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Tell physic of her boldness,

Tell skill it is pretension,
Tell charity of coldness,
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,

So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of the blindness,
Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship of unkindness

Tell justice of delay.

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming,

Tell schools they want profoundness
And stand too much on seeming,

If arts and schools reply,

Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city,

Tell how the country erreth,
Tell, manhood shakes off pity,
Tell, virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So then thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done babbling:
Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing;

Yet stab at thee who will

No stab the soul can kill.

RICHARD BARNFIELD was the author of a volume of poems of very unequal merit, published between 1594 and 1598. Among these poems, however, is found the following Address to the Nightingale, which is of so rare excellence, that it was, for a long time, ascribed to Shakspeare.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day,

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made;

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the Nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn;

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,

That to hear it was great pity.

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by;

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That, to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! (thought I,) thou mourn'st in vain;
None takes pity in thy pain:

Senseless trees they can not hear thee,

Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee:

King Pandion he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;

All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing!
While as fickle Fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd.
Every one that flatters thee

Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find.

Every man will be thy friend

While thou hast wherewith to spend:
But, if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such like flattering,
'Pity but he were a king.'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep,
If thou wake he can not sleep:
Thus, of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know,
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

It must be remembered, that this was the age when collections of fugitive and miscellaneous poems first became common in England. Several volumes of this kind, published in the reign of Elizabeth, contain poems of high merit without any author's name attached to them; and, therefore, it is not remarkable that the last two poems introduced, should have been so long attributed to Raleigh and Shakspeare.

The miscellaneous poets of the reign of Elizabeth thus far noticed, bring us down to Spenser, whose genius is one of the peculiar glories of that romantic age.

EDMUND SPENSER was of an ancient though poor family, and was bor in the city of London, in 1553. From the circumstances of his parents it i.

difficult to conjecture how he obtained his preparation for admission into the university; but it is certain that in May, 1569, he entered Pembroke College, Cambridge, as a charity student, and there continued until 1576, when he took his master's degree. His design evidently was to remain permanently attached to the university, and with this view, immediately after he was graduated, he made every effort that his limited resources would permit, to obtain a fellowship. But having neither friends nor influential patrons to make interest for him, he was disappointed in this important object, in consequence of which he accepted an invitation from some distant relatives in the north of England, to take up his residence with them until his future prospects should, in some degree, become determined.

While residing in the North, Spenser formed an attachment for a young lady whom he designates as Rosalind, and whose attractive beauty and graces first inspired his muse. To win her favor he composed his Shepherd's Calender, a pastoral poem, in twelve eclogues, one for each month, but without strict keeping as to natural description and rustic character, and deformed by a number of obsolete uncouth phrases; yet containing traces of a superior original genius. The fable of the Oak and Brier is finely told; and in verses like the following we see the germ of that tuneful harmony and pensive reflection in which the author afterward so remarkably excelled:

You naked buds, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,
And now are clothed with moss and hoary frost,
Instead of blossoms wherewith your buds did flower:
I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,
Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.

All so my lustful life is dry and sere,

My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;
The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,
With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted,
And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,
As on your boughs the icicles depend.

The fair Rosalind, however, preferred a less poetical rival, and Spenser soon after left the country and repaired to London, there to seek his fortune in the midst of the more busy scenes of life. To this step he was induced by Gabriel Harvey, a fellow-student at Cambridge, and by whom he was introduced to Sir Philip Sidney, 'one of the very diamonds of her majesty's court.' Sir Philip being himself a man of wit and polite accomplishments, immediately became sensible of Spenser's merit, and so long as that nobleman remained at court, the poet never wanted a judicious friend, nor a generous patron. In gratitude for Sidney's kindness, Spenser now revised and published the 'Shepherd's Calender,' with an appropriate dedication to him.

The 'Shepherd's Calender' appeared in 1579, and such was its popularity that even royalty itself smiled upon its author, and Spenser was raised to

the Laureate. This, however, he soon found to be but an empty honor, and he was accordingly left, for some years, to pine over his penury and neglect, though in constant attendance at court. While thus circumstanced he composed and published Mother Hubbard's Tale, which appeared in 1581, and which contains the following picture of the aggravations attending the life of disappointment and mortification which he then led :

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried,
What hell it is in suing long to bide;

To lose good days that might be better spent;
To waste long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers';
To have thy asking, yet wait many years;
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to wait, to be undone !

Spenser was, however, during this period, occasionally employed or inferior state missions, and thus his immediate necessities were supplied; but at length he received an important and lucrative appointment. Lord Grey of Wilton was sent to Ireland as lord-deputy, and Spenser accompanied him in the capacity of secretary. They remained in that country two years, when the deputy was recalled, and the poet also returned to England. In June, 1586, Spenser obtained, from the crown, three thousand and twentyeight acres in the county of Cork, out of the forfeited lands of the Earl of Desmond. One of the conditions of the grant was, that the poet should reside upon his estate, and he accordingly repaired to Ireland, and took up his abode in Kilcolman Castle, near Doneraile, which had been one of the ancient strongholds of the Earl of Desmond. Spenser's castle stood in the midst of a large plain, by the side of a lake; the river Mulla ran through his grounds, and a chain of mountains at a distance seemed to bulwark in the romantic retreat. To this castle he introduced, soon after it was repaired, the 'Elizabeth' of his sonnets, as its future mistress, and welcomed her with that noble strain of pure and fervent passion, which he has styled the Epithalamium, and which forms the most magnificent 'spousal verse' in the language. The following passages from this gem of poetry, show that the poem itself needs no farther comment:

Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time;
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed,

All ready to her silver coach to climb;

And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.

Hark! now the cheerful birds do chant their lays,
And carol of Love's praise.

The merry lark her matins sings aloft;

The thrush replies; the marvis descant plays;

The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft;

So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,

To this day's merriment.

Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long,
When meeter were that you should now awake,
T'await the coming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds' love-learned song,
The dewy leaves among!

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

My love is now awake out of her dream,

And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were

With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Help quickly her to dight;

But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot,
In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night;
Which do the seasons of the year allot,
And all, that ever in this world is fair,

Do make and still repair;

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,
The which do still adorn her beauties' pride,

Help to adorn my beautifullest bride:

And, as ye her array, still throw between

Some graces to be seen;

And as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.

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Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She cometh in, before the Almighty's view:

Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,

To humble your proud faces:

Bring her up to the high altar, that she may,
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in lively notes;

The whiles, with hollow throats,

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

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That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.

Behold, while she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain;

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