So an unheedy vessel do I live,

Restless, near shipwreck, since I ne'er was well, 'Till I afresh had launched into the main, Where, whatsoe'er resistance my bark give,

From the white froth I mount, then fall again; Then rise, then tumble down as low as hell.

SONNET.

A Serenade.

The sun is set, gone down to the cool shade ;-
The misted brightness of his piercing eye,
Covered with black clouds in th' eastern sky,-
My cruel fair to restfull sleep hath laid:
Now murderers walk, and such as are afraid
Of day's clear light: now chaunteth mournfully
The turtle chaste;-complaints to multiply
'Ginз she whom crafty Tereus once betray'd.
O night, thou image of sad absence! tell
My Lisis, her two suns are set from me

For ever; if it chance that she do sleep, May Morpheus wake her with a dream from hell, Tell her of her disdain, my jealousy;

That though I present am, I, absent weep!

ELEGY

On a Lady killed by a fall in attempting to elope with her Lover.

Pure spirit that leav'st thy body to our moan,
From whence now disembodied thou art gone
To thy more happy region; where each field
Eternal April of pure flow'rs doth yield.

Look, if the soul can downward look, and see
A soul once thine all tears for want of thee!
When I was doubly prisoner by thine eyes,
How little dreamt I of,—here Lisis lies!
Or when a smile could her Gerardo bless,
Little, that earth thus early should possess
So fair a casket. Little thought indeed

Base worms on sixteen years sweet flesh should feed.
So fruits are in their blossoms nipt by frost :-
So a tall ship that oft the sea hath crost,
At last when gladsome port she leaves behind,
How the smooth waters court her and false wind,
Till when a sudden gust and storm doth rise,
Rock-dashed she becomes the ocean's prize.
Live yet my Lisis, on thy marble tomb,
While time bears date free from oblivion's doom!
That when the world's last passenger draws nea",
In uncorrupted letters may appear :—

Here Lisis lies, that leapt from vital breath,
To meet a lover in embrace of death.

SONG.

When thou in native thoughts didst imitate

The simple turtle dove,

And constant wert, I still did consecrate
To thy true faith, firm love:
That rural bird doth never range,

Fixt to her mate, affects no change.
But since thy former plainness to disguise,
With art thou dost contrive,

And first affection less dost equalise,

Why do I longer strive?

For love that doth excuses frame,

Either is none, or not the same.

D

SIR THOMAS HAWKINS.

BORN ABOUT 1590.-DIED 1640.

Romanas tenuit Romanus Horatius aures,
Nunc Anglas Anglus non tenet ille minus.
Nam quod dulce sonat Romanis Appula Musa,
Hoc resonas Anglis, Cantia Musa, tuis.

(CHAPPERLINUS.)

Whilst to thy tune the Lyric poet sings,
And takes new graces from thy tuned strings;
Behold whole quires of Muses ready stand,
To beg like favonr at thy curious hand :
Who would not join with them and move the same,
That sees this one so happy in thy name?
We, whom the Romans held for dull and weak,
Now teach their best of poets how to speak.
They need not lay to thee the want of skill
Of music, or of muses—he that will,
May hear them both expressed by thee in veins
Equal, if not beyond the Roman strains.

(G. FORTESCUE.)

"Sir Thomas Hawkins, knight," says the Oxford historian, was an ingenious man; as excellent in the faculty of music* as in poetry." For an account of the ancient and respectable family of which he was a distinguished ornament, and their pleasantly situated mansion

* Of his skill in music, some notice is taken in the annexed motto, from a copy of verses prefixed to his Horace. In another friendly specimen of the same kind, signed Hugh Holland, bis musical talents are also noticed :

I knew before thy dainty touch

Upon the lordly viol:

But of thy lyre who knew so much
Before this happy trial?

of Nash Court, near the village of Boughton, we must refer to the historian of Kent. Of Sir Thomas's personal history, we regret to say we know nothing, but believe we are correct in giving him the merit of being the first who made known to the mere English reader, the prince of lyric poets.

The copy of his translation, now lying before the writer, is a small pocket volume with the following title :"Odes of Horace, the best of Lyric Poets. Containing much morality and sweetness. The third edition. Selected, translated, reviewed, and enlarged with many more, by Sir T. H. London: Printed by John Haviland, for William Lee, and are to be sold at his shop, at the sign of the Turk's Head in Fleet Street. 1635."

Of his work the translator himself affords us the following neat, correct, and modest account.

"To the Reader.

"Friendly and generous reader, I present not Horace to thee in his native lustre nor language. Take these rather, if so thou please, for a reflection from that brighter body of his living odes. Behold in them morality touched and virtue heightened, with clearness of spirit and accurateness of judgment. These have I selected amongst many; not with desire to prescribe the same choice to others, as a rule; nor yet with any diffidence in mine own election. Abundat quisque suo sensu, When in a garden we gather a coronet of flowers, we intend not the total beauty of that fair piece of prospective, but particular ornament, and

intermingled delight. These supply both. But many no doubt will say, Horace is by me forsaken, his lyric softness and emphatic muse maimed: that in all there is a general defection from his genuine harmony. Those I must tell, I have in this translation, rather sought his spirit, than numbers; yet the music of verse not neglected neither, since the English ear better heareth the distich, and findeth that sweetness, which the Latin affected, and questionless attained, in Saphic or Iambic measures. Some will urge again, why were not these wreaths of moral and serious odes, for more variety and general entertainment of most, mixed with his wanton and looser strains of poesy? These I answer, and with it conclude. The translator of these had rather shew virtue to the modest, than discover vice to the dissolute. The streams of Helicon are clear and chrystaline. Drink thou goodness from these purer fountains, whilst such take unhappy draughts, from the troubled and muddy waters of sensuality."

To the veracity of this statement we entirely subscribe. Sir Thomas Hawkins displayed the correctness of his taste in the odes he selected for translation, and of his ear in the kind of verse he adopted. Of his poetry it is sufficient to say that it will bear a comparison with any of that age, produced under similar circum. stances. The extreme difficulty of rendering such a poet as Horace into a modern language, has been allowed at all times; to preserve the spirit of the original, together with the literal meaning, constitutes a task which has never been satisfactorily accomplished in English literature, though it has been frequently