pass the historian, but, for instructing, is well nigh comparable to the philosopher, and for moving leaveth him behind;-Since the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no uncleanness) hath whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers of it;-Since all its kinds are not only in their united forms, but in their severed dissections fully commendable:-I think-(and I think I think rightly,)— the laurel crown appointed for triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other learnings, honor the poet's triumph.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 1562-1592.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, a cotemporary of Shakspeare, and known in his life as an actor and dramatic writer, is now remembered chiefly for that beautiful little piece, entitled

A PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That vallies, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle:

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight, each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL, 1562-1595.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL was descended from an ancient and respectable Catholic family in Norfolk, and was born about the year 1562. At an early age he was sent to the English College at Douay,' and thence he went to Rome, where he entered the "Order of the Society of Jesus." After finishing his course of study there, the Pope sent him, in 1584, as a missionary to England. He had not been at home but a few years when he was apprehended by some of Elizabeth's agents, for being engaged in a conspiracy against the government. He was sent to prison, where he remained three years. He was repeatedly put upon the rack, and, as he himself affirmed, underwent very severe tortures no less than ten times. Wearied with torture and solitary imprisonment, he begged that he might be brought to trial, to answer for himself. At his trial he owned that he was a priest and a Jesuit, but denied that he ever entertained any designs against the queen or kingdom; alleging that he came to England simply to administer the sacraments according to the Catholic church to such as desired them. The jury found him guilty of treason, and when asked if he had anything to say why sentence should not be pronounced against him, he replied, “Nothing; but from my heart I forgive all who have been any way accessible to my death." Sentence was pronounced, and the next day he was led to execution.2

This whole proceeding should cover the authors of it with everlasting infamy. It is a foul stain upon the garments of the maiden queen that she can never wipe off. There was not a particle of evidence at his trial that this pious and accomplished poet meditated any evil designs against the government. He did what he had a perfect right to do; aye, what it was his duty to do, if he conscientiously thought he was right,-endeavor to make converts to his faith, so far as he could without interfering with the rights of others. If there be anything that is to be execrated, it is persecution for opinion's sake. There is an excess of meanness, as well as wickedness, in striving to put down opinions by physical force. Those who do it thereby tacitly acknowledge that they have no other arguments, for truth has no reason ever to fear in any combat with error.3

Southwell's poems are all on moral and religious subjects. Though they have not many of the endowments of fancy, they are peculiarly pleasing for the simplicity of their diction, and especially for the fine moral truths and lessons they convey.

1 In the northernmost province of France, where was made the celebrated papal version of the Scriptures-the "Douay Bible."

2 The best accounts of Southwell may be found in the Gentleman's Magazine for Nov., 1798.

6

shall rise

3 Truth crushed to earth revives again,

But

The eternal years of God are hers;
error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies amid her worshippers.-

Bryant

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The lopped tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossed;

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys hereto no man befall;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

SCORN NOT THE LEAST.

Where wards are weak, and foes encount'ring strong, Where mightier do assault than do defend,

The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,

And silent sees that speech could not amend:
Yet, higher powers must think, though they repine,
When sun is set the little stars will shine.

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth flie,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish:
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by,

These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish;
There is a time even for the worms to creep,
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.

The merlin cannot ever soar on high,

Nor greedy grey-hound still pursue the chase;
The tender lark will find a time to flie,
And, fearful hare to run a quiet race.

He that high growth on cedars did bestow,

also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.

In Haman's pomp poor Mordocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.
The Lazar pin'd, while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.

We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May;
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill;

She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
A kiss--where she doth kill.

A honey-show'r rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face,
She hath the blush of virgin-mind,
The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek-yet fear to find:
To find-but nought enjoy;

In many frowns, some passing smiles
She yields, to more annoy.

She letteth fall some luring baits,

For fools to gather up;

Now sweet-now sour-for every taste

Her watery eyes have burning force,

Her floods and flames conspire;

Tears kindle sparks-sobs fuel are,
And sighs but fan the fire.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather April-wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.

With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands;
Her eye, in silence, hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours;
Short hap, immortal harms:
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her songs, bewitching charms.

Like winter-rose and summer-ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Fair first-in fine unkindly.

Plough not the seas-sow not the sands-
Leave off your idle pain;

Seek other mistress for your minds-
Love's service is in vain.

CONTENT AND RICH.

My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts, my rest;
My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth;

That mean, the surest lot,
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfil:

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.

I fear no care for gold,

Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst that from the height
Of greatest honour slide.

Since sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear:

I bear so low and small a sail
As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame doth burn; It is vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,

And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.

And taught with often proof,
A temper'd calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
But cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe, That pamper'd would repine.

I envy not their hap,

Whom favor doth advance;