TIMES GO BY TURNS. The lopped tree in time may grow again; The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, Her time hath equal times to come and go, Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, A chance may win that by mischance was lost; LOSS IN DELAY. Shun delays, they breed remorse ; Take thy time while time is lent thee; Fly their fault lest thou repent thee. Hoist up sail while gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom's leisure. Time wears all his locks before, Take thy hold on his forehead; Often sought, scarce ever chancing. Crush the serpent in the head, Break ill eggs ere they be hatch'd; Kill bad chickens in the tread, Fledged, they hardly can be catch'd. In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will. Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Not by force but often falling Custom kills with feeble dint, More by use than strength and vailing. Single sands have little weight, Many make a drawing freight. Tender twigs are bent with ease, Aged trees do break with bending; Young desires make little prease1, Growth doth make them past amending Happy man, that soon doth knock Babel's babes against the rock! THE BURNING BABE. As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow, Alas! quoth He, but newly born in fiery heats of fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! FROM ST. PETER'S COMPLAINT.' Like solest swan, that swims in silent deep, Still in the 'lembic of thy doleful breast Those bitter fruits that from thy sins do grow; For fuel, self-accusing thoughts be best; Use fear as fire, the coals let penance blow; Come sorrowing tears, the offspring of my grief, By you my sinful debts must be defray'd: Come good effect of ill-deserving cause, Ill gotten imps, yet virtuously brought forth; Self-blaming probates of infringed laws, Yet blamèd faults redeeming with your worth; The signs of shame in you each eye may read, Yet, while you guilty prove, you pity plead. O beams of mercy! beat on sorrow's cloud, Pour suppling showers upon my parched ground; Bring forth the fruit to your due service vow'd, Let good desires with like deserts be crown'd: Water young blooming virtue's tender flow'r, Sin did all grace of riper growth devour. Weep balm and myrrh, you sweet Arabian trees, With purest gums perfume and pearl your rine; Shed on your honey-drops, you busy bees, I, barren plant, must weep unpleasant brine: If David, night by night, did bathe his bed, Who in her son her solace had foregone; If love, if loss, if fault, if spotted fame, If danger, death, if wrath, or wreck of weal, Entitle eyes true heirs to earned blame, That due remorse in such events conceal : That want of tears might well enrol my name, As chiefest saint in kalendar of shame. RALEIGH. [BORN 1552, executed 1618. No early collected edition of his poems exists; such as were printed at all appeared for the most part in the Miscellanies of the time.] Amongst all the restless, fervid, adventurous spirits of the Elizabethan age, perhaps there is none so conspicuous for those characteristics as Sir Walter Raleigh. A soldier from his youth; at an early period connected with the great maritime movements of his time; ever the foremost hater and antagonist of Spain and all its works; one of the first, if not the first, to fully conceive the idea of colonisation and to attempt to realise it, and at the same time taking an active-too active-part in the party intrigues and contentions of a court where the struggle for place and favour never ceased raging, yet amidst all his schemes and enterprises, noble and ignoble, finding leisure also for far other interests and pursuits; capable of a keen enjoyment of poetry; himself a poet of a true and genuine quality, he is in a singular degree the representative of the vigorous versatility of the Elizabethan period. His high imaginativeness is perceptible in the political conceptions and dreams which abounded in his busy brain. It can scarcely be doubted that, had his energies received a different direction, he would have won a distinguished place amongst the distinguished poets of his day. He whom Spenser styles 'the summer's nightingale' might have poured forth a full volume of song of rare strength and sweetness. But, as it was, he found little time for singing; the wonder is he found any—that one so cumbered about much serving did not become altogether of the world worldly, that so occupied with actualities he still was visited even transiently by visions of divine things. We are apt to pity his misfortunes; and yet it may be they were the blessings of his chequered life. His disgraces and confinements in the Tower would after all seem to have been the times |