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Marlowe, his covenant with the prince of darkness expiring at twelve o'clock.
(The clock strikes eleven.)
(Attempts to pray.)
(The clock chines the half hour.)
(The clock strikes twelve.
O soul! be chang'd into small water-drops,
(Thunder.) Enter the DEVILS.
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;
Go, since I needs must die,
“Go, tell the Court it glows,
And shines like painted wood;
If Court and Church reply,
« Tell Potentates, they live
Acting, but Oh! their actions
If Potentates reply,
66 Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
If Arts and Schools reply,
66 Tell Faith it's fed the city;
Tell how the Country erreth ;
And if they do reply,
"So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,
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;
While uohappy captiv'd we,
" They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast
Would have a song carv'd to their ears
Come, they cry'd, come sing and play,
“Sing! play! to whom, ah! shall we sing or play,
If not, Jerusalem, to thee?
Of music's dainty touch, than I
66 Which when I lose. O may at once my tongué
Lose this same busy speaking art,
On my dry pallet's roof to rest
"No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crown
The head of all my hope-nurst joys !
Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,
“Do'st laugh ? proud Babel's daughter! do, laugh on,
'Till thý ruin teach theě tears,
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.
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