Here's no fantastic mask or dance, But of our kids that frisk and prance; Nor wars are seen, Unless upon the green Two harmless lambs are butting one another, Which done both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found, Save what the plough-share gives the ground. Here are no false entrapping baits, To hasten too, too, hasty fates; Unless it be The fond credulity Of silly fish, which wordlings like, still look, Nor envy, unless among The birds, for prize of their sweet song. Go, let the diving negro seek For gems, hid in some forlorn creek; We all pearls scorn, Save what the dewy morn Congeals upon each little spire of grass, Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains; Which we may every year Find, when we come a fishing here. IGNOTO. It may be doubted whether this be a poem of Sir Henry Wotton's, or not, it is rather in a higher mood" than most of his strains, and has not the usual signature, or the initials of his name.Walton arranges it with "Poems found among the papers of Sir Henry Wotton,"-some of which certainly were by other hands; at the same time it may be remarked, that he himself addressed one of his compositions to his friend Dinely, as the work-authoris incerti.-Another poem, with the same signature of "Ignoto," is decidedly in Wotton's style. De Morte. Man's life's a Tragedy his mother's womb IGNOTO. To the rarely accomplished, and worthy of best employment, Mr. HOWELL, upon his VOCAL FOREST. Believe it, sir, you happily have hit, Upon a curious fancy of such wit, That far transcends the vulgar; for each line But you have taught them all rich English prose. Who makes trees speak so well, deserves the bay. The whimsical book of that voluminous writer, James Howell, to which these lines are appended, bears the title of "Dodona's Grove, or the Vocal Forest." It was popular in its day, and passed through many editions, being a political allegory, in which the great personages of the time are characterised by the several trees of the forest. PHINEAS FLETCHER. BORN ABOUT 1584.-DIED ABOUT 1650. "Grave Father of this Muse thou deem'st too light Thy witty childhood, not thy graver strain, For thou art Poet born, who know thee, know it, Should want the present strength to prize thy rhymes, F. QUARLES. The former of the above extracts is taken from a copy of commendatory verses prefixed to the "Purple Island," the principal poem of Phineas Fletcher, and inscribed "to the learned author, son and brother to two judicious poets, himself the third-not second to either;" the latter from another address " to the ingenious composer, the Spenser of his age," from his contemporary, the quaint author of the "Emblems," the romance of "Argalus and Parthenia," &c.-and his own brother, Giles Fletcher, (of whose taste and judgment we shall hereafter give ample proof,) at the conclusion of his "Christ's Victory and Triumph," hails him as "the KENTISH LAD, that lately taught To this we may add, that he made Spenser his model,-and, Milton was his debtor. The principal poems of Phineas Fletcher were republished in Dr. Anderson's "complete edition of the works of the Poets of Great Britain, 1793;" and from the biographical and critical preface, the following few particulars of his personal history are chiefly derived; including also a general notice of his family, as explanatory of the compliment paid to him by his partial friend in the first of the foregoing extracts. 1 He is said to have been born at Brenchley, near Penshurst; and it appears from some passages in his writings, that he resided there during a part of his earlier life. His father Giles Fletcher, was also born in this county, bred at Eton, and elected scholar of Benet College, Cambridge, in 1565, where he took the degree of Doctor of Laws, in 1581. Wood says, "he was a learned man, and an excellent poet.* abilities of Dr. Fletcher recommending him to Queen Elizabeth, he was employed by her as a commissioner * The *It is to be regretted that no proofs of the poetical talent of the father of the Fletchers, appear to have come down to us. |