Made all the creatures know thee for their lord,
And come before thee of their own accord:

And
gave thee power as master, to impose
Fit sense-full names unto the host that rows
In watery regions; and the wand'ring herds
Of forest people; and the painted birds:
Oh, too, too happy! had that fall of thine
Not cancell'd so the character divine.

But, since our souls' now sin-obscured light
Shines through the lanthorn of our flesh so bright;
What sacred splendour will this star send forth,
When it shall shine without this vail of earth?
The Soul here lodged is like a man that dwells
In an ill air, annoy'd with noisome smells;
In an old house, open to wind and weather;
Never in health not half an hour together:
Or, almost, like a spider who, confined
In her web's centre, shakes with every wind;
Moves in an instant, if the buzzing fly
Stir but a string of her lawn canopy.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Thou radiant coachman, running endless course,
Fountain of heat, of light the lively source,
Life of the world, lamp of this universe,
Heaven's richest gem: oh, teach me where my verse
May but begin thy praise: Alas! I fare

Much like to one that in the clouds doth stare
To count the quails, that with their shadow cover
The Italian sea, when soaring hither over,

Fain of a milder and more fruitful clime,
They come with us to pass the summer time:

No sooner he begins one shoal to sum,

But, more and more, still greater shoals do come, Swarm upon swarm, that with their countless number

Break off his purpose, and his sense encumber.
Day's glorious eye! even as a mighty king
About his country stately progressing,

Is compass'd round with dukes, earls, lords, and knights,

(Orderly marshall'd in their noble rites,)
Esquires and gentlemen, in courtly kind,
And then his guard before him and behind.
And there is nought in all his royal muster,
But to his greatness addeth grace and lustre:
So, while about the world thou ridest aye,
Which only lives through virtue of thy ray,
Six heavenly princes, mounted evermore,
Wait on thy coach, three behind, three before;
Besides the host of th' upper twinklers bright,
To whom, for pay, thou givest only light.
And, even as man (the little world of cares)
Within the middle of the body bears

His heart, the spring of life, which with proportion
Supplieth spirits to all, and every portion:
Even so, O Sun, thy golden chariot marches
Amid the six lamps of the six low arches
Which seele the world, that equally it might
Richly impart them beauty, force, and light.

Praising thy heat, which subtilly doth pierce
The solid thickness of our universe:
Which in the earth's kidneys mercury doth burn,
And pallid sulphur to bright metal turn;

I do digress, to praise that light of thine,
Which if it should but one day cease to shine,

VOL. I.

L

161

Th' unpurged air to water would resolve,
And water would the mountain tops involve.
Scarce I begin to measure thy bright face
Whose greatness doth so oft earth's greatness pass,
And which still running the celestial ring,
Is seen and felt of every living thing;
But that fantastic'ly I change my theme
To sing the swiftness of thy tireless team,
To sing how, rising from the Indian wave,
Thou seem'st (O Titan) like a bridegroom brave,
Who, from his chamber early issuing out
In rich array, with rarest gems about,
With pleasant countenance and lovely face,
With golden tresses and attractive grace,
Cheers at his coming all the youthful throng
That for his presence earnestly did long,
Blessing the day, and with delightful glee,
Singing aloud his epithalamie.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

Of him we only know that he published several poetical volumes between 1594 and 1598. We give one beautiful piece, 'To a Nightingale,' which used to be attributed to Shakspeare.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made;
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn;

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.

'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry;

Teru, teru,' by and by;

That, to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing!

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find.

Every man will be thy friend

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:

But, if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such-like flattering,
'Pity but he were a king.'

If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep,
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus, of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

ALEXANDER HUME.

THIS Scottish poet was the second son of Patrick, fifth Baron of Polwarth. He was born about the middle of the sixteenth century, and died in 1609. He resided for some years, in the early part of his life, in France. Returning home, he studied law, and then tried his fortune at Court. Here he was eclipsed by a rival, named Montgomery; and after assailing his rival, who rejoined, in verse, he became a clergyman in disgust, and was settled in the parish of Logie. Here he darkened into a sour and savage Calvinist, and uttered an exhortation to the youth of Scotland to forego the admiration of classical heroes, and to read no love-poetry save the 'Song of Solomon.' another poetic walk, however, that of natural description, Hume excelled, and we print with pleasure some parts of his 'Summer's Day,' which our readers may compare with Mr Aird's fine poem under the same title, and be convinced that the sky of Scotland was as blue, and the grass as green, and Scottish eyes as quick to perceive their beauty, in the sixteenth century as now.

In