SONG.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,

By slow Meander's margent green,

And in the violet embroider'd yale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?

O, if thou have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,
Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of Parley, daughter of the sphere!
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies.

Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testify his hidden residence:

How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty vaulted night,
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smil'd! I have oft heard
My mother Circe, with the Sirens three,
Amidst the flow'ry-kirtled Naiades

Culling their potent herbs, and baleful drugs,
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul,

And lap it in Elysium; Scylla wept,

And chid her barking waves into attention,

And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft applause:

Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense,
And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself;
But such a sacred and home-felt delight,
Such sober certainty of waking bliss,

I never heard till now. I'll speak to her,

And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign wonder!
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed,
Unless the Goddess that in rural shrine

Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan, by blest song
Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog

To touch the prosp'rous growth of this tall wood.
Lady. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise
That is address'd to unattending ears;

Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift
How to regain my sever'd company,
Compell'd me to awake the courteous echo

To give me answer from her mossy couch.

[thus ?

Comus. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you
Lady. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth.
Comus. Could that divide you from near-ushering
guides?

Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf.
Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why?
Lady. To seek i' th' valley some cool friendly spring.
Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, lady?
Lady. They were but twain, and purpos'd quick re-

turn.

Comus. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit !:

Comus. Imports their loss, besides the present need? Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. Comus. Were they of manly prime, or youthful

bloom?

Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazor'd lips. Comus. Two such I saw, what time the labor'd ox In his loose traces from the furrow came, And theswink'd hedger at his supper sat; I saw them under a green mantling vine That crawls along the side of yon small hill, Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots; Their port was more than human, as they stood; I took it for a faéry vision

Of some gay creatures of the element,

That in the colors of the rainbow live,

And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was awe-struck,
And as I pass'd I worship'd; if those you seek,
It were a journey like the path to Heav'n,
To help you find them.

Lady. Gentle villager,

What readiest way would bring me to the place? Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. Lady. To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose, In such a scant allowance of star-light,

Would over-task the best land-pilot's art,

Without the sure guess of well practis'd feet.
Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green,
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood;
And if your stray-attendants be yet lodg'd,
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark
From her thatched pallet rouse; if otherwise
I can conduct you, lady, to a low

But loyal cottage, where you may be safe
Till further quest.

Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offer'd courtesy,
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds
With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls
And courts of princes, where it first was nam'd,
And yet is most pretended: in a place
Less warranted than this, or less secure,

I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial
To my proportion'd strength. Shepherd, lead on.

CHAPTER III.

THE contemporaries of Milton and his successors lived, indeed, in evil times for literature. Sir William Davenant received from Milton countenance and protection, when Cromwell's party was in power; and was most nobly repaid by Davenant when Charles II. came to the throne. Davenant was the admirer of Shakspeare, and acquainted with the bard of Avon, though only eleven years of age when he died. Davenant was one of those men who to live was obliged to submit to public feeling and taste; and to cater for it against the best dictates of his own judgment. Davenant was a man of versatile talents, and served his country, or rather his party, in divers capacities, as dramatist, diplomatist, and military chieftain: for his military services he was knighted. There are many fine sentiments in his works, which will be long remembered. The taste of the times made him degrade his

genius, and give up to the hour what was meant for future generations.

To these succeeded Cowley: he was born in 1618. It was Spenser's works that made him a poet, or rather which developed his talents for poetry. Cowley was precocious as a poet, having made some respectable verses at the age of fifteen. He was noticed by the leading politicians of that day; and was employed as secretary of Lord St. Albans, who was his kind patron for many years of his life. Cowley was learned and tasteful. His measure is accurate, and his rhyme easy and sweet. He was the most mellifluous of all the tuneful throng. He had something of the restlessness of the poet about him, and sighed for retirement and the charms of literary ease. This is a common feeling; the sensitive mind, wounded by real or imaginary ne glects and insults, longs for seclusion, and seems to dread the company of his fellow-beings; but deprive him of society for a few weeks, and he would make any sacrifices to get back to the world, bad as it is. Cowley wished to find quiet in the wilds of America ;—he might have found the greatest wilderness in a thronged city. In the thick forest man assimilates to every thing around him; in a city only to what he pleases, The longings of a poet are as capricious as the winds of April: his words are not be taken precisely as set down.

Dryden is a name far more familiar to us than any other of that age. He was born in 1631. He lived in a political and turbulent age, and naturally irritable, he partook of all the frailties of party spirit. He was a well educated man, having received his elementary information under that excellent, stern old pedagogue,