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On My First Daughter.

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth:
Yet all Heaven's gifts being Heaven's
due,

It makes the father less to rue.
At six months' end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul Heaven's queen-whose name
she bears-

In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed among her virgin train:
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth
Which, cover lightly, gentle earth.

To Penshurst.*

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars or a roof of gold:
Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told;
Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudged at are reverenced the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air,
Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport;
Thy mount to which the Dryads do resort,

Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made
Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade;
That taller tree which of a nut was set

At his great birth where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names
Of many a silvan token with his flames.
And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke
The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak.

Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here,
That never fails, to serve thee, seasoned deer,
When thou would feast or exercise thy friends.
The lower land that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed:
The middle ground thy mares and horses breed.
Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops
Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side:
The painted partridge lies in every field,
And, for thy mess, is willing to be killed.
And if the high-swoln Medway fail thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat, aged carps that run into thy net,

And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loath the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.

Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand.

Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,

* Penshurst is situated in Kent, near Tunbridge, in a wide and rich valley. The gray walls and turrets of the old mansion, its high peaked and red roofs, and the new build. ings of fresh stone, mingled with the ancient fabric, present a very striking and venerable aspect. Itis a fitting abode for the noble Sidneys. The park contains trees of enormous growth, and others to which past events and characters have given an everlasting interest; as Sir Philip Sidney's Oak, Saccharissa's Walk, Gamage's Bower. &c. The ancient massy oak-tables remain; and from Jonson's description of the hospitality of the amily, they must often have 'groaned with the weight of the feast. Mr. William Howitt has given an interesting account of Penshurst in his Visits to Remarkable Places, 1840.

Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The early cherry with the later plum,

Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:
The blushing apricot and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls that every child may reach.

And though thy walls be of the country stone,

They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan;
There's none that dwell about them wish them down;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown,
And no one empty handed, to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,

Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses, bring them, or else send

By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear.

But what can this-more than express their love-
Add to thy free provisions, far above

The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know!

Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee

With other edifices, when they see

Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

lo the Memory of my beloved, the Author, Mr. William Shakspeare, and what he hath left us.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such

As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these would light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great but disproportioned Muses:
For if thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honor thee I will not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripedes, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread.
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were ca,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth or since did from their ashes come,
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to shew,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe,
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat→
Such as thine are-and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,

And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;

For a good poet's made as well as born,

And such wert thou! Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well-turned and true-filed lines:

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James!

But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and, with rage

Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,

Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

On the Portrait of Shakspeare.-Opposite the frontispiece to the first

edition of his works, 1623.

This figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature, to outdo the life:
O could he but have drawn his wit,

As well in brass, as he hath hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass:
But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.*

*This attestation of Ben Jonson to the first engraved portrait of Shakspeare, seems to prove its fidelity as a likeness. The portrait corresponds with the monumental effigy at Stratford, but both represent a heavy and somewhat inelegant figure. There is, however, a placid good-humour in the expression of the features, and inuch sweetness in the mouth and lips. The upper part of the head is bald, and the lofty forehead is conspicuous in both, as in the Chandos and other pictures. The general resemblance we have no doubt is correct, but considerable allowance must be made for the defective state of English art at this period.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT (1582-1628) was the elder brother of the celebrated dramatist. Enjoying the family estate of Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire, Sir John dedicated part of his leisure hours to the service of the Muses. He wrote a poem on Bosworth Field in the heroic couplet, which, though generally cold and unimpassioned, exhibits correct and forcible versification. As a specimen, we subjoin Richard's address to his troops on the eve of the decisive battle:

My fellow-soldiers! though your swords

Are sharp, and need not whetting by my words,
Yet call to mind the many glorious days
In which we treasured up immortal praise
If, when I served, I ever fled from foe,
Fly ye from mine-let me be punished so!
But if my father, when at first he tried
How all his sons could shining blades abide,
Found me an eagle whose undazzled eyes
Affront the beams that from the steel arise;
And if I now in action teach the same,

Know, then, ye have but changed your general's name
Be still yourselves! Ye fight against the dross
Of those who oft have run from you with loss.
How many Somersets (dissension's brands)
Have felt the force of our revengeful hands?
From whom this youth, as from a princely flood,
Derives his best but not untainted blood.
Have our assaults made Lancaster to droop?
And shall this Welshman with his ragged troop,
Subdue the Norman and the Saxon line,
That only Merlin may be thought divine?
See what a guide these fugitives have chose!
Who, bred among the French, our ancient foes,
Forget the English language, and the ground,

And knows not what our drums and trumpets sound!

Sir John Beaumont wrote the heroic couplet with great ease and Correctness. In a poem to the memory of Fernando Fulton, Esq., are the following excellent verses:

Why should vain sorrow follow him with tears,
Who shakes off burdens of declining years?
Whose thread exceeds the usual bounds of life,
And feels no stroke of any fatal knife?
The destinies enjoin their wheels to run,
Until the length of his whole course be spun.
No envious clouds obscure his struggling light,
Which sets contented at the point of night:
Yet this large time no greater profit brings,
Than every little moment whence it springs;
Unless employed in works deserving praise,
Must wear out many years and live few days.
Time flows from instants, and of these each one
Should be esteemed as if it were alone.

The shortest space, which we so lightly prize
When it is coming, and before our eyes,
Let it but slide into the eternal main,

No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again:
Remembrance only makes the footsteps last,
When winged time, which fixed the prints, is past.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616), whose name is most conspicuous as a dramatist, in union with that of Fletcher, wrote a small number of miscellaneous pieces, which his brother published after his death. Some of these youthful effusions are witty and amusing; others possess a lyrical sweetness; and a few are grave and moralising. The most celebrated is the letter to Ben Jonson, which was originally published at the end of the play 'Nice Valour,' with the following title: 'Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson, written before he and Master Fletcher came to London, with two of the precedent Comedies then not finished, which deferred their merry-meetings at the Mermaid. Notwithstanding the admiration of Beaumont for Rare Ben,' he copied Shakspeare in the style of his dramas. Fletcher, however, was still more Shakspearian than his associate. Hazlitt says finely of the premature death of Beaumont and his more poetical friend: The bees were said to have come and built their hive in the mouth of Plato when a child; and the fable might be transferred to the sweeter accents of Beaumont and Fletcher. Beaumont died at the age of five-and-twenty [thirty]. One of these writers makes Bellario, the page, say to Philaster, who threatens to take his life:

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But here was youth, genius, aspiring hope, growing reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer pride, or like "the lily on its stalk green," which makes us repine at fortune, and almost at nature, that seem to set so little store by their greatest favourites. The life of poets is, or ought to be--judging of it from the light it lends to ours -a golden dream, full of brightness and sweetness, lapt in Elysium; and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision, by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like a vapour, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals has run out. Fletcher, too, was prematurely cut off by the plague.**

From Letter to Ben Jonson.

The sun-which does the greatest comfort bring
To absent friends, because the self-same thing
They know, they see, however absent-is
Here, our best haymaker-forgive me this;
It is our country's style-in this warm shine
I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine.
Oh, we have water mixed with claret lees,
Drink apt to bring in drier heresies
Than beer, good only for the sounet's strain,
With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain,

*Lectures on the Age of Elizabeth.

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