his glowing eloquence, his simple manners, his
extended learning, his almost primitive piety, can-
not be questioned. More was a poet in mind; not
in ear.
He kindled his torch at the shrine of
Spenser, whose enthusiasm he imbibed without his
music. His verses never beam with any of his
master's lustre. What Warburton said of a spirit
equally tender and amiable, is also applicable to
More. "Poetry made Milton an enthusiast;
enthusiasm made Norris a poet." Indeed, his own
definition of a true poet, is an enthusiast in good
earnest. His ideas of the art were lofty and
dignified:-

Whatever man he be that dares to deem
True poets' skill to spring of earthly race,
I must him tell that he doth misesteem
Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace
By his rude ignorance. For there's no place
For forced labour, or slow industry

Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase;
So soon as of the Muse they quicken'd be,
At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in skie.

Like to a meteor, whose material

Is low unwieldly earth, base unctuous slime,
Whose inward hidden parts ethereal,

Lie close up-wrapt in that dull sluggish fime,
Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time

Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward spright,
And then even of itself on high doth climb;

That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, Bright star that to the wise of future things gives light.

He

Whoever is conversant with the prose writings of More, and they are mines of precious thought and originality of argument, will probably recognise in the following conversation, a reflection, though a faint one, of his beautiful and enthusiastic mind. Of Beaumont a brief notice will be sufficient. was a descendant of the family that gave us the author of Bosworth Field, and the friend and companion of Fletcher. During his absence from Cambridge, he composed his elaborate poem Psyche -which Southey, who usually finds something to admire in our elder writers, has condemned to perpetual oblivion. It requires, indeed, a bold heart to travel over its endless cantos; yet the path is not uncheered by flowers, nor the scenes destitute of interest. The principal defects arise out of the interminable allegories with which he swells the work; the portraits want vigour and decision; and even in the poem retain a dim and shadowy appearance. The picture of Drowsiness, however, is not without merit :

Up from the water crept a heavy cloud

Of dusky vapours, on whose shoulders rid
Fat Drowsiness, who rubb'd her eyes, and bow'd
Down to her bosom her unwieldly head.

The life of More was one continued abstraction from the business and occupations of the world, and we may easily paint to our fancy his dismay and affliction when a hasty step was heard at his door, and Beaumont rushed into the chamber with the melancholy intelligence. We hear him exclaiming in the sorrow of his heart :- "Then the cloud hath broken upon us at last. And are they all to depart ?"

BEAUMONT.

The spoilers spare none.

MORE.

And Cowley?

BEAUMONT.

Yes!

MORE.

And Crashaw?

BEAUMONT.

All!-all!

MORE.

Then let me arise and depart. Some sequestered valley will open before my feet; some humble cottage will welcome the poor pilgrim. Yet ere I go hence, I will tread again that quiet garden where the sun hath so often gone down upon me with dear John Milton, and that beloved youth*,

* Edward King,

over whose head the billows of the sea have swept. I would carry away with me a leaf of the mulberry-tree. And then let me cheer my heart with the chamber of Spenser, and wander once more along the green orchard of Pembroke, where the Martyr Ridley so often walked, learning by heart the Epistles of the New Testament. O blessed name! a virtue and a strength goeth of thee into the heart; enlivening faith, kindling hope, sanctifying sorrow. What an unyielding soul! what an invincible courage; what a rejoicing in the sharpest pangs; what a triumph in the depth of degradation! Oh, my friend, when tossed about by the storm and waves,-hated and scorned for conscience sake, let us remember how Ridley stared in the face of Death. If we believe like him, we shall conquer like him; the same Hand can make us mighty, even in our weakness; victorious even in our death. Then shall we exclaim with a joyful heart-"I am now ready to be offered; I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course; I have kept the faith; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day*.*

BEAUMONT.

It is the high privilege of the Christian not only

* Second Epistle to Timothy, iv. 7, 8.

to believe on his Divine Master, but to suffer for him*.

MORE.

Ay, truly. Peace can sit and sing by a dim hearth, and refresh herself with a crust of bread, and make her spirits dance with a cup of water, more merrily than the warmest worshipper of that sparkling deity enthroned in his crystalline heavent. Religion, too, ever follows her sister Peace; they will both go with the scholar to his hermitage. Sunday shall guide me through the darkest week with its sacred torch; and I can still bathe my heart in the fragrancy of the Gospel, and lighten my eyes with the dawn of a better day; and hang upon the neck of David, and sit down by the fountain of Siloe. Though they put me in bonds, yet shall I be free; for I can still wander through the corn-fields to Emmaus; and listen to the Precepts of everlasting truth on the Mount of Olives: walk where He walked, dwell where He dwelt. This peace the world can neither give, nor take away.

BEAUMONT.

I, too, have some pleasant dreams to carry with

*St. Paul's Epistle to the Philippians, i. 29.

+ This description of Bacchus is given almost in the words of More.