WAS the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and was born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1536. He was educated at both universities, and enjoyed an early reputation in Latin as well as in English poetry. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of Gorboduc, which was played by the young students, as a part of a Christmas entertainment, and afterwards before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. In a subsequent edition of this piece it was entitled the tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex. He is said to have been assisted in the composition of it by Thomas Norton; but to what extent does not appear. T. Warton disputes the fact of his being at all indebted to Norton. The merit of the piece does not render the question of much importance. This tragedy and his contribution of the Induction and Legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the "Mirror for Magistrates," compose the poetical history of Sackville's life. The rest of it was political. He had been elected to parliament at the age of thirty. Six years afterwards, in the same year that his Induction and Legend of Buckingham were published, he went abroad on his travels, and was, for some reason that is not mentioned, confined, for a time, as a prisoner at Rome; but he returned home, on the death of his father, in 1566, and was soon after promoted to the title of Baron Buckhurst. Having entered at first with rather too much prodigality on the enjoyment of his patrimony, he is said to have been reclaimed by the indignity of being kept in waiting by an alderman, from whom he was borrowing money, and to have made a resolution of economy, from which he never departed. The queen employed him, in the fourteenth year of her reign, in an embassy to Charles IX. of France. In 1587 he went as ambassador to the United Provinces, upon their complaint against the Earl of Leicester; but, though he per

formed his trust with integrity, the favourite had sufficient influence to get him recalled; and on his return, he was ordered to confinement in his own house, for nine or ten months. On Leicester's death, however, he was immediately reinstated in royal favour, and was made knight of the garter, and chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Burleigh he became lord high-treasurer of England. At Queen Elizabeth's demise he was one of the privy councillors on whom the administration of the kingdom devolved, and he concurred in proclaiming King James. The new sovereign confirmed him in the office of hightreasurer by a patent for life, and on all occasions consulted him with confidence. In March, 1604, he was created Earl of Dorset. He died suddenly [1608] at the council table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain. Few ministers, as Lord Oxford remarks, have left behind them so unblemished a character. His family considered his memory so invulnerable, that when some partial aspersions were thrown upon it, after his death, they disdained to answer them. He carried taste and elegance even into his formal political functions, and for his eloquence was styled the bell of the Star Chamber. As a poet, his attempt to unite allegory with heroic narrative, and his giving our language its earliest regular tragedy, evince the views and enterprise of no ordinary mind; but, though the induction to the Mirror for Magistrates displays some potent sketches, it bears the complexion of a saturnine genius, and resembles a bold and gloomy landscape on which the sun never shines. As to Gorboduc, it is a piece of monotonous recitals, and cold and heavy accumulation of incidents. As an imitation of classical tragedy it is peculiarly unfortunate, in being without even the unities of place and time, to circumscribe its dulness.

FROM SACKVILLE'S INDUCTION TO THE THE wrathful Winter, 'proaching on apace, With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen, And old Saturnus, with his frosty face, With chilling cold had pierced the tender green; The mantles rent wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every tree down blown.

The "Mirror for Magistrates" was intended to celebrate the chief unfortunate personages in English history, in a series of poetical legends spoken by the characters themselves, with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories, in imitation of Boccaccio's Fall of Princes, which had been translated by Lydgate. The historian of English poetry ascribes the plan of this work to Sackville, and seems to have supposed that his Induction and legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham appeared in the first edition: but Sir E. Brydges has shown that it was not until the

second edition of the Mirror for Magistrates that Sackville's contribution was published, viz. in 1563. Baldwin and Ferrers were the authors of the first edition, in 1559. Hig gins, Phayer, Churchyard, and a crowd of inferior versifiers, contributed successive legends, not confining themselves to English history, but treating the reader with the lamentations of Geta and Caracalla, Brennus, &c. &c. till the improvement of the drama superseded those dreary monologues, by giving heroic history a more engaging air. a Sweet.

Hawthorn had lost his motley livery,

The naked twigs were shivering all for cold,
And dropping down the tears abundantly;
Each thing, methought, with weeping eye me told
The cruel season, bidding me withhold
Myself within; for I was gotten out
Into the fields, whereas I walk'd about.

When lo, the Night with misty mantles spread,
Gan dark the day, and dim the azure skies;
And Venus in her message Hermes sped
To bloody Mars, to wile him not to rise,
While she herself approach'd in speedy wise:
And Virgo hiding her disdainful breast,
With Thetis now had laid her down to rest.

...

And pale Cynthea, with her borrow'd light,
Beginning to supply her brother's place,
Was past the noon steed six degrees in sight,
When sparkling stars amid the Heaven's face,
With twinkling light shone on the Earth apace,
That while they brought about the Nightès chair,
The dark had dimm'd the day ere I was ware.
And sorrowing I to see the Summer flowers,
The lively green, the lusty leas forlorn;
The sturdy trees so shatter'd with the showers,
The fields so fade that flourish'd so beforne;
It taught me well all earthly things be borne
To die the death, for nought long time may last;
The Summer's beauty yields to Winter's blast.
Then looking upward to the Heaven's leams,
With Nighte's stars thick powder'd everywhere,
Which erst so glisten'd with the golden streams,
That cheerful Phoebus spread down from his
sphere,

Beholding dark oppressing day so near;
The sudden sight reduced to my mind
The sundry changes that in earth we find.

That musing on this worldly wealth in thought,
Which comes and goes more faster than we see
The fleckering flame that with the fire is wrought,
My busy mind presented unto me

Such fall of Peers as in this realm had be,
That oft I wish'd some would their woes descrive,
To warn the rest whom fortune left alive.

And strait forth-stalking with redoubled pace,
For that I saw the Night draw on so fast,
In black all clad, there fell before my face
A piteous wight, whom Woe had all forewaste,
Forth from her eyen the chrystal tears out brast,
And sighing sore, her hands she wrung and fold,
Tare all her hair, that ruth was to behold.
Her body small, forewither'd and forespent,
As is the stalk that Summer's drought oppress'd;
Her wealked face with woeful tears besprent,
Her colour pale, and as it seem'd her best;
In woe and plaint reposed was her rest;
And as the stone that drops of water wears,
So dented was her cheek with fall of tears. . . . .

Sackville's contribution to "The Mirror for Magistrates,” is the only part of it that is tolerable. It is observable that his plan differs materially from that of the other contributors. He lays the scene, like Dante, in Hell, and makes his characters relate their history at the gates of Elysium,

SORROW THEN ADDRESSES THE POET.

For forth she paced in her fearful tale:
"Come, come," quoth she," and see what I shall
show;

Come, hear the plaining and the bitter bale
Of worthy men by Fortune overthrow :
Come thou, and see them rewing all in row,
They were but shades that erst in mind thou roll'd,
Come, come with me, thine eyes shall them behold."
And with these words, as I upraised stood,
And 'gan to follow her that strait forth paced,
Ere I was ware, into a desart wood

We now were come, where,hand in hand embraced,
She led the way, and through the thick so traced,
As, but I had been guided by her might,

It was no way for any mortal wight. . . .

ALLEGORICAL PERSONAGES DESCRIBED IN HELL.

And first within the porch and jaws of Hell
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent
To sob and sigh; but ever thus lament
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain
Would wear and waste continually in pain.
Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there,
Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance
brought,

So was her mind continually in fear,

Toss'd and tormented by the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought:
With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the sky,
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook,
With foot uncertain proffer'd here and there;
Benumm'd of speech, and with a ghastly look,
Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear;
His cap upborn with staring of his hair,
Stoyn'dd and amazed at his shade for dread,
And fearing greater dangers than was need.
And next within the entry of this lake
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire,
Devising means how she may vengeance take,
Never in rest till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or venged by death to be.
When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,
Had show'd herself, as next in order set,
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,
Till in our eyes another sight we met,
When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Rewing, alas! upon the woeful plight
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight

His face was lean and some-deal pined away,
And eke his handes consumed to the bone,
But what his body was I cannot say;
For on his carcass raiment had he none,

under the guidance of Sorrow; while the authors of the other legends are generally contented with simply dreaming of the unfortunate personages, and, by going to sleep, offer a powerful inducement to follow their example. Been. Stopped.-d Astonished. Fetched.

Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one;
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winter's blast.

His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree;
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,
As on the which full daintily would he fare.
His drink the running stream, his cup the bare
Of his palm closed, his bed the hard cold ground;
To this poor life was Misery ybound.

Whose wretched state, when he had well beheld
With tender ruth on him and on his feres,
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held,
And, by and by, another shape appears,
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,
His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dented in,
With tawed hands and hard ytanned skin.
The morrow gray no sooner had begun
To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes,
When he is up and to his work yrun;
And let the night's black misty mantles rise,
And with foul dark never so much disguise
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,
But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,

A very corps, save yielding forth a breath;
Small keep took he whom Fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne
Of high renown: but as a living death,
So dead, alive, of life he drew the breath.
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,
The travail's ease, the still night's fere was he;
And of our life in earth the better part,
Reever of sight, and yet in whom we see
Things oft that tide, and oft that never be;
Without respect esteeming equally
King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad Old Age we found,
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
As on the place where Nature him assign'd
To rest, when that the sisters had entwined
His vital thread, and ended with their knife
The fleeting course of fast declining life.
Crook'd-back'd he was,tooth-shaken and bleareyed,
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;
With old lame bones that rattled by his side,
His scalp all pill'd, and he with eld forlore,
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door;
Trembling and driv'ling as he draws his breath,
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.

WAS born in 1536,* of an ancient family in Essex, was bred at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's-Inn; but being disinherited by his father for extravagance, he repaired to Holland, and obtained a commission under the Prince of Orange. A quarrel with his colonel retarded his promotion in that service; and a circumstance occurred which had nearly cost him his life. A lady at the Hague (the town being then in the enemy's possession) sent him a letter, which was intercepted in the camp, and a report against his loyalty was made by those who had seized it. Gascoigne immediately laid the affair before the Prince, who saw through the design of his accusers, and gave him a passport for visiting his female friend. At the siege of Middleburgh he displayed so much bravery, that the Prince rewarded him with 300 gilders above his pay; but he was soon after made prisoner by the Spaniards," and having spent four months in captivity, re

turned to England, and resided generally at Walthamstow. In 1575 he accompanied Queen Elizabeth in one of her stately progresses, and wrote for her amusement a mask, entitled the Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth Castle. He is generally said to have died at Stamford, in 1578; but the registers of that place have been searched in vain for his name, by the writer of an article in the Censura Literaria,† who has corrected some mistakes in former accounts of him. It is not probable, however, that he lived long after 1576, as, from a manuscript in the British Museum, it appears that, in that year, he complains of his infirmities, and nothing afterwards came from his pen.

Gascoigne was one of the earliest contributors to our drama. He wrote The Supposes, a comedy, translated from Ariosto, and Jocasta, a tragedy from Euripides, with some other pieces.‡

FROM depth of dole, wherein my soul doth dwell, From heavy heart, which harbours in my breast,

* Mr. Ellis conjectures that he was born much earlier. Cens. Lit. vol. i. p. 100. Gascoigne died at Stamford on the 7th of October, 1577.-See COLLIER's Annals, vol. i. p. 192.

From troubled sprite, which seldom taketh rest, From hope of heaven, from dread of darksome hell,

[One of his principal works is The Fruits of War: it was suggested by his personal adventures and observations. His verse is smooth, flowing, and unaffected. One of his best pieces is De Profundis, which I have added to Mr. Campbell's selections.-G.]

O gracious God, to thee I cry and yell:

My God, my Lord, my lovely Lord, alone To thee I call, to thee I make my moan. And thou, good God, vouchsafe in grace to take This woful plaint Wherein I faint;

Oh! hear me, then, for thy great mercy's sake.

Oh! bend thine ears attentively to hear,

Oh! turn thine eyes, behold me how I wail! Oh! hearken, Lord, give ear for mine avail, Oh! mark in mind the burdens that I bear; See how I sink in sorrows everywhere.

Behold and see what dolors I endure, Give ear and mark what plaints I put in ure ;" Bend willing ears; and pity therewithal My willing voice,

With hasty wing

From me doth fling,

And striveth still unto the Lord to fly.

O Israel! O household of the Lord!

O Abraham's sons! O brood of blessed seed! O chosen sheep, that love the Lord indeed! O hungry hearts! feed still upon his word, And put your trust in Him with one accord. For He hath mercy evermore at hand, His fountains flow, his springs do never stand; And plenteously He loveth to redeem Such sinners all

As on Him call,

And faithfully his mercies most esteem.
He will redeem our deadly, drooping state,

He will bring home the sheep that go astray,
He will help them that hope in Him alway,
He will appease our discord and debate,
He will soon save, though we repent us late.
He will be ours, if we continue his,
He will bring balee to joy and perfect bliss;
He will redeem the flock of his elect

From all that is

Or was amiss

Since Abraham's heirs did first his laws reject.

ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER.

AT Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When False Suspect accused me,
George, quoth the Judge, hold up thy hand,
Thou art arraign'd of Flattery;
Tell, therefore, how wilt thou be tried,
Whose judgment thou wilt here abide?

My lord, quod I, this lady here,
Whom I esteem above the rest,
Doth know my guilt, if any were;
Wherefore her doom doth please me best.
Let her be judge and juror both,
To try me guiltless by mine oath.

Quoth Beauty, No, it fitteth not`
A prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so.
Then Craft the crier call'd a quest,
Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere;
A pack of pickthanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the judge unjust,
Sentence was said, "I should be truss'd."

Jealous the gaoler bound me fast,
To hear the verdict of the bill;

George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,
And there be hang'd all but the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead!

: Misery.

Down fell I then upon my knee,
All flat before dame Beauty's face,
And cried, Good Lady, pardon me!
Who here appeal unto your grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.

And though this Judge doth make such haste
To shed with shame my guiltless blood,
Yet let your pity first be placed

To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you show yourself a Queen,
And I may be your servant seen.
Quoth Beauty, Well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be;
Although thy faults deserve no less
Than Justice here hath judged thee;
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?
Yea, madam, quoth I, that I shall;
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties:
Why then, quoth she, come when I call,
I ask no better warrantise.

Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
At her command when she doth call.

THE VANITY OF THE BEAUTIFUL. THEY course the glass, and let it take no rest; They pass and spy, who gazeth on their face; They darkly ask whose beauty seemeth best; They hark and mark who marketh most their grace;

They stay their steps, and stalk a stately pace; They jealous are of every sight they see; They strive to seem, but never care to be....

What grudge and grief our joys may then sup

press,

To see our hairs, which yellow were as gold,
Now gray as glass; to feel and find them less;
To scrape the bald skull which was wont to hold
Our lovely locks with curling sticks controul'd;
To look in glass, and spy Sir Wrinkle's chair
Set fast on fronts which erst were sleek and fair....

VANITY OF YOUTH.

Of lusty youth then lustily to treat,
It is the very May-moon of delight;
When boldest bloods are full of wilful heat,
And joy to think how long they have to fight
In fancy's field, before their life take flight;
Since he which latest did the game begin,
Doth longest hope to linger still therein...

SWIFTNESS OF TIME.

THE heavens on high perpetually do move;
By minutes meal the hour doth steal away,
By hours the days, by days the months remove,
And then by months the years as fast decay;
Yea, Virgil's verse and Tully's truth do say,
That Time flieth, and never claps her wings;
But rides on clouds, and forward still she flings.

FROM GASCOIGNE'S GRIEF OF JOY, An unpublished Poem in the British Museum. THERE is a grief in every kind of joy, That is my theme, and that I mean to prove; And who were he which would not drink annoy, To taste thereby the lightest dram of love? ....

JOHN HARRINGTON, the father of the translator of Ariosto, was imprisoned by Queen Mary for his suspected attachment to Queen Elizabeth, by whom he was afterwards rewarded with a grant of lands. Nothing that the younger Harrington has written seems to be worth preserving; but

the few specimens of his father's poetry which are found in the Nuga Antiquæ may excite a regret that he did not write more. His love verses have an elegance and terseness, more modern, by an hundred years, than those of his contemporaries.