This is going rather too far. We cheerfully acknowledge Lord Cochrane to be a bold and skilful seaman; and, having said this, we stop. Mrs. Graham is an agreeable writer; and the volume before us may be perused both with profit and pleasure; it embraces every topic, from the sublime elevation of political truth to the humblest detail of domestic life. Although the work of a female traveller, it is, upon the whole, free from sentimental affectation: sometimes, indeed, the delicate hand and neat crow-quill is employed in producing a sample of fine writing, which, however, soon gives place to the plain sensible recital of facts. The Chinese fire-works are only let off now and then. Specimens of the earlier English Poets. 12mo.- WE regard the attention which has lately been given to the earlier English poets as indicative of considerable improvement in the public taste. It is not many years since they were treated with total neglect, and the very existence of the greater part of their works was scarcely better known in England than in China. A few literary men, however, whose taste was not formed in the trammels of conventional criticism, have succeeded in attracting notice to these fountains of pure and genuine poesy; and many of the majestic bards of the "olden time," now receive the meed of popular admiration which they so well deserve. The volume before us is a very laudable endeavour to extend the acquaintance of the general reader with the works of our earlier poets. The compiler is evidently a man well acquainted with the ancient literature of his country, and fully capable of appreciating its value. Upwards of seventy pages, at the commencement of the volume, are occupied by a selection from the works of Marlowe, consisting of his poem of Hero and Leander, and some fine extracts from his Doctor Faustus. Of Hero and Leander, "Ben Jonson, a man conscious enough of his own abilities, was often heard to say, that it was more fit for admiration than parallel." Faustus is an astonishing specimen of dramatic power, and contains some passages probably unequalled except by some of the finest parts of Shakspeare. The story is generally known. The following extract exhibits the termination of his career as delineated by VOL. I. PART II. 1 FF Marlowe, his covenant with the prince of darkness expiring at twelve o'clock. (The clock strikes eleven.) Oh! Faustus, FAUSTUS, solus. Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, The stars move still-time runs the clock will strike, See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament. (Attempts to pray.) A threat'ning arm, an angry brow! Mountains and hills! come, come and fall on me, (The clock chimes the half hour.) O soul! be chang'd into small water-drops, (Thunder.) Enter the DEVILS. I'll burn my books! oh, Mephostophilis! [Exeunt. What must be thought of the state of the public taste, when such writers as Marlowe were neglected for Colley Cibber and Aaron Hill? The poems of Sir Walter Raleigh succeed the selection from Marlowe, and of these we shall select one equally singular and beautiful. It is called the "Soul's Farewell," and there is a tradition that it was written by Raleigh just before his death, and in the immediate contemplation of that event. It has been shewn, however, that it was in existence more than twenty years before. But the "legend," to use the words of Mr. Campbell, ❝is so highly interesting to the fancy," that we cannot help wishing it true, and are half angry with those careful enquirers who come with their facts and dates to call us from the bright regions of romance into the sober walk of history. 66 THE FAREWELL. ? "Go, Soul, the Body's guest, "Go, tell the Court it glows, And shines like painted wood; "Tell Potentates, they live Acting, but Oh! their actions Give Potentates the lie. FF 2 "Tell men of high condition, "Tell those that brave it most, They beg for more by spending Seek nothing but commending: "Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; "Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Honour how it alters; Tell Beauty that it blasteth; Tell Favour that she falters And as they do reply, Give every one the lie. "Tell Wit how much it wrangles In fickle points of niceness; "Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Charity of coldness; "Tell Fortune of her blindness; And if they do reply, 1 "Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell Schools they lack profoundness, "Tell Faith it's fled the city; Tell how the Country erreth; "So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, The next place in the work is devoted to Crashaw, whom Milton imitated, and from whom he borrowed some of his best images, and then declared the author unworthy of notice. We have only room to extract his translation of the 137th Psalm, which, as the present editor observes, is remarkably fine. "On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, Our harps that now no music understood, While unhappy captiv'd we, Lovely Sion! thought on thee. "They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast In Hebrew numbers, then, O cruel jest! One of Sion's songs to-day. "Sing! play! to whom, ah! shall we sing or play, Ah, thee, Jerusalem! ah! sooner may This hand forget the mastery Of music's dainty touch, than I The music of thy memory! |