And when forsaken lovers come
To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd
And, as a victor, proud

To view the spoils thy beauty made
Press near my shade,

Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

But if cold earth or marble must
Conceal my dust,

Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I
Dumb and forgotten lie,
The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me;

And they who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,

Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

[SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT was born at Oxford, in February 1605, and died in Lincoln's Inn Fields, April 17, 1668. His epic poem of Gondibert was printed in 1651.]

There is not a more hopelessly faded laurel on the slopes of the English Parnassus than that which once flourished so bravely around the grotesque head of Davenant. The enormous folio edition of his works, brought out in 1673 in direct emulation of Ben Jonson, is probably the most deplorable collection of verses anywhere to be found, dead and dusty beyond the wont of forgotten classics. The critic is inclined to say that everything is spurious about Davenant, from the legend that connects his blood with Shakespeare's to the dramatic genius that his latest contemporaries praised so highly. He is not merely a ponderous, he is a nonsensical writer, and having begun life by writing meaningless romantic plays in imitation of Massinger, and insipid masques in the school of Ben Jonson, he closed his long and busy career by parodying the style of Dryden. But he really deserves to be classed with none of these authors, but with Sir William Killigrew and Sir Robert Stapleton, the dullest crew of pedants and poetasters which our literature has seen. From this wide condemnation of the writings of Davenant, his romantic epic of Gondibert must be excepted. It is a poem of chivalry, the scene of which is laid in Lombardy, but which the author grew tired of before it had occurred to him to construct a plot. It is, accordingly, nothing but an incoherent, rambling fragment, through which the reader toils, as if through a quicksand, dragging his steps along, and rewarded every now and then by a firmer passage containing some propriety of thought or a beautiful single line. The form of Gondibert is borrowed from the Nosce Teipsum of Sir John Davies, and was soon afterwards employed again by Dryden for his Annus Mirabilis.

EDMUND W. GOSSE,

VOL. II.

From 'GondibERT,' Book I. Canto 6.

Soon they the palace reached of Astragon,
Which had its beauty hid by envious night,
Whose cypress curtain, drawn before the sun,
Seemed to perform the obsequies of light.

Yet light's last rays were not entirely spent,
For they discerned their passage through a gate,
Whose height and space showed ancient ornament,
And ancients there in careful office sate.

Who by their weights and measures did record
Such numerous burdens as were thither brought
From distant regions, to their learned lord,

On which his chymics and distillers wrought.

But now their common business they refrain,
When they observe a quiet sullenness

And bloody marks in such a civil train,

Which showed at once their worth and their distress.

The voice of Ulfin they with gladness knew,

Whom to this house long neighbourhood endeared; Approaching torches perfected their view,

And taught the way till Astragon appeared.

Who soon did Ulfin cheerfully embrace;

The visit's cause by whispers he received, Which first he hoped was meant him as a grace, But being known, with manly silence grieved.

And then, with gestures full of grave respect,
The Duke he to his own apartment led;

To each distinct retirement did direct,

And all the wounded he ordained to bed.

Then thin digestive food he did provide,

More to enable fleeting strength to stay,

To wounds well-searched he cleansing wines applied,
And so prepared his ripening balsam's way.

Balm of the warrior! herb Hypernicon !

To warriors, as in use, in form decreed,

For, through the leaves, transparent wounds are shown, And rudely touched, the golden flower doth bleed.

For sleep they juice of pale Nymphæa took,
Which grows, to show that it for sleep is good,
Near sleep's abode in the soft murmuring brook,
This cools, the yellow flower restrains the blood.
And now the weary world's great medicine, Sleep,
This learned host dispensed to every guest,
Which shuts those wounds where injured lovers weep,
And flies oppressors to relieve the opprest.
It loves the cottage and from court abstains,
It stills the seaman though the storm be high,
Frees the grieved captive in his closest chains,
Stops Want's loud mouth, and blinds the treacherous spy

SONG.

The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings,
He takes your window for the east,

And to implore your light, he sings;
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes:
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

ON THE CAPTIVITY OF THE COUNTESS OF ANGLESEY.

O whither will you lead the fair
And spicy daughter of the morn?
Those manacles of her soft hair,

Princes, though free, would fain have worn.

What is her crime? what has she done?
Did she, by breaking beauty, stay,
Or from his course mislead the sun,
So robbed your harvest of a day?

Or did her voice, divinely clear,
Since lately in your forest bred,
Make all the trees dance after her,
And so your woods disforested?

Run, run! pursue this gothic rout,
Who rudely love in bondage keep;
Sure all old lovers have the gout,

The young are overwatched and sleep!