verses in the present collection: and Thomas, the third baronet. Sir John, who sue. ceeded his father, is recorded as a man of prodigious bodily strength. He was killed in 1644, at the siege of Gloucester, and dying unmarried, was succeeded in title by his brother Thomas, who, like him, was plundered by the republicans. Besides the present collection, Wood ascribes to our author a poem in eight books, entitled The Crown of Thorns, and a work under this title is alluded to in Hawkins's commendatory verses, but it has escaped the researches of the poetical collectors. His other poems were published in 1629, under the title of “ Bosworth-field: with a Taste of the Variety of other Poems, left by Sir John Beaumont, Baronet, deceased : set forth by his Sonne, Sir Iohn Beavmont, Baronet; and dedicated to the King's most Excellent Maiestie.” They are prefixed by a loyal dedication to the king, and commendatory verses by Thomas Hawkins, the author's sons John and Francis, George Fortescue, the brother of his lady, Ben Jonson, Drayton, &c'. Bosworth Field is the most considerable of this collection, and in Mr. Headley's opinion “merits republication for the easy flow of its numbers, and the spirit with which it is written.” It certainly contains many original specimens of the heroic style, not exceeded by any of his contemporaries, and the imagery is frequently just and striking. The lines describing the death of the tyrant may be submitted with confidence to the admirers of Shakspeare. Among his lesser poems, a few sparklings of invention may now and then be discovered, and his translations are in general spirited and correct. His yerses on the true form of English poetry, addressed to king James I. entitle him to a place among the most judicious critics of his time, and the chaste com, plexion of the whole shows that to genius he added virtue and delicacy. 1 The copy used on the present occasion was that which belonged to the late Mr. Isaac Reed, who in a MS note makes the following remark: “All the copies of this book which I have seen (and I have seen many) want the leaf p. 181.” Mr. Nichols, who has likewise had an opportunity to examine some copies, confirms this singularity. A few illustrative potes are now added to the poems, for whick the editor is obliged to the historian of Leicestershire. C ΤΟ THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAIESTIE. MOST GRACIOUS SOUERAINE, I were present at the feet of your sacred maiesty these orphan verses, whose author (had hee suruiued) might haue made this gift somewhat more correspondent to so great a patron. I haue only endeauored without art, to set this iewell, and render it apt for your maiesty's acceptance; to which boldness I am led by a filiall duty in performing the will of my father, who, whilst he lived, did euer intend to your maiesty these poems: poems, in which no obscene sport can bee found (the contrary being too frequent a crime among poets), while these (if not too bold I speake) will challenge your maiestie for their patron, since it is most conuenient, that the purest of poems should be directed to you, the vertuousest & most vntoucht of princes, the delight of Brittaine, and the wonder of Europe; at the altar of whose iudgement, bright erected flames, not troubled fumes, dare approach. To your maiestie must bee directed the most precious off-springs of each Muse, which though they may well bee esteemed starres, yet how can they subsist without the aspect of you their sun? Receive them, great king, these my father's verses, and let them find (what his son hath found) your princely clemency. Effect on them (I beseech your maiesty) a kingly worke, giue them life, and withal graciously please to accept the sincere wishes for your felicity, and the humble rowes of, COMMENDATORY VERSES. AN ELEGY, TO THE LIVING MEMORY OF HIS DECEASED FRIEND, To tell the world what it hath lost in thee, AN ELEGY, THOMAS NEUILL DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, KNIGHT AND Baronet. I WRITE not elegies, nor tune my verse, To waite in mourning notes vpon thy herse For vaine applause, or with desire to rank My slender Muse 'mongst those, who on the bank Of Aganippe's streame can better sing, And to their words more sence of sorrow bring, That stirres my genius, which should excite To kindle other hearts with purest flame Rise with thy verse to celebrate the flood That though we there thinke onely wit is meant, In cloudy words, cleare lampes to light the mind. THOMAS HAWKINS. TO THE WORTHY MUSE OF HIS NOBLE FRIEND, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, KNIGHT BARONET. WE doe not vsher forth thy verse with these, That thine may by our prayse the better please: That were impertinent, and we too weake, To adde a grace, where eu'ry line doth speake, And sweetly eccho out, in this rich store, All we can any way pretend, and more. Yet since we stand engag'd, we this make knowne, Thy layes are vnaffected; free; thine owne; Thy periods, cleare; expressions, genuine ; Muse most emphaticall; and wit, diuine. THOMAS HAWKINS, A CONGRATULATION TO THE MUSES, FOR THE IMMORTALIZING of his deare father, by THE SACRED VERTUE OF POETRY. YE heau'nly sisters, by whose sacred skill, The lambs, as fearelesse, with the lions meet: His draughts no sensuall waters euer stain'd, To haue of him? Perhaps an empty voyce, For onely you can cause this worke diuine; Prometheus is not from the rocke vnbound; Since then such godlike pow'rs in you remaine, JOHN BEAUMONT, VPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS OF MY DEARE FATHER, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, BARONET, DECEASED. You, who prepare to reade graue Beaumont's verse, And at your entrance view my lowly straines, But onely here in these few lines, behold For should I strive to decke the vertues high, Which in these poems (like faire gemmes) ap peare; I might as well adde brightnesse to the skie, Or with new splendour make the Sunne more cleare Since eu'ry line is with such beauties grac'd, That nothing farther can their prayses sound: And that deare name which on the front is plac'd Declares what ornaments within are found, That name, I say, in whom the Muses meete, And with such heate his noble spirit raise, That kings admire his verse, whil'st at his feete Orpheus his harpe, and Phoebus, casts his bayes, Whom, though fierce Death hath taken from our sights, And caus'd that curious hand to write no more; Yet maruell not if from the fun❜rall rites Proceed these branches neuer seene before. For from the corne arise not fruitfull eares, Except at first the earth receive the same: Nor those rich odours which Arabia beares, Send forth sweet smells, unlesse consum'd with flame. So from the ashes of this phoenix flye These off springs, which with such fresh glory shine; That whil'st time runneth, he shall neuer dye, But still be honour'd in this famous shrine: To which, this verse alone I humbly giue; He was before: but now begins to liue. PRANCIS BEAUMONT, |