GILES FLETCHER. GILES FLETCHER was the younger brother of Phineas, and died twenty-three years before him. He was a cousin of Fletcher the dramatist, and the son of Dr Giles Fletcher, who was employed in many important missions in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and, among others, negotiated a commercial treaty with Russia greatly in the favour of his own country. Giles is supposed to have been born in 1588. He studied at Cambridge; published his noble poem, 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' in 1610, when he was twenty-three years of age; was appointed to the living of Alderston, in Suffolk, where he died, in 1623, at the early age of thirty-five, 'equally loved,' says old Wood, 'of the Muses and the Graces.' The poem, in four cantos, entitled 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' is one of almost Miltonic magnificence. With a wing as easy as it is strong, he soars to heaven, and fills the austere mouth of Justice and the golden lips of Mercy with language worthy of both. He then stoops down on the Wilderness of the Temptation, and paints the Saviour and Satan in colours admirably contrasted, and which in their brightness and blackness can never decay. Nor does he fear, in fine, to pierce the gloom of Calvary, and to mingle his note with the harps of angels, saluting the Redeemer, as He sprang from the grave, with the song, 'He is risen, He is risen-and shall die no more.' The style is steeped in Spenserequally mellifluous, figurative, and majestic. In allegory the author of the 'Fairy Queen' is hardly superior, and in the enthusiasm of devotion Fletcher surpasses him far. the great light, thus early kindled and early quenched, Milton did not disdain to draw with his 'golden urn.' 'Paradise Regained' owes much more than the suggestion of its subject to Christ's Victory;' and is it too much to say that, had Fletcher lived, he might have shone in the same constellation with the bard of the 'Paradise Lost?' The plan of our 'Specimens' permits only a few extracts. Let those who wish more, along with a lengthened and glowing tribute to the author's From genius, consult Blackwood for November 1835. The reading of a single sentence will convince them that the author of the paper was Christopher North. THE NATIVITY. I. Who can forget, never to be forgot, The time, that all the world in slumber lies: On earth? was never sight of pareil fame: II. A child he was, and had not learned to speak, That with one hand the vaults of heaven could shake. III. And yet but newly he was infanted, And yet already he was sought to die;. But scarcely fled away, when by and by, The tyrant's sword with blood is all defiled, Cries, O thou cruel king, and O my sweetest child! IV. Egypt his nurse became, where Nilus springs, The hasty harvest in his bosom brings; So fast the Cynthian mountains poured their snow, When once they felt the sun so near them glow, That Nilus Egypt lost, and to a sea did grow. V. The angels carolled loud their song of peace, That springs for joy over the strawy tent, Where gold, to make their prince a crown, they all present. VI. Young John, glad child, before he could be born, Old Anna, though with age all spent and worn, And Simeon fast his dying notes doth ply. Oh, how the blessed souls about him trace! It is the fire of heaven thou dost embrace: Sing, Simeon, sing; sing, Simeon, sing apace. VII. With that the mighty thunder dropt away For pardon, and for pity, it had known, That should have been for sacred vengeance thrown: Their former rage, and all to mercy bowed, Their broken weapons at her feet they gladly strowed. VIII. Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets, So down she let her eyelids fall, to shine Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine. SONG OF SORCERESS SEEKING TO TEMPT CHRIST. Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, Love the strong and weak doth yoke, VOL. I. Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Once a leafy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play: And of all love's joyful flame, I the bud, and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, The wooing shall thy winning be. See, see the flowers that below, And of all, the virgin rose, Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade. Come, come gather then the rose, Is gladly bruised to make me wine. Thy wooing shall thy winning be. Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, |