Grafton has prefixed a dedication of three leaves in verse to Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. is added a continuation of the Chronicle in Edw. IV. to Hen. VIII.

And there prose from

INEDITED POEM BY JOHN WALLYS.

The following specimen while it brings us acquainted with a poet of the 16th century, whose name and works have hitherto escaped the notice of our bibliographers, will also prove that the fondness for alliterative poetry (occasioned, perhaps, by the popularity of Piers Plowman) had not entirely ceased, even at so late a period as the year 1550 (the earliest which I think we can well assign to the poem in question.)

This singular composition is contained in the same manuscript (MS. Ashmole 48, p. 145,) in which the works of Richard Sheale, noticed in my former communication, are found.

1.

Wanderyng on my waye, as I was wonte for to wende,
In a mornyng of May myrthes gan I myng.*

In the dawnynge of the daye, when the dewes gandyssend,
In Awrora, when Flore gan spreyde and sprynge,
The dear in the dales champions gan chace,

The byrdes sat syngyng thys songe wyth lawdacion,
Saying "Good order ys ever in that place,

"Wheras honore ys hadde in heyhe estimacion.”

2.

I stented of my steven,+ and stode stone styll,
Undernethe the holtys thys harmonie to heare.
Hit sownded so of sapience that wytt was in wylle,+
In the woodes by the waters as I niggede nee near.
The honters wyth ther hornes to thee hownddes blew base,
Their voices in the valleys was cause of consolacyon;
Saying, "Good order ys ever in that place

"Wheras honor ys hadde in higge estimacyon."

* Ming, mix in, participate.

+ Stented of my steven, stinted of, or held my voice.

Wytt was in wylle, does the author mean that his inclination coincided with his judgment, in the wish to hear these sounds of sapience?

Then

3.

Then buskyd I me back warde, and tomyde to a tre,
I was myndede to the mowntaynes wth a mylde moode.
The lovelyest Ladye in my syght ther dyd I see,
That ever bar body of bone and of bloode.

I was ravysht owt of reson with her fragrant face,
She talked so tretably with curtas communycacyon;
Saying, "Good order ys ever in that place

Wheras honore ys hade in higge estimacyon."

This lady is Intelligence, who directs the poet to a castle inhabited by all the virtues. The poem (which is altogether allegorical, and contains no particular allusions to manners or customs) ends with the burden, "Sayinge good ordare," &c.

C.

¶ Lachrymæ Musarum; The Tears of the Muses; exprest in Elegies written by dicers persons of Nobility and Worth, upon the death of the most hopefull Henry Lord Hastings, onely sonn of the Rt. Honble. Ferdinando Earl of Huntingdon, Heir-Generall of the high born Prince George Duke of Clarence, Brother to King Edward the Fourth. Collected and set forth by R. B

Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori. Hor.

London, Printed by T. N. and are to be sold by John Holden, at the blue Anchor in the New Exchange, 1650. 8vo.*

The Poems are,

1. By the Earl of Westmoreland. 2. Lord Falkland. 3. Sir Aston Cokaine. 4. Sir Arthur Gorges. 5. Robert Millward. 6. Thomas Higgons. 7. Cha. Cotton. 8, 9. Tho. Pestel, pater. 10, 11. George Fairfax, Latin and English. 12, 13, 22. Francis Standish. 14. Jo. Joynes. 15. Sam. Bold. 16. J. Cave. 17. Phil. Kindar. 18. Rob. Herrick. 19. John Denham. 20. Andrew Marvell. 21. J. Hall. 23. J. B. 24. Tho. Bancroft. 25. W. Pestell. 26. Tho. Pestell, the son.

The Editor is indebted to Francis Freeling, Esq. for the loan of this work.

27.

27. R. P. Latin. 28. John Rosse. 29. Alex. Brome. 30. Edward Standish. 31. Ric. Brome, who I presume was the editor of the collection.

"Here was the end of the book intended to have been ; and so was it printed, before these following papers were written, or sent iu."

32. M. N. 33. "Joannes Harmarus, Oxoniensis, piraptos, et C. W. M." 34. "Joannes Dryden, Schola Westm. Alumnus." 55. "Cyrillus Wyche, Schola Westm. Alumnus." Latin. 36. Edw. Campion, Scholæ Westm. Alumnus." Latin. 37. "Tho. Adams, Scholæ Westm. Alumnus." Latin. 38. "Radulphus Mountague, Edwardi Mountague Baronis de Boughton filius natu minor, ex Schola Westmonast." Latin.

I shall first select the short pieces of two noble authors.

BY THE EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

Is there a bright star fall'n from this our sphere,
Yet none sets out some newer kalendar?
Do the orbs sleep in silence? Is the scheme
Struck dumb at th' apprehension of the theme?
I shall not challenge Booker here? nor will I
Call up the mathemat-like dreams of Lilly,
To search the reason, sift prognosticks out,
How this so sad disaster came about;
Since that to every one it is well-known,
The best and precious things are soonest gone.
Such grief by th' cause is heighten'd to excess;
And where that falls, expression grows less.
Yet if we'd scan why thus he's Hasting* hence,
His name may give you some intelligence.
The world with him this opposition had;
He was too good for it, and that too bad.

BY LORD FALKLAND,

Farewell, dear Lord and Friend, since thou hast chose
Rather the Phoenix life, than death of crows;
Though Death hath ta'en thee, yet I'm glad thy Fame
Must still survive in learned Hastings' name.

For thy great loss my fortune I'll condole,

While that Elizium enjoys thy soul.

* A miserable pun. These lines give but a mean idea of the noble author's genius.

The

The following lines have considerable merit; and I more willingly introduce them as written by a poet, whose compositions are now little known.

BY SIR ARTHUR GORGES.

Since that young Hastings 'bove our hemisphere
Is snatch'd away, O let some angel's wing
Lend me a quill, his noble fame to rear

Up to that quire which Halleluiah sing.

Sure Heaven itself for us thought him too good,
And took him hence just in his strength and prime,
When Virtue 'gan to make him understood,

Beyond the peers and nobles of his time.
Wherefore 'twill ask more than a mortal pen
To speak his worth unto posterity;

Whose judgment shin'd 'mongst grave and learned men,
With true devotion and integrity:

For which in heaven the joys of lasting bliss

He reaps, whilst we sow tears for him we miss.

But I no praise for poetry affect,

Nor Flattery's hoped meed doth me incite;
Such base-born thoughts as servile I reject :
Sorrow doth dictate what my pen doth write :
Sorrow for that rich treasure we have lost;

Zeal to the memory of what we had;
And that is all they can, that can say most.
So sings my muse in zeal and sorrow clad:
So sang Achilles to his silver harp,

When foul affront had reft his fair delight;
So sings sweet Philomel against the sharp;
So sings the swan, when life is taking flight:

So sings my Muse the notes which sorrow weeps;
Which anthem sung, my Muse for ever sleeps.

BY SIR THOMAS HIGGONS.

These are thy triumphs, Death, who prid'st to give
Their lives an end, who best deserve to live!
Dull, useless men, whom Nature makes in vain,
Or but to fill her number and her train ;
Men by the world remembred but till death
Whose empty story endeth with their breath,
Stay till old age consume them; when the Good
The Noble and the Wise, are kill'd i'th'bud.-

Such

Such was the subject of our grief, in whom
All that times past can boast, or times to come
Can hope, is lost: whose blood, although its springs
Stream from the royal loins of England's kings,
His virtue hath exalted, and refin'd;

For his high birth was lower than his mind.
But that the Fates, inexorably bent
To mischief man, and ruin his content,
Would have this sacrifice, the Sisters might
Have been affected with so sweet a sight,
And thought their hasty cruelty a crime,
To tear him from his friends before his time.

BY CHARLES COTTON, ESQ.

Amongst the mourners that attend his herse
With flowing eyes, and wish each tear a verse,
T'embalm his fame, and his dear merit save
Uninjur❜d from th' oblivion of the grave,
A sacrifice I am come to be

Of this poor offring to his memory.
O could our pious meditations thrive
So well, to keep his better part alive,
So that, instead of him we could but find
Those fair examples of his letter'd mind,
Virtuous emulation then might be

Our hopes of good men, though not such as He.
But in his hopeful progress since he's crost,
Pale Virtue droops, now her best pattern's lost.
'Twas hard, neither divine, nor human parts,
The strength of Goodness, Learning, and of Arts,
Full crowds of friends, nor all the prayers of them,
Nor that he was the pillar of his stem,
Affection's mark, secure of all men's hate,
Could rescue him from the sad stroke of fate.
Why was not th' air drest in prodigious forms,
To groan in thunder, and to weep in storms?
And, as at some men's fall, why did not his
In Nature work a metamorphosis?

No; he was gentle, and his soul was sent

A silent victim to the firmament.

Weep, ladies, weep; lament great Hastings' fall;
His House is buried in his funeral.

Bathe him in tears, till there appear no trace
Of those sad blushes in his lovely face:

Let