And somewhere southward tow'rd the noon,
Whence lies a way up to the moon,
And thence the fairy can as soon
Pass to the earth below it.

The walls of spiders' legs are made,
Well morticed and finely laid;
He was the master of his trade,
It curiously that builded :
The windows of the eyes of cats,
And for the roof, instead of slats,
Is covered with the skins of bats,

With moonshine that are gilded.'

'Her chariot ready strait is made;
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay'd,
For nought must be her letting:
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,
Fly Cranion, her charioteer,

Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excell;
The fair queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning.

The seat, the soft wool of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a py'd butterflee ;

I trow, 'twas simple trimming.

The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,
With thistle-down they shod it;
For all her maidens much did fear;

If Oberon had chanced to hear,

That Mab his queen should have been there, He would not have abode it.

'She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay for no advice, Until her maids, that were so nice,

To wait on her were fitted;

But ran herself away alone,

Which when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone,

As she had been diswitted.

Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were
To Mab their sovereign dear,

Her special maids of honour;

Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The train that wait upon her.

Upon a grasshopper they got,
And what with amble and with trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow,
Themselves they wisely could bestow,
Lest any should espy them.'

Talking of grasshoppers reminds us of some beautiful stanzas by Lovelace, which are not unlike the manner of a poet of our own day, John Keats.

To my

noble Friend, MR. CHARLES COTTON.

Oh thou that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear,

Dropp'd thee from Heav'n, where now thou 'rt rear'd.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then;
Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams;
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropped;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd,
And what scythes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

'Poor verdant fool! and now green ice! thy joys,
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter-rains, and poise
Their foods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other's breast,
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

'Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally,
As vestal flames; the north-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve and fly
This Ætna in epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail th' usurping of his reign;
But when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry, he hath his crown again!

Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.

‹ Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need:
Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he
That wants himself, is poor indeed!'

We must now turn back a few hundred pages, to transcribe two quaint but noble sonnets by Donne.

As due by many titles, I resign

Myself to Thee, O God. First, I was made
By Thee, for Thee; and when I was decay'd,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine.
I am Thy son, made with Thyself to shine;

Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repay'd;
Thy sheep, Thine image, and, till I betray'd
Myself, a temple of Thy spirit divine.
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?

Why doth he steal, nay ravish, that's Thy right?
Except Thou rise, and for Thine own work fight,
Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see

That Thou lov'st mankind well, yet will not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.'

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful; for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou 'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shal be no more. Death, thou shalt die.'

From George Gascoigne's curious satire entitled, The Steel Glass, written towards the latter end of the sixteenth century, we extract two short specimens, as not less characteristic of the manners, than of the language of the times. Gascoigne was the

VOL. VI.-N.S.

BB

Author of the second English tragedy that was written in blank

verse.

O painted fooles, whose hairbrainde heads must have
More clothes attones, than might become a king:
For whom the rocks in forain realmes must spin,
For whom they carde, for whom they weave their webbes,
For whom no wool appeareth fine enough,

(I speak not this by English courtiers,

Since English wool was ever thought most worth,)
For whom al seas are tossed to and fro,
For whom these purples come from Persia,
The crimosine and lively red from Inde:
For whom soft silks do sayle from Sericane,
And al queint costs do come from fardest coasts:
Whiles in meane while, that worthy Emperour
Which rulde the world, and had al wealth at will,
Could be content to tire his wearie wife,

His daughters, and his niepces every one,

To spin and worke the clothes that he shuld weare,
And never cared for silks or sumptuous cost,
For cloth of gold, or tinsel figurie,

For Baudkin, broydire, cutworks, nor conceits.
He set the ships of merchantmen on worke,
With bringing home oyle, graine, and savrie salt,
And such like wares, as served common use.'

Lo these (my Lord) be my good praying priests,
Descended from Melchysedec by line,
Cosens to Paule, to Peter, James, and John;
These be my priests, the seasning of the earth,
Which will not leese their savriness, I trow.
Not one of these wil reade the holy write
Which doth forbid all greedy usurie,
And yet receive a shilling for a pounde.
Not one of these will preach of patience,
And yet be found as angry as a waspe.
Not one of these can be content to sit
In taverns, inns, or alehouses all day,
But spends his time devoutly at his booke.
Not one of these will rayle at ruler's wrongs,
And yet be blotted with extortion.

Not one of these will paint out worldly pride,
And he himself as gallaunt as he dare.
Not one of these rebuketh avarice,

And yet procureth ploude pluralities.

Not one of these reproveth vanitie,

Whiles he himself (with hauke upon his fist
And houndes at heele) doth quite forget his text.
Not one of these, corrects contentions

For trifling things, and yet will sue for tythes.

Not one of these (not one of these, my Lord,)
Will be ashamed to do even as he teacheth.
My priests have learnt to pray unto the Lord,
And yet they trust not in their lyplabour.
My priests can fast, and use all abstinence
From vice and sinne, and yet refuse no meats.
My priests can give in charitable wise,
And love also to do good almes dedes,
Although they trust not in their own deserts.
My priests can place all penaunce in the hart,
Without regard of outward ceremonies.

My priests can keep their temples undefyled,
And yet defie all superstition.'

Habington occupies a somewhat disproportionate space in the table of Contents; and although all the poems are short, we must confess that we do not participate in the partial admiration which has given insertion to the whole of his 'Castara'. The occasional beauty of his verse is sadly marred by the extravagance of his conceits. The third part of this string of poems is the best. Mr. Montgomery has given two or three extracts from it, in his Christian Poet'; and as Habington has hitherto been little known, we shall make room for the following specimens.

'TO CASTARA. AGAINST OPINION.
"Why should we build, Castara, in the aire
Of fraile Opinion? Why admire as faire,
What the weake faith of man give us for right?
The jugling world cheats but the weaker sight.
What is in greatness happy? As free mirth,
As ample pleasures of th' indulgent Earth,
We joy, who on the ground our mansion finde,
As they who saile, like witches, in the wind
Of court applause. What can their powerful spell
Over inchanted man more than compel

Him into various formes? Nor serves their charme
Themselves to good, but to work others harme.

Tyrant Opinion but depose; and we

Will absolute i' th' happiest empire be.'

Quoniam ego in flagella paratus sum.

Fix me on some bleake precipice

Where I ten thousand years may stand,

Made now a statue of ice,

Then by the summer scorcht and tan'd!

Place me alone in some fraile boate
'Mid th' horrours of an angry sea;

Where I, while time shall move, may floate
Despairing either land or day: