CLEVELAND.

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No. 45. CATHERINE PHILLIPS.

From an original Picture in the possession of the Dutchess of Dorset.

CATHERINE PHILLIPS," the matchless Orinda," was the origin of the next portrait. There is a placidity in the countenance, which well consists with the account that we have of her character. She was an amiable, quiet woman, and wrote on friendship, and touched a little upon morals, in verse. She was beloved by the poetical and the eloquent in her life-time; and lamented by poets after her death.—The reader will observe that this portrait, taking into consideration the dress and the figure which it embraces, is perfectly beautiful as a work of art. Had the face, indeed, worn a different character, the fine voluptuous turn of the shape is such as might have belonged to a matron Venus. The robe is loose and graceful; (she is quite a poetess-"zonis solutis;") the hair is parted, shewing a breadth of white forehead, and falls down, curling like hyacinths, towards her rounded shoulders; and her bosom is like a rose full-blown.

No. 46. JOHN CLEVELAND.

From a Picture by Fuller, in the Collection of Mrs. Isted.

THIS is one of the most unpleasant faces to look upon in this collection. It seems wild, affected, and dull. The engraver has done the versifier much honour in devoting his fine talent to perpetuate such a head.—As the portrait is more remarkable for being a specimen of art, than an interesting portrait, it must be valued accordingly. CLEVELAND-"the ingenious and learned Mr. Cleveland," wrote letters and verses on all possible subjects-he "lisped wit" when a mere child-wrote compliments, satires, and epi

grams, and possessed, certainly, a lively vein. Among other things, he composed an epitaph on Ben Jonson, which shines out in p. 353 of his collected works.

"The muses fairest light in no dark time,

The wonder of a learned age; the line

Which none can pass, the most proportioned wit
To nature, the best judge of what was fit:
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen,
The voice most echoed by consenting men;
The soul which answered best to all well said
By others, and which most requital made,
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her music with his own;" &c.

But he did not always write so well, nor on such unexceptionable subjects.

No. 47. JAMES SHIRLEY.

From an original Picture in the Bodleian Library.

:

SHIRLEY was the last of that heroic line of dramatic poets, which it has now become the (good) fashion to admire. For many years they were forgotten their rich and golden lines were hidden like the fretted roofs of the cave of Mammon: younger writers usurped their high places; and critics tried and condemned them by the laws of prose. All this is fortunately at an end; and a fresh impulse having been given to men's thoughts by the startling events of later times, the present generation of writers have ventured to consult their own feelings, and to exert their own judgment, in the room of being spell-bound any longer by the authority of their elegant predecessors. The result has been an inquiry into the treasures of our old literature, and a knowledge of wealth, beyond all comparison greater than anything that has been discovered

ALEXANDER BROME.

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since. the days of Columbus. The principal amount of thanks is due to Mr. Charles Lamb, whose admirable specimens of our old dramatic poets no one who affects to be a lover of poetry should be without. Mr. Gifford followed, with his editions of Massinger and Ben Jonson; and the taste for our older and better literature has now become general. Shirley, as we said before, is the last of this great train of writers. He moves, not as the grandest star, indeed, of the hemisphere, but sparkling and graceful notwithstanding: rolling and shining in the great body of light which Shakspeare threw abroad upon the age in which he lived, and reflecting it like some gentler planet, in many a glittering figure and luminous thought, which we ought always gratefully to acknowledge. He had not much strength, nor did he display much profound thinking; but he was, assuredly, a sparkling, and elegant, and occasionally, a beautiful writer. He may be considered as being about equal to Ford in power, with less passion, and more wit. Besides, he is-" the last ;" and we are apt to look upon him as the heir and representative of that illustrious family whose fame is to make us known hereafter, when the toils and conquests of our statesmen and soldiers shall have slipped, like mere traditions, from the hands of future historians. As Marlow was the first of our dramatists, who awoke with the inspiration fresh upon him, so was Shirley the last upon whom the light of the muse descended.

No 48. ALEXANDER BROME.

From a Print by Hertocks, prefixed to his Plays and Poems.

BROME, with his broad, shrewd, humorous countenance, seems to have lived to a "green old age." There is no mark of in

firmity, no trace of weariness or discontent upon his forehead, and he seems as capable as ever of anathematizing small beer, and defending the principles of treble-strong ale. The "two accidents" which conspired to the publication of his poems, are very pleasantly set down—“ a lazie disease and a long vacation, the one inclining me to do nothing else, and the other affording me nothing else to do."

Brome, if he was not much of a poet, was a lively, jovial rhymer. His verses usually smack of the bottle,

"Come, let us be merry,

Drink claret and sherry,

And cast away care and sorrow;"

or are pregnant with some jest or other, touching war, women,

or wine..

No. 49. ROBERT HERRICK.

From a rare Print by Marshall, prefixed to his "Hesperides." THIS likeness of HERRICK is engraved from a bust. The only thing remarkable in it is, that it is like the present poet-laureat, -Mr. Southey. There is a quick eye, a prominent nose, and a fine cut mouth; and the hair, curling close and all over the head, is as compact as some of the author's poems. Herrick was a great dealer in the bijouterie of verse, and some of his productions are, certainly, very beautifully fashioned, and are crusted all over with sparkling conceits. But he was not often serious; or if he was so, he fails to carry the conviction of his earnestness to our hearts.

The verses by Herrick, which Mr. Campbell quotes, are very elegant. The following are pretty: we quote them in preference to others only because they are less known.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

Upon a lady that died in childbed, and left a daughter.

"As gillyflowers do but stay

To blow and seed, and so away;
So you, sweet lady, sweet as May,
The garden's glory lived awhile,

To lend the world your scent and smile:
But when your own fair print was set
Once in a virgin flosculet,

Sweet as yourself and newly blown,
To give that life, resigned your own;
But so, as still the mother's power,
Lives in the pretty lady-flower."

No. 50. ABRAHAM COWLEY.

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From an original Picture in the Hall of Trinity College, Cambridge. We have now before us the portrait of the graceful and fantastic COWLEY. He was, assuredly, a poet, although addicted too much like the last named author, to conceits. His stature, however, was greater than Herrick's, who is a writer of trifles: whereas Cowley aimed at higher things, and possessed something better than mere ingenuity. There are excellent passages and brilliant thoughts scattered over his Davideis, and his Anacreontics are the best in our language.—In this likeness, which must be allowed to be an elegant representation of a fantastic man, the eye is quick, but without fire, the mouth is shrewd, and the action affected, but graceful. Were we inclined to find fault, we might insist that the face is almost too sleek for a poet, who is an ascetic by charter-but we forget his Anacreontics.

No. 51. SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

From a scarce Print by Faithorne, prefixed to his "Funeral Sermon." FANSHAWE is almost unknown to ordinary readers; yet he is one