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cies of poetry, from a trifling sonnet to a long topographical poem. If he anywhere sinks below himself, it is in his attempts at satire. In a most pedantic era, he was unaffected, and seldom exhibits his learning at the expense of his judgment." Our limited space will allow us room for two brief extracts only from the writings of this truly interesting poet; and both those we shall select from the Polyolbion.' The first is a description of Morning in Warwickshire, and the other, a description of the River Trent.

MORNING IN WARWICKSHIRE.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,
No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave,
At such a time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,
But hunts up to the morn the feath'red sylvans sing:
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,
Those quiristers are perch't, with many a speckled breast,
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night
Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight;
On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats,
Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes,
That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air
Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere.
The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sang
T' awake the listless sun; or chiding, that so long
He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill;
The ouzel near at hand, that hath a golden bill,
As nature him had markt of purpose, t' let us see
That from all other birds his tunes should different be:
For with their vocal sounds they sang to pleasant May;
Upon his dulcet pipe the merle2 doth only play.
When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by,

In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply,

As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw;

And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law)

Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite,

They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night,

(The more to use their ears,) their voices sure would spare,
That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare,

As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her.
To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer ;

And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then,

The red-sparrow, the nope, the red-breast and the wren.
The yellow-pate; which though she hurt the blooming tree,
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she.

And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind,

That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.

The tydy for her notes as delicate as they,

The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay.

The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves,
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves)

1 Headley.

2 Of all birds only the blackbird whistleth.

M

Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun,
Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run,
And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps
To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.

THE RIVER TRENT.

But, Muse, return at last, attend the princely Trent,
Who straining on in state, the north's imperious flood,
The third of England call'd, with many a dainty wood,
Being crown'd to Burton comes, to Needwood where she shows
Herself in all her pomp; and as from thence she flows,
She takes into her train rich Dove, and Darwin clear,
Darwin, whose font and fall are both in Derbyshire;
And of those thirty floods, that wait the Trent upon,
Doth stand without compare the very paragon.
Thus wand'ring at her will, as uncontroll'd she ranges,
Her often varying form, as variously and changes;

First Erwash, and then Lyne, sweet Sherwood sends her in;
Then looking wide, as one that newly wak'd had been,
Saluted from the north, with Nottingham's proud height,
So strongly is surpris'd, and taken with the sight,
That she from running wild, but hardly can refrain,
To view in how great state, as she along doth strain,
That brave exalted seat beholdeth her in pride,
As how the large-spread meads upon the other side,
All flourishing in flowers, and rich embroideries dress'd,
In which she sees herself above her neighbours bless'd.
As wrapp'd with the delights, that her this prospect brings
In her peculiar praise, lo thus the river sings:

'What should I care at all, from what my name I take,
That thirty doth import, that thirty rivers make;
My greatness what it is, or thirty abbeys great,
That on my fruitful banks, times formerly did seat;
Or thirty kinds of fish that in my streams do live,
To me this name of Trent, did from that number give?
What reck I let great Thames, since by his fortune he
Is sovereign of us all that here in Britain be;
From Isis and old Fame his pedigree derive;

And for the second place, proud Severn that doth strive,
Fetch her descent from Wales, from that proud mountain sprung,
Plinillimon, whose praise is frequent them among,

As of that princely maid, whose name she boasts to bear,
Bright Sabine, whom she holds as her undoubted heir,
Let these imperious floods draw down their long descent,
From these so famous stocks, and only say of Trent,
That Moreland's barren earth me first to light did bring,
Which though she be but brown, my clear complexion'd spring
Gain'd with the nymphs such grace, that when I first did rise,
The Naiads on my brim danc'd wanton hydagies,

And on her spacious breast (with heaths that doth abound)
Encircled my fair fount with many a lusty round:

And of the British floods, though but the third I be,
Yet Thames and Severn both in this come short of me,

For that I am the mere of England, that divides
The north part from the south, on my so either sides,
That reckoning how these tracts in compass be extent,
Men bound them on the north, or on the south of Trent;
Their banks are barren sands, if but compar'd with mine,
Through my perspicuous breast, the pearly pebbles shine:
I throw my crystal arms along the flow'ry valleys,
Which lying sleek and smooth as any garden alleys,
Do give me leave to play, whilst they do court my stream,
And crown my winding banks with many an anadem;
My silver-scaled scrolls about my streams do sweep
Now in the shallow fords, now in the falling deep:
So that of every kind, the new spawn'd numerous fry
Seem in me as the sands that on my shore do lie.

EDWARD FAIRFAX, the celebrated translator of Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, lived at this period before us, though of the history of his life we have very little knowledge. He was the natural son of Sir Thomas Fairfax, but neither the date of his birth, nor that of his death, has been preserved. That he flourished during the age of Elizabeth is entirely evident, for his great literary performance is dedicated to that princess; and it also appears that he was living in 1631; but nothing farther of him is certainly known, only that he spent his life at Fuystone, in the forest of Knaresborough, in the enjoyment of many blessings which rarely fall to the poetical race -competence, ease, rural scenes, and in ample command of the means of study. The poetical beauty and freedom of Fairfax's version of Tasso has been the theme of almost universal praise. Dryden ranked him with Spenser as a master of the English language, and Waller declared that he derived from him the harmony of his numbers. Collins too has finely alluded to his poetical and imaginative genius in the following lines:

Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders which he sung.

Besides the translation of the Jerusalem Delivered, Fairfax wrote some minor poems, and also a work on Demonology, in the preface to which he remarks that in religion I am neither a fanatic Puritan, nor superstitious Papist; but so settled in conscience, that I have the sure ground of God's word to warrant all I believe, and the commendable ordinances of our English church to approve all I practice: in which course I live a faithful Christian, and an obedient subject, and so teach my family.'

As Fairfax's original poems are comparatively little known, we shall pass them over, and take the following passage from the eighteenth book of the 'Jerusalem,' commencing with the twelfth stanza :

RINALDI AT MOUNT OLIVET AND THE ENCHANTED WOOD.

XII.

It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day,
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined,
For in the east appear'd the morning gray,
And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined,

When to Mount Olivet he took his way,

And saw, as round about his eyes he twined,

Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine, This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine.

XIII.

Thus to himself he thought: how many bright

And 'splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high!
Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night,
Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure sky;

So framed all by their Creator's might,

That still they live and shine, and ne'er will die,
Till in a moment, with the last day's brand
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.

XIV.

Thus as he mused, to the top he went,

And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear;
His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent;
His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were—
The sins and errors which I now repent,
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear,
Remember not, but let thy mercy fall
And purge my faults and my offenses all.

XV.

Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew,
In golden weed, the morning's lusty queen,
Begilding with the radiant beams she threw,
His helm, the harness, and the mountain green:
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew
The air, that balm and nardus breath'd unseen;
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies,
A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies.

XVI.

The heavenly dew was on his garments spread,
To which compar'd, his clothes pale ashes seem,
And sprinkled so that all that paleness fled,
And thence of purest white bright rays outstream:

So cheered are the flowers, late withered,

With the sweet comfort of the morning beams;

And so return'd to youth, a serpent old

Adorns herself in new and native gold.

XVII.

The lovely whiteness of his changed weed
The prince perceived well and long admired;
Toward the forest march'd he on with speed,

Resolv'd, as such adventures great required:
Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread

Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired;

But not to him fearful or loathsome made

That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.

XVIII.

Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before,

He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was;
There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar,

There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass;
There sang the swan, and singing died, alas !
There lute, harp, cittern, human voice he heard,
And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

XIX.

A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard,

The aged trees and plants well nigh, that rent,
Yet heard the nymphs and syrens afterward,
Birds, winds, and waters sing with sweet consent;
Whereat amazed, he stay'd and well prepar'd
For his defense, heedful and slow forth-went,
Nor in his way his passage aught withstood,
Except a quiet, still, transparent flood.

XX.

On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound,
Flowers and odours sweetly smil'd and smell'd,

Which reaching out his stretched arms around,

All the large desert in his bosom held,

And through the grove one channel passage found;

This in the wood, that in the forest dwell'd:

Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made,

And so exchang'd their moisture and their shade.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON, the first translator of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso into English, though a writer of greatly inferior genius to Fairfax, deserves to be noticed in connection with him. He was the son of that John Harrington who was imprisoned in the Tower by Mary, and was born at Kelston, near Bath, in 1561. He prepared for college at Eton Grammar School, and thence removed to the university of Cambridge, where he remained until he had taken his master's degree. Harrington was knighted by James the First, and after having passed a number of years as a successful courtier, he died in 1612, in his fifty-second year.

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The translation of the Orlando Furioso' was an early performance, having been published before the author was thirty years of age. As a version of the original, the work is literally correct, but as a poetical performance, it is cold and prosaic. Besides the translation of the Orlando Furioso, Harrington published a volume of Epigrams, many of which, such as the following, exhibit much talent for that department of writing :

OF A PRECISE TAILOR.

A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing-
True, but for lying-honest but for stealing,
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance;
The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner,
Of sundry colour'd silks displayed a banner
Which he had stolen, and wish'd, as they did tell.
That he might find it all one day in hell,
The man, affrighted with this apparition,
Upon recovery grew a great precisian:
He bought a bible of the best translation,
And in his life he show'd great reformation;

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