1625, Secretary of State. Sir Albertus Morton is frequently mentioned in his uncle's letters, in terms of the warmest affection. The following passage in one addressed to Nicholas Pey, written immediately after his death, is highly honourable to all parties :-"Here, when I had been almost a fortnight in the midst of much contentment, I received knowledge of Sir Albertus Morton's departure out of this world, who was dearer unto me than my own being in it. What a wound it is to my heart you will easily believe: but His undisputable will be done, and unrepiningly received by all His creatures, who is the lord of all nature and of all fortune, when he taketh away one, and then another, 'till the expected day when it shall please him to dissolve the whole, and to wrap up even the heavens itself as a scroll of parchment. This is the last philosophy that we must study upon earth. Let us now that yet remain, while our glasses shall run by the dropping away of friends, reinforce our love for one another; which, of all virtues, both spiritual and moral, hath the highest privilege, because death shall not end it."

On a bank as I sate a Fishing.-A description of Spring.

And now all nature seemed in love,
The lusty sap began to move;

New juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines:

The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well dissembled fly:

There stood my friend with patient skill,

Attending of his trembling quill.

Already were the eaves possessed

With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest;

The groves already did rejoice

In Philomel's triumphant voice.

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet:

And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all looked gay, all full of cheer,
To welcome the new-liveried year.

H. W.

The friend here alluded to was Isaac Walton, whose fondness and talent for fishing have rendered him immortal. Perhaps a congenial disposition on the part of Sir Henry Wotton, obtained for him in the latter part of his life, the friendship of that worthy man.The following poem, on a very different subject, should not be separated from the letter which first accompanied it:

"To Isaac Walton.

"My worthy Friend—

"Since last I saw you, I have been confined to my chamber by a quotidian fever, I thank God of more contumacy than malignancy. It had once left me as I thought, but it was only to fetch more company, returning with a surcrew of those vapours that are called hypochondriacal; of which most say, the cure is good company, and I desire no better physician than yourself. I have in one of those fits endeavoured to make it more easy by composing a short

hymn; and since I have apparelled my thoughts so lightly as in verse, I hope I shall be pardoned a second vanity; in communicating it with such a friend as yourself: to whom I wish a cheerful spirit, and a thankful heart to value it, as one of the greatest blessings of our good God, in whose dear love 1 leave you, remaining

Your poor friend to serve you,

H. WOTTON."

A Hymn to my God, in a night of my late Sickness.

Oh! thou great power! in whom I move,
For whom I live,-to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie;
And cleanse my sordid soul within,
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oils, no grains I need,
No rags of saints, no purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed,

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire!
Oh! precious ransom !—which once paid,
That consummatum est was said:

And said by him, that said no more,
But sealed it with his sacred breath:
Thou then that hast disponged my score,
And dying wast the death of death,
Be to me now, on thee I call,
My life, my strength, my joy, my all!

H. WOTTON.

Upon the sudden restraint of the Earl of Somerset,

Dazzled thus with height of place,

Whilst our hopes our wits beguile,
No man marks the narrow space
'Twixt a prison and a smile!

Then since fortune's favours fade,
You that in her arms do sleep,
Learn to swim and not to wade;
For the hearts of kings are deep..../

But if greatness be so blind,"

As to trust in towers of air,
Let it be with goodness lined,

That at least the fall be fair.

Then, though darkened, you shall say,
When friends fail, and princes frown,"

Virtue is the roughest way,

But proves at night a bed of down.

H.W.

This was written of course in 1615, and may be considered one of the earliest poems of Sir Henry Wotton extant.

The Character of a happy life.

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will!
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill.

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame, or private breath.

Who envies not where chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumour freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat,
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend :
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book, or friend.

This man is freed from servile hands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

H. WOTTON.

It may be presumed, that Sir Henry designed this as a picture of himself in his retirement.

An Ode to the King; at his returning from Scotland to the Queen, after his Coronation there.

Rouse up thyself my gentle muse,-
Though now our green conceits be grey,-
And yet, once more, do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian harp and play,
In honour of this cheerful day.