Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full

strait,

And burn'd is Apollo's laurel bough,

That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone! Regard his hellish fall,

Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise
Only to wonder at unlawful things:

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits,
To practice more than heavenly power permits.

Daniel is characterized for his natural tenderness, and simplicity of style-"he is distinguished for elegance rather than sublimity of expression," and has been styled the Atticus of his day. He is grave and dignified; in some of his occasional pieces there is a "vast philosophic gravity and stateliness of sentiment." His sonnets are his most beautiful productions.

SONNET.

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green,
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,
And strait 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,

Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose
When thou surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that in beauty's lease, expired appears

The date of age, the calends of our death-
But ah! no more-this must not be foretold,
For, women grieve to think they must be old.

SONNET.

I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have a time before they come to seed,

And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And when the sweetest blossom first appears,

Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither! Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,

And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; Pity and smiles do best become the fair,

Pity and smiles must only yield the praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

PASTORAL.

O happy golden age;

Not for, that rivers ran

With streams of milk and honey dropt from trees;

Not that the earth did gage

Unto the husbandman,

Her voluntary fruits, free, without fees ;

Not for, no cold did freeze

Nor any cloud beguile

Th' eternal flowering spring,

Wherein liv'd everything,

And whereon the heavens perpetually did smile;

Not for, no ship had brought

From foreign shores, or wars, or wares ill sought;

But only for, that name,

That idle name of wind,

That idol of deceit, that empty sound,

Call'd honor, which became

The tyrant of the mind,

And so torments our nature without ground,

Was not yet vainly found;

Nor yet sad grief imparts

Amidst the sweet delights

Of joyful amorous wights,

Nor were his hard laws known to free-born hearts; But golden laws, like these

Which Nature wrote-That's lawful which doth please.

Then amongst flowers and springs

Making delightful sport

Sat lovers, without conflict, without flame,

And nymphs and shepherds sing,

Mixing in wanton sort,

Whispering with songs, then kisses with same,

Which from affection came.

The naked virgin then

Her roses fresh reveals,

Which now her veil conceals

The tender apples in her bosom seen:

And oft in rivers clear,

The lovers with their loves consorting were,

HONOR thou first didst close

The spring of all delight,

Denying water to the amorous thirst:

Thou taught'st fair eyes to lose

The glory of their light,

Restrain'd from men and on themselves revers'd:

Thou in a lawn didst first

Those golden hairs incase,

Late spread unto the wind:

Thou mad'st loose grace unkind,

Gav'st bridle to their words, art to their pace.

Oh, HONOR, it is thou

That mak'st that stealth which Love doth free allow :

It is thy work that brings

Our griefs and torments thus,

But thou, fierce lord of nature and of love,

The qualifier of kings,

What dost thou hear with us,

That are below thy power, shut from above?
Go; and from us remove!

Trouble the mighty's sleep,

Let us neglected, base

Live still without thy grace,

And th' use of the ancient happy ages keep!
Let's love! the sun doth set and rise again,
But when as our short light

Comes once to set, it makes eternal night.

Drayton's poetry abounds in learned narrative and labored description; his language is free and perspicuous, and his imagery is elegant, but it wants depth of feeling. There is an air of romance about much of his poetry, but it does not pervade it; it is the play of fancy on the surface. Though his descriptions are striking and curious, they become tedious in his longer pieces. There is brilliancy and grace about his lighter pieces; they are "airy and sportive," full of fancy in its "creative playfulness,"

THE BARON'S WARS.

THE CASTLE.

Within the castle hath the queen devised
A chamber with choice rarities so fraught, *
As in the same she had imparadised,

Almost what man by industry hath sought;
Where with the curious pencil was comprised,
What could with colors by the art be wrought,
In the most sure place of the castle there,
Which she had named the Tower of Mortimer.
An orbal form with pillars small composed,
Which to the top-like parallels do bear,
Arching the compass where they were inclosed,
Fashioning the fair roof like the hemisphere,
In whose partitions by the lines disposed
All the clear northern asterims were,

In their corporeal shapes with stars inchased,
As by the old poets they in heaven were placed
About which lodgings, tow'rds the upper face,
Ran a fine bordure, circularly led,

As equal 'twixt the highest point and base,
That as a zone the waist ingirdled,

That lends the sight a breathing, or a space
'Twixt things near view, and those far overhead,
Under the which the painter's curious skill,
In lively forms the goodly room did fill.

Without the castle, in the earth is found
A cave, resembling sleepy Morpheus' cell,
In strange meanders winding under ground,
Where darkness seeks continually to dwell,
Which with such fear and horror doth abound,
As though it were an entrance into hell;

By architects to serve the castle made,
When as the Danes this island did invade.
Now on along the crankling path doth keep,
Then by a rock, turns up another way,
Rising tow'rds day, then falling tow'rds the deep