Nec vos, dulcissima mundi

Nomina, vos musæ, libertas, otia, libri,

Hortique, sylvæque, animâ remanente relinquam.

Nor by me e'er shall you,

You of all names the sweetest and the best,
You muses, books, and liberty, and rest;
You gardens, fields, and woods forsaken be,
As long as life itself forsakes not me.

From Cowley, who has occupied our attention longer than we had designed, we pass to notice very briefly, Thomas Stanley, the Duchess of Newcastle, Katherine Philips, and Charles Cotton; and shall then close our present remarks with the justly celebrated John Dryden.

THOMAS STANLEY, the learned editor of Eschylus, was the son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knight, of Camberlow-Green, in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1625. In the fourteenth year of his age he entered Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, and soon distinguished himself as a linguist and philosopher. Having successfully pursued his studies at Cambridge, and taken his degrees, he afterward became incorporated into the university of Oxford, and thence passed to the continent, making the tour of France, Italy, and Spain, and remaining in each of these countries a sufficient length of time to perfect himself in its language. On his return to England he entered the Middle Temple as a student of law, and while residing there, married the daughter of Sir James Engan, of Flower, in the county of Northampton. He did not, however, suffer this change in his condition to interfere, in the least degree, with his application to study, but persevered with such untiring industry, that, while yet a comparatively young man, he became one of the most accomplished scholars of the age.

Stanley's first serious literary performance was a History of Philosophy, containing the lives, opinions, actions, and discourses of the philosophers of every sect.' This work being very popular, passed through four editions in English in comparatively rapid succession, and was then translated into the Latin tongue, and published at Leipsic in 1711. The account of the Oriental learning and philosophy with which it concludes, is both curious and interesting, and has often received the commendation of learned foreigners. He next published his Eschylus, the text of which he restored, and illustrated it with so much learning as to excite the admiration of all who are able to appreciate the labor he bestowed upon it. The remainder of his life was chiefly spent in editing other Greek poets, among whom were Sophocles, and Euripides; and his death occurred in 1678.

The greater number of the original poems of Stanley were written while he was at the university; and they are remarkable for richness of style, of thought, and of expression, though somewhat tinctured with the conceits of the age. The following are among the happiest of his effusions:

THE TOMB.

When, cruel fair one, I am slain
By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne,

Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of Death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn:

Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove There is more liberty in Death than Love.

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, devour'd 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.

THE LOSS.

Yet ere I go,

Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be

So wretched as to know

What joys thou fling'st away with me.

A faith so bright,

As Time or Fortune could not rust;

So firm, that lovers might

Have read thy story in my dust,

And crown'd thy name

With laurel verdant as thy youth,

Whilst the shrill voice of Fame

Spread wide thy beauty and my truth.

This thou hast lost,

For all true lovers, when they find

That my just aims were crost,

Will speak thee lighter than the wind.

And none will lay

Any oblation on thy shrine,

But such as would betray

Thy faith to faiths as false as thine.

Yet, if thou choose

On such thy freedom to bestow,

Affection may excuse,

For love from sympathy doth flow.

MARGARET, Duchess of Newcastle, was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born about 1622. She early evinced a fondness for literary pursuits, and was educated with the greatest care. Having been appointed one of the maids of honor to Henrietta Maria, consort of Charles the First, she accompanied the queen to France, and at Paris married the Marquis of Newcastle, in 1645. The marquis, soon after their marriage, took up his residence at Antwerp, and there his lady wrote and published, in 1653, a volume entitled Poems and Fancies. The marquis assisted her in her compositions, and so indefatigable were the noble pair, that they filled nearly twelve volumes folio, with plays, poems, orations and philosophical discourses. On the restoration of Charles the Second, the marquis and his lady returned to England, and lived in domestic happiness and devoted loyalty until her death, which occurred in 1673.

As a poetess, the Duchess possessed invention, knowledge, and imagination, but wanted energy and taste. The Pastime and Recreation of the Queen of Fairies in Fairy Land, is her most popular work. The following description of the elvish queen is extremely fine :—

She on a dewy leaf doth bathe,
And as she sits, the leaf doth wave;
There like a new-fallen flake of snow,
Doth her white limbs in beauty show.
Her garments fair her maids put on,
Made of the pure light from the sun.

Mirth and Melancholy are also very fancifully personified. The former woos the poetess to dwell with her, promising sport and pleasure, and drawing the following gloomy but forcible and poetical sketch of her rival Melancholy:

Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound;
She hates the light, and is in darkness found;
Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small,
Which various shadows make against the wall.

She loves naught else but noise which discord makes,
As croaking frogs whose dwelling is in lakes ;
The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan,
And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone;
The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out;
A mill, where rushing waters run about;

The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall,
Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal.
She loves to walk in the still moonshine night,
And in a thick dark grove she takes delight;
In hollow caves, thatch'd houses, and low cells,
She loves to live, and there alone she dwells.

To this passage we add the picture of Melancholy's dwellings, as drawn

by herself:

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun;

Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;

In summer's hot down in a shade I lie;

My music is the buzzing of a fly;

I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass;

In fields, where corn is high, I often pass;
Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see,
Some bushy woods, and some all champaigns be;
Returning back, I in fresh pastures go,

To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
Then I do live in a small house alone;
Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within,
Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin;
And there I dwell in quiet and still peacé,
Not fill'd with cares how riches to increase;
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures;
No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary, live alone,

Yet better lov'd, the more that I am known;
And though my face ill-favour'd at first sight,
After acquaintance, it will give delight.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be;
Maintain your credit and your dignity.

KATHERINE PHILIPS, born in 1631, was a worthy contemporary of the Duchess of Newcastle. She was honored with the praise of Cowley and Dryden, and Jeremy Taylor addressed to her a Discourse on Friendship. This amiable lady was the wife of James Philips of the Priory, Cardigan, and died of the small-pox, in the year 1664. Her poetical name of 'Orinda' was very popular with her contemporaries; but her effusions are said to have been published without her consent. The following lines On a Country Life offer a fair specimen of the productions of her delicate muse :

A COUNTRY LIFE.

How sacred and how innocent

A country-life appears,

How free from tumult, discontent,

From flattery or fears!

This was the first and happiest life,

When man enjoy'd himself,

Till pride exchanged peace for strife,
And happiness for pelf.

"Twas here the poets were inspir'd,

Here taught the multitude;

The brave they here with honour fir'd,

And civiliz'd the rude.

The golden age did entertain

No passion but of love:

The thoughts of ruling and of gain

Did ne'er their fancies move.

Them that do covet only rest,
A cottage will suffice:
It is not brave to be possess'd
Of earth, but to despise.

Opinion is the rate of things,

From hence our peace doth flow;
I have a better fate than kings,
Because I think it so.

When all the stormy world doth roar,
How unconcerned am I!

I can not fear to tumble lower,
Who never could be high.

Secure in these unenvied walls,
I think not on the state,
And pity no man's ease that falls
From his ambition's height.

Silence and innocence are safe;
;

A heart that's nobly true,
At all these little arts can laugh,
That do the world subdue.

The name of CHARLES COTTON calls up a number of pleasing associations. It is best known from its piscatory and affectionate union with that of good old Izaak Walton, but Cotton was a cheerful, witty, accomplished gentleman, and only wanted prudence to have made him one of the leading characters of his day. He was the son of Sir George Cotton, and was born in Staffordshire, in 1630. His father, at his death, which occurred in 1658, left him an estate at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove, so celebrated in the annals of trout-fishing. The property at the time was greatly encumbered, and the poet soon added to its burdens. As a means of procuring relief, therefore, as well as recreation, Cotton translated several works from the French and the Italian, with both of which languages he seems to have been critically familiar. Of these translations, that of the Essays of Montaigne was dedicated to the Marquis of Halifax, and was of such rare excellence as to receive the unqualified approbation of that learned and accomplished nobleman.