius had no command over a song, he was deficient in lyrical ease, and had neither nature or conceit on his side. Sedley, Rochester and Prior are Dryden's superiors in song.

The taste of Ritson was of a most commonplace quality-yet what he has said of Gay, may be taken as correct with a little abatement, ' while a particle of taste remains among us-his songs, lively, humorous, witty, elegant, tender and pathetic, will certainly be remembered, and must always please.' Gay's ballad,

"Twas when the seas were roaring

is one of our finest modern poems. and truth found in Carey's Sally in

always cause it to be popular.

The single song of Bishop Percy's

O Nancy wilt thou go with me,

The simplicity our Alley, will

is one of the most exquisitely beautiful in the English language. There is nothing more tender or sweet to be imagined.. John Cunningham is the author of one fine song, Kate of Aberdeen,' which posterity will not willingly let die, and the genius of Sheridan has served to enrich our Anthologies.

In this slight criticism on our song-writers, I have only ventured to speak of those poets whose