and filled up in his second epic, with a classic grace and force of style unknown to the Fletchers. To the latter, however, belong the merit of original invention, copiousness of fancy, melodious numbers, and language at times rich, ornate, and highly poetical. If Spenser had not previously written his Bower of Bliss, Giles Fletcher's Bower of Vain Delight would have been unequalled if the poetry of that day; but probably, like his master, Spenser, he copied from Tasso. Decay of Human Greatness.-From the Purpie Island.' Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes; (1) Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the cast once grasped in lordly paw? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw? Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquered kingdoms shared Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find : Only a fading verbal memory, And empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. That monstrous beast, which, nursed in Tiber's fen, That filled with costly spoil his gaping den, Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands. And that black vulture (2) which with deathful wing Who then shall look for happiness beneath? Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, Description of Parthenia, or Chastity. In needle's stead, a mighty spear she swayed, Her goodly armour seemed a garden green, Ever the same, but new in newer date: And underneath was writ, Such is chaste single state." Thus hid in arms she seemed a goodly knight, And fit for any warlike exercise: But when she list lay down her armour bright, Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset. Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train, Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits, Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow, And ready shafts; deadly those weapons shew; Yet sweet the death appeared, lovely that deadly blow. . . A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek, And in the midst was set a circling rose; Whose sweet aspéct would force Narcissus seek New liveries, and fresher colours choose To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire; But all in vain: for who can hope t' aspire To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire? Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky In highest majesty the highest love. As when a taper shines in glassy frame, The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame, So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame. The Sorceress of Vain Delight.-From Christ's Victory and The garden like a lady fair was cut, And to the open skies her eyes did shut; The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right Like twinkling stars, that sparkle in the evening blue. Upon a hilly bank her head she cast, On which the bower of Vain Delight was built. And for her tresses marigolds were spilt; Them broadly she displayed, like flaming gilt; And with green fillets in their pretty cauls them bound. What should I here depaint her lily hand, Which there in orient colours living stand: Or how her gown with silken leaves is dressed, Or how her watchman, armed with boughy crest, While she supinely sleeps, nor to be waked fears. Over the hedge depends the graping elm, And she with ruby grapes laughed at her paramour. . . . The roof thick clouds did paint, from which three boys, The naked boys under the water's fall Their stony nightingales had taught to call, And all about, embayed in soft sleep, A herd of charmed beasts aground were spread, Once men they lived, but now the men were dead, Used mauly souls in beastly bodies to immould. Through this false Eden, to his leman's bower- There in the lower room, in solemn wise, Chanted wild orgials, in honour of the feast. . . . By the smooth crystal, that, most like her glass, A silver wand the screeress did sway, And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore; About her locks, and in her hand she bore A hollow globe of glass, that long before Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever vanished. Such watery orbicles young boys do blow Here when she came she 'gan for music call. And sung this wooing song to welcome him withal: Love is the blossom where there blows Love doth make the heavens to move, Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 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: I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 'See, see! the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shews: Losing tacir virginity; Like unto a summer shade, But now born and now they fade. Come, come, gather then the rose; All the sands of Tagus' shore Is gladly bruised to make me wine; Thy wooing shall thy winning be.' Thus sought the dire enchantress in his mind And all her optic glasses shattered. So with her sire to hell she took her flight- The starting air flew from the damned sprite- Where deeply both aggrieved plunged themselves in night. But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, A heavenly volley of light angels flew, And from his Father him a banquet brought Through the fine element, for well they knew, And as he fed, the holy choirs combine To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine; All thought to pass, and each was past all thought divine. The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joys, Attempered to the lays angelical; And to the birds the winds attune their noise; And echo back again revoiced all; That the whole valley rung with victory. But now our Lord to rest doth homewards fly: See how the night comes stealing from the mountains high. WILLIAM BROWNE. WILLIAM BROWNE (1590-1645) was a pastoral and descriptive poet, who, like Phineas and Giles Fletcher, adopted Spenser for his model. He was a native of Tavistock, in Devonshire, and the beautiful scenery of his native county seems to have inspired his early strains. His descriptions are vivid and true to nature. Browne was tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and on the death of the latter at the battle of Newbury in 1643, he received the patronage and lived in the family of the Earl of Pembroke. In this situation he realised a competency, and according to Wood, purchased an estate. He died at O tery-St.Mary (the birthplace of Coleridge) in 1615. Browne's works consist |