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Ah! no, it is not dead, nor can it die,

But lives for aye in blissful paradise ;
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie

In bed of lillies, wrapped in tender wise,
And compass'd all about with roses sweet,
And dainty violets from head to feet.
There thousand birds, all of celestial brood,

To him do sweetly carol day, and night,
And with strange notes of him well understood,

Lull him asleep in angel-like delight :
Whilst in sweet dreams to him presented be
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see,
But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure

Of their divine aspects, appearing plain,
And kindling love in him above all measure ;

Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain :
For what so goodly forms he there doth see,
He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free.
There liveth he in everlasting bliss,

Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die,
Not dreading harm from any foe of his,

Nor fearing savage beasts' more cruelty,
Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack,
And with vain vows do often call him back.
But live thou there still, happy, happy spirit!

And give us leave thee here thus to lament;
Not thee, that dost the heaven's joy inherit,

But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. .. Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, Mourning in others our own miseries.

The lady's paradise, peopled with houris, is perhaps rather in the Ma hometan taste. It is, however, no

slight honour to her, that Milton in the most perfect of all his works, his matchless “ Ly cidas,” bad an eye upon her Elegy. Of this who can doubt, reading the following lines :

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Šank though he be beneath the watry floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves ;
Where other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And bears th’ unexpressive nuptial song
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.”

The bed of lillies compass'd about with roscs and violets, in which the disembodied soul reposes, like a new-born babe, a sweet and truly feminine idea of the lady, is changed by the poet into fresh groves and streams, and nectar pure. The thousand birds who sweetly carol night and day, become solemn troops and sweet societies occupied in heavenly music. For the immortal beauties kindling love, unallayed by jealousy, we have the communion of sainis. In both, the originating ideas are the same--the igures only are various. The lady's are perhaps the most poetical, the poet's certainly the most orthodox.

In Davison's “Poetical Rhapsody," printed in 1602, is a Poem, entitled " A Pastoral Dialogue in praise of Astrea,” the poetical appellation of Queen Elizabeth, said to ha ve been “made by the excellent lady, the Lady Mary Countess of Pembroke, at the Queen's Majesties being at her house."

A Dialogue between Two Shepherds...

THENOT AND PJERS. Thenot. I sing divine Astrea's praise,

O Musés ! help my wits to raise,

And heave my verses higher.

Piers. Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell

Which much I doubt thou canst not well,

Thou art so oft a liar,

Thenot. If in my song no more I show

Than heaven and earth and sea do know,

Then truly I have spoken. Piers. Sufficeth not no more to name,

But being no less, the like, the same

Else laws of truth be broken.

Thenot. Then say, she is so good, so fair,

With all the earth she may compare,

Nor Woman's self denying. Piers. Compare may think where likeness holds,

Nought like to her the earth enfolds :

I thought to find you lying. Thenot. Soon as Astrea shews her face,

Straight every ill avoids the place,

And every good aboundeth.
Pieres. Nay, long before her face doth show,

The last doth come, the first doth go;

How loud this lie resoundeth.

Thenot. Astrea is our chiefest joy,

Our chiefest guard against annoy,

Our chiefest wealth, our treasure. Piers. Where chiefest are, there others be,

To us none else but only she,

When wilt thou speak in measure ? Thenot. Astrea may be justly said

A field in flowery robe array’d,

In seasons freest springing.

Piers. That spring endures but shortest time,

This never leaves Astrea's clime:

Thou liest in stead of singing. Therot. Astrea rightly term I may

A manly palm, a maiden bay,

Her verdure never dying. Piers. Palm oft is crooked, bay is low,

She still upright, still high doth grow,

Good Thenot leave thy lying.
Thenot. Then, Piers, of friendship tell me why,

My meaning true, my words should lie,

And strive in vain to raise her. Piers. Words from conceit do only rise,

Above conceit her honour flies :

But* silence nought can praise her. † A pure sample this of that outrageous flattery, close bordering upon the brink of irony and ridicule, in which Elizabeth was weak and vain enough to find delight,strange inconsistency of human nature.

A very scarce publishe:l work of the Countess, bears the title of “ The Tragedy of Antonie ;done into English by the Countess of Pembroke.” Dated at Ramsbury, 26 Nov. 1590. Printed by P. S. for W. Ponsonby, 1595, 16mo. From this production Mr. Park has selected the following extract as a specimen :

Lament we our mishaps,

Drown we with tears our woe;
For lamentable haps,

Lamented, easy grow,
And much less torment bring,
Than when they first did spring.

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i; e. Except. + Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p. 196

We want that woeful song

Wherewith wood-músick's queen
Doth ease her woes among,

Fresh spring-time's bushes green.
On pleasant branch alone,
Renewing ancient moan.
We want that moanful sound

That pratling Progne makes,
On fields of Thracian ground,

Or streams of Thracian lakes,
To empt her breast of pain
For Itys, by her slain.
Though Halcyons do still,

Bewailing Ceyx 'lot,
The seas with plainings fill,

Which his dead limbs have göt,
Not ever other grave
Than tomb of waves to have.

And though the bird in death,

That most Meander loves,
So sweetly sings his breath,

When death his füry provés,
As almost softs his heart,
And almost blunts his dart :

Yet all the plaints of those,

Nor all their tearful 'larms
Cannot content our woes,

serve to wail the harms,
In soul which we, poor we !

To feel enforced be, t Copied from'her brother

- The Nightingale wood-musicks queen". + Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p. 197.

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