had a singular vision, which is often reproduced among stories of psychical or supersensual power. He saw (as Izaak Walton narrates) the apparition of his wife enter his room, bearing a dead child; and shortly after he heard that his wife had been delivered of a still-born child at the very moment. The best known poetical writings of Donne are his "Satires," and "The Progress of the Soul." His poems are characterized by brilliant wit, depth of reflection, and terseness of language; but his versification is generally rugged and uncouth, and he is often so obscure as to task the closest attention. But think that Death hath now enfranchised thee! And think this slow-paced Soul which late did cleave To a body, and went but by the body's leave, "Twixt heaven and earth! She stays not in the air, Who, if she meet the body of the Sun, Whose quick succession makes it still one thing: ELEGY ON MISTRESS ELIZABETH DRURY. She of whose soul, if we may say 'twas gold, Her body was the Electrum, and did hold Many degrees of that-we understood. Her by her sight: her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say her body thought. She, she, thus richly, largely housed, is gone, And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon Our prison's prison, Earth, nor think us well Longer than whilst we bear our little shell. -She whom we celebrate is gone before: His face in any natural stone or tree God's image in such reparation Within her heart, that what decay was grown Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract; day; Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray; Both where more grace and more capacity Ben Jonson. After Jonson (1574-1637) was thirty years old at the death of Queen Elizabeth. He was ten years younger than Shakspeare, and survived him twenty-one years, living on almost to the troubled close of the reign of Charles I. Born in the North of England of humble parentage, Jonson, after a period of soldier life in the Low Countries, where he fought bravely, settled in London, married, and took to literature and the stage as a means of livelihood. He tried his fortune as an actor, but did not succeed. A duel with a brother actor, whom, unhappily, he killed, caused his confinement for a time in jail. While there, he was visited by a priest; and his mind being turned to religious subjects, he became a Roman Catholic, and continued one for twelve years. that, when at the height of his fame and prosperity, he once more professed himself a member of the Church of England. But an estimate of the quality of his religious feeling may be formed from the fact that, on partaking of the Holy Communion for the first time after this event, he quaffed off the entire contents of the chalice! “He did everything lustily," says one of his recent biographers, as a comment on this incident. Whether "lustily" or through simple love of good liquor, and in unconcern as to the proprieties, may remain a question. Probably it was done in the spirit of the reply of Theodore Hook, who, when asked by the College functionary if he could sign the Thirty-nine Articles, said, "Yes, forty, if you wish it.” On his release from prison, Jonson sprang at once into fame by his still-acted play of "Every Man in his Humor," in the representation of which no less a person than Shakspeare took a part. Jonson's works consist mainly of dramas and masks, of which he produced, in all, more than fifty. Poverty cast a gloom over his last years; he was obliged to solicit assistance from old friends; and so the bright life dimmed, and flickered, and went out. His mortal remains were buried in the north aisle of Westminster Abbey; and Sir John Young, a gentleman from Oxford, visiting the spot, gave eighteen-pence to a mason, to cut upon the flag-stone covering the poet's clay this epitaph: "O Rare Ben Jonson!" Such, at least, is the tradition. SEE THE CHARIOT AT HAND. FROM "A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS." Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And, enamored, do wish, so they might That they still were to run by her side, TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, Through swords, through seas, whither she would WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, I, therefore, will begin: Soul of the age! ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light As alone there triumphs to the life EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H. The other, let it sleep with death: SONG TO CELIA. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup I would not change for thine. Sir John Davies. Davies (1570-1626), an English barrister, was the author of "Nosce Teipsum" (Know Thyself), a poem on the immortality of the soul. It bears the date of 1602, when Davies was about thirty-two years old. It was printed five times during his life. In 1598 Davies was ejected from membership in the Society of the Middle Temple, for having thrashed a man within the sacred precincts of that Inn of Court. But he was an able lawyer; and having won the favor of King James, he rose from one legal distinction to another, and was knighted in 1607. For who did ever yet in honor, wealth, Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health; Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind? Then, as a bee, which among weeds doth fall, Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay, She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all, So, when the soul finds here no true content, And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take, She doth return from whence she first was sent, And flies to Him that first her wings did make. MYSELF. FROM "NOSCE TEIPSUM." I know my body's of so frail a kind, As force without, fevers within, can kill; I know the heavenly nature of my mind; But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will. I know my soul hath power to know all things, I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, I know my life's a pain, and but a span; I know my sense is mocked in everything; And, to conclude, I know myself a Man; Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. Beaumont and Fletcher. Francis Beaumont (1586–1616) and John Fletcher (15761625) were intimate friends; "the Orestes and Pylades of the poetical world." Both were of good descent. Beaumont's father was a Judge of the Common Pleas ; Fletcher was the son of the Bishop of London, and had for cousins Phineas and Giles Fletcher, the one the author of "The Purple Island," a tedious allegorical poem; the other the author of "Christ's Victory and Triumph," a work from which Milton is said to have borrowed a feather or two. There was a difference of ten years between the ages of Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter, who was the elder, survived his friend nine years, continued to write, and died at the age of forty-nine. Beaumont died at thirty, in 1616, the same year as Shakspeare. Beaumont's poetical taste, it was said, controlled, in their joint work, Fletcher's luxuriance of wit and fancy. Their united works amount to about fifty dramas, and were very popular in their day, even more so than those of Shakspeare and Jonson. As lyrical and descriptive poets they are entitled to high praise. Their dramas are sprightly, and abound in poetical ornament, but are often censurable for looseness of plot, repulsiveness of subject, and laxity of moral tone. MELANCHOLY.' FROM "NICE VALOR; OR, THE PASSIONATE MADMAN." Wherein you spend your folly! O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes, A look that's fastened to the ground, Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, CESAR'S LAMENTATION OVER POMPEY'S HEAD. FROM "THE FALSE ONE." Oh thou conqueror, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity; That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 1 Milton seems to have taken some hints for his "Il Penseroso" from this song. |