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Marlowe, his covenant with the prince of darkness expiring at twelve o'clock.

(The clock strikes eleven.)

FAUSTUS, solus.
Ob ! Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damped perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight oever come.
Fair Nature's eye! rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day! or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repeat and save his soul,
O lentè, lentè, currite poctis equi!
The stars move still-time runs--the clock will strike,
The devil will come and Faustus must be damned.
Oh! I'll leap up to heaven !who pulls me down?

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament.
One drop will save me. Oh! my Christ!

(Attempts to pray.)
Rend not my heart for daming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him-Oh! spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'tis gone! and see
A threat'ning arm, an angry brow!
Mountains and hills! come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! No
Then will I headlong run into the earth :
Gape, earth! Oh no, it will not barbour me.
You stars that reign'd at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon lab’ring cloud.

(The clock chines the half hour.)
Oh! half the hour is past, 'twill all be past anon.-
Oh ! if my soul must suffer for my sins,
Impose some end to my incessant pain !
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years
A hundred thousand and at last be sav'd,
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature waptiog soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Curs'd be the parents that engendered me-
No, Faustus! curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That bath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven,

(The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes ! it strikes ! Now body! turn to air
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell,

O soul! be chang'd into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean-ne'er be found.

(Thunder.) Enter the DEVILS.
Oh! mercy, heav'n, look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer !
I'll burn my books! oh, Mephostophilis ! [Exeunt.

What must be thought of the state of the public taste, when such writers as Marlowe were neglected for Colley Cibber and Aaron Hill ?

The poems of Sir Walter Raleigh succeed the selection from Marlowe, and of these we shall select one equally singular and beautiful. It is called the “Soul's Farewell," and there is a tradition that it was written by Raleigh just before his death, and in the immediate contemplation of that event. It has been shewn, however, that it was in existence more than twenty years before. But the legend,” to use the words of Mr. Campbell, “is so highly interesting to the fancy,” that we cannot help wishing it true, and are half angry with those careful enquirers who come with their facts and dates to call us from the bright regions of romance into the sober walk of history.


“Go, Sout, the Body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.

Go, since I needs must die,
And give them all the lie.

“Go, tell the Court it glows,

And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good, but does no good.

If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.

« Tell Potentates, they live

Acting, but Oh! their actions
Not lov'd, unless they give;
Nor strong, but by their factions.

If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.

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66 Tell Arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming;
Tell Schools they lack profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:

If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.

66 Tell Faith it's fed 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, when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing ;

Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the Soul can kill !”

The next place in the work is devoted to Crashaw, whom Milton imitated, and from whom he borrowed some of his best images, and then declared the author unworthy of notice. We have only room to extract his translation of the 137th Psalm, which, as the present editor observes, is remarkably fine.

“On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,

There we sat, and there we wept;
Our harps that now no music understood,
Nodding on the willows slept,

While uohappy captiv'd we,
Lovely Sion! thought on thee.

" They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast

Would have a song carv'd to their ears
In Hebrew numbers, then, O cruel jest!
When harps and hearts were drown'd in tears:

Come, they cry'd, come sing and play,
One of Sion's songs to-day.

“Sing! play! to whom, ah! shall we sing or play,

If not, Jerusalem, to thee?
Ah, thee, Jerusalem ! ah! sooner may
This hand forget the mastery

Of music's dainty touch, than I
The music of thy memory!

66 Which when I lose. O may at once my tongué

Lose this same busy speaking art,
Uoperch'd, her vocal arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my heart,

On my dry pallet's roof to rest
Ą wither'a Icaf, an idle gücst!

"No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crown

The head of all my hope-nurst joys !
But, Edom, cruel thou! thou cry'dst down, down
Sink Sion; downi, and never rise;

Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,
Aod haste to dash her into dust!

“Do'st laugh ? proud Babel's daughter! do, laugh on,

'Till thý ruin teach theě tears,
Even such as these ; laugb, till a venging throng
Of woes too laté do rouse thy fears.

Laugh till thy children's bleeding bones

Weep precious tears upon the stones!" Chapman is the last author who contributes to the present compilation, and we are presented with his continuation of Hero and Leander, and some selections from his translation of Homer. Our limits will not allow an extract, which we the less regrét, as we can heartily recommend to our readers not to be satisfied with our report of the present volume, but to read it for themselves; and, if they are lovers of poetry, they will not repent of this disposition of a portion of their time. The selections from each author are preceded by a short biographical sketch, and the work altogether exhibits evident marks of industry, information, and taste.


Prose; by a Poet.

2 vols. 12mo. pp. 579.

and Co.


The present may be called the age of Essay writing; not indeed from its invention, but its universality: and never, perhaps, since the days of the Spectator, has this department of literature been cultivated with more zeal and talent, than at the present moment. Never has an 'opinion been more completely substantiated by subsequent events, than that of the wisest of men, when he said of the making of books there shall be no end." Like the shedding of acorns by an oak, the publication of books, seems but to multiply volumes. The

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