The want in these graceful and delicate lyrics is thew and sinew. And yet they are what they pretend to be--airy petals of the cherry-blossom, hinting of fruit, bees fluttering and musical, giving token of honey. The Muse fares ill in civil contentions. As Herrick fled before the Roundheads, so was George Wither opprest by the Cavaliers. The following noble praise of poetry was written in a prison; in a prison the poor poet passed many of his latter years, and it is still a question whether he actually died in confinement, or perished of want and misery after his release. But alas! my muse is slow; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance, poor relief That more makes than mends my grief; Whence she should be driven too, She doth tell me where to borrow In my former days of bliss She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things, that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness : The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, This black den, which rocks emboss She hath brought me by her might Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Though thou be to them a scorn That for nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of gladness Above all their greatest wits! Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them! "The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient and modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but before Wither no one had celebrated its power at home; the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confers upon its possessor." This fine criticism, worthy of the poetry which it celebrates, is by Charles Lamb. XIII. FEMALE POETS. JOANNA BAILLIE -CATHERINE FANSHAWE. BELOVED, admired, appreciated by the best spirits of her time, it is with no little triumph that I, who plead guilty to some of that esprit de corps which may be translated into "pride of sex," write the name of our great female dramatist-of the first woman who won high and undisputed honours in the highest class of English poetry. The pleasure * Since writing this paper this gifted authoress and admirable woman has passed from this world to the higher and happier state which was ever in her thoughts. A letter from her to a mutual friend, written a very few days before her death, expresses her satisfaction in having received the sacrament with her sister the Sunday previous. In this letter, for the first time during a long correspondence, she breaks off somewhat suddenly, complaining of bodily fatigue, although no one then thought her ill. VOL. I. M |