doubt you shall be much sought unto, for the world thinks I was very rich have a care to the fair pretences of men, for no greater misery can befall you in this life, than to become a prey unto the world, and after to be despised. I speak (God knows) not to dissuade you from marriage, for it will be best for you, both in respect of God and the world. As for me, I am no more yours, nor you mine; death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me. Remember your poor child for his father's sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for my life, but God knows it was for you and yours that I desired it for know it, my dear wife, your child is the child of a true man, who in his own respect despiseth death and his misshapen and ugly forms. I cannot write much; God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep; and it is also time for me to separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body, which living was denied you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or Exeter church by my father and mother. I can say no more; time and death call me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infinite, and inscrutable God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom. My dear wife, farewell; bless my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in

his arms.

Yours that was, but now not mine own,

WALTER RALEIGH.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREY.'

Of the history of this lady, nothing satisfactory can be obtained. She wrote a tragedy, entitled "Mariam, the fair Queen of Jewry," written by that learned, virtuous, and truly noble lady, "E. C. 1613." It is written in alternate verse, and with a chorus after the manner of the Greek tragedians. She died probably some time in the reign of James the First. The following is the chorus in Act IV. of Mariam :

ON FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES.

The fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;

For who forgives without a further strife,
His adversary's heart to him doth tie.
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said,

To win the heart, than overthrow the bead.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done;

1 Generally spelled Carew, but incorrectly.

But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honor won.
Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great and cannot yield;
Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor;
Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld
The weakest lion will the loudest roar.

Truth's school for certain doth this same allow,
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn,
To scorn to owe a duty overlong;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne,

To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong.

To scorn to bear an injury in mind,

To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind?
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be,
Than make his foe more worthy far than he?

Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid,

She would to Herod then have paid her love;
And not have been by sullen passion sway'd.
To fix her thoughts all injury above

Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud,
Long famous life to her had been allow'd.

SAMUEL DANIEL. 1562-1619.

We know but little of the personal history of Samuel Daniel. He was the son of a music master, and was born near Taunton, in Somersetshire, in 1562. In 1579 he entered Oxford, and left it at the end of three years without taking his degree. Towards the close of his life he retired to a farm in his native county, and died in 1619.

His most elaborate work is "The History of the Civil Wars between the Houses of York and Lancaster," which is rather an uninteresting work, for the reason that you see in it more of the correctness of the annalist than the fancy of the poet. Sound morality, prudential wisdom, and occasional touches of the pathetic, delivered in a style of great perspicuity, will be recognised throughout his work; but neither warmth, passion, nor sublimity, nor the most distant trace of enthusiasm, can be found to animate the mass. But some of his minor poems, especially his moral epistles, have great merit, abounding in original thought, expressed in clear, simple, and vigorous an guage. A very discriminating and candid critic says, "We find both in his poetry and prose such a legitimate and rational flow of language, as approaches nearer the style of the eighteenth than the sixteenth century, aud

of which we may safely assert, that it will never become obsolete. He certainly was the Atticus of his day."1

EQUANIMITY.

He that of such a height hath built his mind,
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey?
And with how free an eye doth he look down
Upon those lower regions of turmoil?
Where all the storms of passions mainly beat
On flesh and blood: where honor, power, renown,
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil;

Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem
To little minds, who do it so esteem.

He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' wars
But only as on stately robberies;
Where evermore the fortune that prevails
Must be the right: the ill-succeeding mars
The fairest and the best-faced enterprise.
Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails:
Justice, he sees, (as if seduced,) still
Conspires with power, whose cause must not be ill.
He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold
As are the passions of uncertain man;

Who puts it in all colors, all attires,

To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.
He sees, that let deceit work what it can,
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires,
That the all-guiding Providence doth yet
All disappoint, and mock this smoke of wit.

And whilst distraught ambition compasses,
And is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives,
And is deceived; whilst man doth ransack man,
And builds on blood, and rises by distress;
And th' inheritance of desolation leaves

To great-expecting hopes: he looks thereon
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
And bears no venture in impiety.

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared

A rest for his desires; and sees all things

Beneath him; and hath learn'd this book of man,
Full of the notes of frailty; and compared

The best of glory with her sufferings:

By whom, I see, you labor all you can

To plant your heart; and set your thoughts as near
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear.

Epistle to the Countess of Cumber lana.

iRead-notices of Daniel in Headley's "Beauties of Ancient English Poetry;" in the Retrospective

Review viii. 22 and in Drakes Shakspeare, i. 611.

RICHARD THE SECOND,

The Morning before his Murder in Pomfret Castle.
Whether the soul receives intelligence,

By her near genius, of the body's end,
And so imparts a sadness to the sense,
Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend;

Or whether nature else hath conference
With profound sleep, and so doth warning send,
By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near,
And gives the heavy careful heart to fear:
However, so it is, the now sad king,
Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound,
Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering
Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground;
Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering;
Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound;
His senses droop, Lis steady eyes unquick,
And much he ails, and yet he is not sick.

The morning of that day which was his last,
After a weary rest, rising to pain,

Out at a little grate his eyes he cast
Upon those bordering hills and open plain,
Where others' liberty makes him complain
The more his own, and grieves his soul the more,
Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor.

O happy man, saith he, that lo I see,
Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields,
If he but knew his good. How blessed he
That feels not what affliction greatness yields!
Other than what he is he would not be,

Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields.
Thine, thine is that true life: that is to live
To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve.

Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire,
And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none:
And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire,
Who fall, who rise, wno triumph, who do moan.
Perhaps thou talk`st of me, and dost inquire
Of my restraint, why here I live alone,
And pitiest this my miserable fall;

For pity must have part-envy not all.

Thrice happy you that look as from the shore,

And have no venture in the wreck you see;

No interest, no occasion to deplore

Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free.

How much doth your sweet rest make us the more
To see our misery and what we be:

Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil,

Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil.

Third Book of the Civil Wars

THIS truly pleasing Christian poet, the brother of Phineas Fletcher, who, m the words of old Antony Wood, "was equally beloved of the Muses and Graces," was born 1588. But very little is known of his life. He has, however, immortalized his name by that beautiful poem entitled, "Christ's Victory and Triumph in Heaven and Earth over and after Death:" a poem which displays great sweetness, united to harmony of numbers. Headley styles i "rich and picturesque," and Campbell says, that "inferior as he is to Spen ser and Milton, he might be figured, in his happiest moments, as a link of connection in our poetry between those congenial spirits, for he reminds us of both, and evidently gave hints to the latter, in a poem on the same subject with Paradise Regained."

REDEMPTION.

When I remember Christ our burden bears,
I look for glory, but find misery;

I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;

I look that we should live, and find Him die;
I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry:

Thus what I look, I cannot find so well;

Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell;

These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell
Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin;

Suffers for us and our joy springs in this;
Suffers to death-here is his manhood seen;
Suffers to rise-and here his Godhead is;
For man, that could not by himself have ris',
Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise;
And God, that could not die, in manhood dies,
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice.

A tree was first the instrument of strife,
Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute;
A tree is now the instrument of life,

Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit;
Ah! cursed tree, and yet O blessed fruit!
That death to Him, this life to us doth give:
Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive,
And the Physician dies to make his patient live.

Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight,

Yet in his honey-flowers our poison blew;
Sad Gethseman, the bower of baleful night,
Where Christ a health of poison for us drew,
Yet all our honey in that poison grew:
So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane,
And Christ from bitter venom could again
Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain.

A man was first the author of our fall,
A Man is now the author of our rise;

1 Specimens, vol. ii. p. 306.