*

So old she was, that she ne went
A foot, but it were by potent:
But natheless I trow that she
Was fair sometime and fresh to see,
When she was in her rightful age,
But she was passed all that passage,
And was a doting thing becomen.
A furred cap on had she nomen ; †
Well had she clad herself and warm,
For cold might else doen her harm.
And alder last of every one
Was painted Poverty all alone;
That not one penny had in hold,
Although that she her clothes sold,
And though she should an hanged be,
For naked as a worm was she :
And if the weather stormy were,
For cold she should have died there.
She ne had on, but a strait old sack,
And many a clout on it there stack;
This was ber coat and her muntel,
No more was there never a dele §
To cloth her with ; I undertake
Great lesor hadde she to quake:
And she was put, that I of talk,
Far from these others, up in a halk ; ¶
There lurked and there coured ** she,
For pover thing whereso it be,

Is shamefaced and despised aye.

One more image which is excellent, and even superior to the Revenge of Sackville :

A crutch. Participle passive of nime, to take. Last of all. Never so little. | Great cause. A corner. ** Crouched. Malice. †† A religious order -A Nun ‡‡ A scold. §§ Mad.

=

G

Y-frounced foul was her visage,
And grinning for dispiteons rage;
Her nose y-snorted up for tenc, t
Full hideous was she for to seen:
Full foul and rusty was she this,
Her head y-writhen was I wis,
Full grimly with a great towel.

If however, Sackville was indebted to Chaucer, he, in his turn has conferred obligations upon several suc-, eeeding Poets. Instances of these will occur to every poetical student; but the limits of the present compilation forbid their insertion.

A Midnight Scene; from the Legend of Buckingham.

Midnight was come, and every vital thing

With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest,
The beasts were still, the little birds that sing,
Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast:
The old and young were shrouded in their nest.
The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease,
The woods, the fields, and all things held their peace.

The golden stars were whirled amid their race,
And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light, §
When each thing, nestled in his resting place,
Forgot day's pains with pleasure of the night:
The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight,
The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt,
The partridge dreamed not of the falcon's foot.

* Wrinkled. + Grief; any violent affection of the mind. + Enwrathed.

§ And firey Phoebus riseth up so bright,
That all the orient laugheth at the sight.

CHAUCER

The ugly bear now mindeth not the stake,

Nor how the cruel mastiffs do him tear;
The stag lay still unroused from the brake;
The foamy boar feared not the hunter's spear;
All thing was still, in desert, bush, and brear.
With quiet heart, now from their travels rest,
Soundly they sleep, in midst of all their rest.

These are very fine stanzas, but they want originality. The original must be sought in the Eneid of Virgil.

"Nox erat, et placidum carpebant fessa soporem

Corpora per terras, silvæque et sæva quierant
Æquora; cùm medio volvuntur sidera lapsu ;
Cùm tacet omnis ager; pecudes, pictœque volucres,
Quæque lacus late liquidos, quæque aspera dumis
Rura tenent, somno posite sub nocte silenti
Lenibant curas, et corda oblita laborum."

(Lib. IV. 523.)

This passage is not only poetical in itself, but has perhaps, in an especial manner, been the cause, as Falstaff would say, of poetry in others. Besides our author and his predecessor Surrey, both Ariosto and Tasso have made free with it. The imitation in the latter is so close, that a translation of it will serve a double purpose, and give the unlearned reader a very clear conception of the original.

""Twas night; the breathing winds, the waters cease, And through the still creation all is peace,

Each being that has life, the scaly train

That skim the rivers or the boundless main,

The beasts that roam in herds, or far from men,

Tenant in trackless wilds their lonely den,

Wrapt in the arms of sweet oblivion lie;

The feathered tribes, the wanderers of the sky,

Beneath the silence of the secret gloom

Close their light wings, and fold their painted plume;

All sought repose, with daily toil oppressed,

They eased their wearied hearts, and steeped their cares in

rest."

The passage in Tasso, of which this is a translation, was written at a period somewhat later than the above imitation by Sackville.

"Alas! so all things now do hold their peace!

Heaven and earth disturbing in nothing;

The beasts do sleep, the birds their songs do cease,

The nightis chair the stars about doth bring.
Calm is the sea; the waves work less and less."
"No dreams do drench them of the night
Of foes, that would them slay or bite;
As hounds to hunt them at the tail;
Or men force them through hill and dale:
The sheep then dreams not of the wolf;
The shipman forces not the gulf;
The lamb thinks not the butcher's knife
Should then bereave him of his life."

"The heaven shews lively art and hue,
Of sundry shapes, and colouis new,
And laughs upon the earth-

"And tell in songs full merrily,

How they have slept full quietly,

That night, about their mother's sides,

And when they have sung more besides,

Then fall they to their mother's breast." SURREY,

It is evident from numerous passages in his poems, that Sackville had studied the writings of his noble predecessor with much assiduity, and had formed his poetic style from that of Surrey. In the above instance he has certainly extended this licence too far, and may fairly be taxed with plagiarism.

It is but justice to our poet to remark, that the three last extracts are taken from a poem inserted by Dr. Nott in his late edition of the works of Surrey, for the first time, and claimed by him for that author. This claim has been made upon slight grounds, and has been disputed by a writer in the Edinburgh Review. It was first printed among a collection by uncertain authors. The reviewer is inclined to give it to Lord Vaux. May it not have been written by Sackville himself, many of whose poems produced, as Wood assures us, in early life, have been lost, or remain u.claimed?

Well

The Restlessness of Guilt; from the same.
gave that judge his doom upon the death
Of Titus Clelius, that in bed was slain:
When every wight the cruel murder layeth

To his two sons, that in his chamber layen:
The judge, that by the proof perceived plain
That they were found fast sleeping in their bed,
Hath deemed them guiltless of that blood y-shed.
He thought it could not be, that they which brake
The laws of God and man in such outrage,
Could so forthwith themselves to sleep betake:
He rather thought the horror and the rage
Of such an heinous guilt, could never swage;
Nor ever suffer them to sleep or rest,

Or dreadless breathe one breath out of their breast.

So gnaws the grief of conscience evermore,
And in the heart it is so deep y-grave,

That they may neither sleep nor rest therefore,
Nor think one thought, but on the dread they have.
Still to the death fortossed with the wave

Of restless woe, in terror and despair,
They lead a life continually in fear.

Like to the deer that stricken with a dart,
Withdraws himself into some secret place,*
And feeling green the wound about his heart,
Startles with pangs 'till he fall on the grass,
And in great fear lies gasping there a space;
Forth braying sighs, as though each pang had brought
The present death, which he doth dread so oft.

* Then as the stricken deer withdraws himself alone,
So I do seek some secret place, where I may make my moan.

SURREY.