MORS TUA. METHINKS I see the nimble aged sire Setting an onset on his louder knell ; vating every reader of true taste. We may justly apply on this occasion a sentence of Dryden, who says, "The sweetest essences are always confined in the smallest glasses." Dedication to his Æneid. * And in his wrinkled hand.] What a degree of animation and life is often thrown into a line by a single picturesque and natural epithet! In this respect, Shakspeare leaves all other poets far behind. To instance only in a single passage. Henry the Fifth, in his prayer before the battle of Agincourt, says, Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up Act IV. Sc. v. Alter the epithet withered to almost any other, and you instantly destroy the picture. For an epithet equally striking, see Vol, XVIII. , applied to old age : P. His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door. Methinks I hear a voice (in secret) say, Thy glass is run, and thou must die to-day! Pentelogia, by F. Quarles, Edit. 1630. UPON THE DEATH OF CHARLES THE FIRST. WRITTEN WITH THE POINT OF HIS SWORD. GREAT, good, and just! could I but rate My grief to thy too rigid fate, I'd weep the world to such a strain, As it should deluge once again. But since thy loud-tongu'd blood demands supplies, MONTROSE. Printed amongst Poems by J. Cleaveland, *Methinks I hear a voice, &c.] There is an alarming solemnity in the conclusion of these lines, that reminds us of Tickell's justly popular ballad: ފ I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay, &c. Lucy and Colin. ELEGY UPON THE HONOURABLE HENRY CAMPBELL, SON TO THE EARL OF AYR. It's false arithmetic to say thy breath for if thy years Be number'd by thy virtues or our tears, &c.] So Young: Look'd on by those whose breath may poison it; convey But I'll not question fate: heaven doth We all did share: and thou away we fear Castara, by W. Habington. THE EXEQUY. ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint; Instead of dirges, this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see Dear loss! since thy untimely fate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, Though almost blind, for thee (lov'd clay) But what I practise with mine eyes: thus Nor wonder if my time go Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set, This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day, (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide past) And I remember must, in tears, Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours; by thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion Like a fled star is fall'n and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is, Which such a strange eclipse doth make As ne'er was read in almanack. I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime, |