We die,

As your hours do, and dry
Away,

Like to the Summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of Morning's dew
Ne'er to be found again.

Page 144.

The cultivation of DESCRIPTIVE Poetry had, during the prior half of the seventeenth century, been much circumscribed, by a growing fondness for metaphysical imagery and conceits. What Donne had introduced, Cowley and Clieveland established as a fashion, and the eighteenth century had dawned, before this unnatural mode of composition ceased to acquire admirers. Some illustrious examples, however, were not wanting before the year 1650, which evince a very accurate and tasteful conception of rural and picturesque scenery. Burton, about 1600, prefixed to his " Anatomy of Melancholy" some admirably descriptive verses, under the title of the Abstract of Melancholy, and which are supposed to have given rise to the still more exquisite poems, in a similar measure, by the author of Paradise Lost. In 1613 and 1627 were published the Poly

olbion and the Nymphidia of Drayton; in 1616 the Pastorals of Browne, and, above all, in 1645, the Il Penseroso and L'Allegro of Milton.

Compared with these masterly productions, the descriptive pieces scattered through the Hesperides of Herrick, may appear to deserve little notice. They are, however, not only immediately subsequent in the order of time, but are possessed of no small portion of merit. They may be divided into those which describe the pleasures and em ployments of rural life, or delineate the imaginary sports and occupations of the fairy tribe, or the more formidable orgies of witch craft.

The felicity of rural life hath ever been a favourite topic with poets of every age, and it is consequently a task of much difficulty to avoid what may be termed hereditary imagery. In the following poem Herrick nay certainly be traced in the snow both of Virgil and Horace, yet a considerable portion. remains, which may justly be ascribed to the genius and observation of the English poet..

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Sweet Country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others, not their own!
But serving Courts, and Cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plow'st the Ocean's foam
To seek, and bring rough pepper home:
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove

To bring from thence the scorched Clove.
Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the Ingot from the West.
No, thy Ambition's Master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece:
Or how to pay thy Hinds, and clear
All scores; and so to end the year:

But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others larger grounds:

For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of Land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the Cock, the Plowman's Horn;
Calls forth the lilly-wristed Morn;
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,

Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know,
That the best compost for the Lands
Is the wise Master's Feet and Hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a Hind whistling there to them;

And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The Kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to the enamel'd meads
Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,
Thou see'st a present God-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower:
And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large sleek Neat
Unto the Dew-laps up in meat:

And, as thou look'st, the wanton Steer,
The Heifer, Cow and Ox draw near
To make a pleasing pastime there.

These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the Wolf and Fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool.
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.

For Sports, for Pageantry, and Plays,
Thou hast thy Eves, and Holydays:
On which the young men and maids meet,
To exercise their dancing feet:

Tripping the comely country round,
With daffadills and daisies crown'd.

Thy Wakes, thy Quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles too with garlands grac❜d;
Thy Morris-dance; thy Whitsun-ale;
Thy Shearing-feast, which never fail.
Thy Harvest-home; thy Wassail bowl,
That's tost up after Fox i' th' Hole.

}

Thy Mummeries; thy Twelfe-tide Kings
And Queens; thy Christmas revellings:
Thy Nut-brown mirth; thy Russet wit;
And no man pays too dear for it.

To these, thou hast thy times to go
And trace the Hare i' th' treacherous show:
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net:
Thou hast thy Cockrood, and thy Glade
To take the precious pheasant made:
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life! if that their good.
The Husbandmen but understood!
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these.
And, lying down, have nought t'affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
Page 269.

To this specimen might be added many more of similar merit, under the title of Harvest Home, The Wake, The Wassail, &c. &c. and which display a very curious list of the sports and pastimes of our ancestors.

That species of poetry which is employed in painting the imaginary existence and manners of fairies, elves and goblins, and which

VOL. III.