Richard Alison.

Little is known of Alison. He published in 1590 "A Plaine Confutation of a Treatise of Brownism, entitled 'A Description of the Visible Church;'" and, in 1606, "An Houre's Recreation in Musicke, apt for Instruments and Voyces;" from which the following little poems are taken.

HOPE.

FROM AN HOURE'S RECREATION IN MUSICKE."

In hope a king doth go to war,
In hope a lover lives full long;
In hope a merchant sails full far,

In hope just men do suffer wrong;
In hope the ploughman sows his seed:
Thus hope helps thousands at their need.
Then faint not, heart, among the rest;
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.

CHERRY-RIPE.

There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,

Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Robert Southwell.

The reign of Elizabeth includes, among other signs of the times, the hanging of a poet of rare purity and spir ituality for his devotion to the Roman Catholic religion. Robert Southwell (1560-1595) was born near Norwich, England. He was educated at Paris for two years before he went to Rome, and was received, at the age of seven

teen, into the order of Jesuits. From Rome he was sent as a missionary to England, and was attached to the household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who perished in the Tower. Southwell shared the fate of all priests who could be found and seized at that time in England. In 1592 he was sent to prison, and during three years was subjected to the tortures of the rack no less than ten times. At length, in 1595, the Court of King's Bench condemned him as being a Catholic priest; he was drawn to Tyburn on a hurdle, was hanged, and had his heart burnt in sight of the people. A good man and a noble, of gentle disposition and blameless life, his fate reflects deepest infamy on his brutal and heartless persecutors. Southwell exhibits a literary culture far above that of some poets of larger fame, and, as he was only thirtyfive at the time of his execution, he probably had not reached the maturity of his powers.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

Love mistress is of many minds,

But few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.

She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil, Pretending good in ill;

She offereth joy, but bringeth grief, A kiss, where she doth kill.

Her watery eyes have burning force, Her floods and flames conspire; Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are, And sighs but fan the fire.

A honey shower rains from her lips, Sweet lights shine in her face; She hath the blush of virgin mind, The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find; To find, but naught enjoy;

In many frowns, some passing smiles She yields to more annoy.

She letteth fall some luring baits,
For fools to gather up;

Now sweet, now sour, for every taste
She tempereth her cup.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The loppéd tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; Times go by turns and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her time hath equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, Nor hap so hard but may in time amend.

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,
No endless night yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The well that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crossed, Few all they need, but none have all they wish;

Unmeddled' joys here to no man befall,

Who least hath some, who most have never all.

1 Unmixed joys.

LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.

Were I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven in honor of my Love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were
done.

Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you,
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

Michael Drayton.

Drayton (circa 1563-1631) was of humble parentage, and from his earliest years showed a taste for poetry. He is one of the most voluminous of the rhyming tribe. Pope somewhere speaks of "a very mediocre poet, one Drayton." The slight is undeserved. Drayton's works extend to above one hundred thousand verses. The work on which his fame rested in his own day is the 'Polyolbion," a minute chorographical description of England and Wales. Most of his principal pieces were published before he was thirty years of age. His spirit

ed "Ballad of Agincourt" has been the model for many similar productions; and there is much playful grace in the fairy fancies of "Nymphidia." May not Drake have taken a hint from it in his "Culprit Fay ?"

A PARTING.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part:
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so clearly I myself can free.
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,-

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.
Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But, putting to the main,
At Kause, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry;

And, taking many a fort
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched towards Agincourt
In happy hour;

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way, Where the French General lay

With all his power,

Which, in his height of pride

King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the King sending;

Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And, turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazéd;

Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me:
Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain:
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell:

No less our skill is Than when our Grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear,

A braver man not there:

O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone:
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan;
To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm, suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather:

None from his fellow starts, But, playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy:

Arms were from shoulder sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went:
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding
As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound rent
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous Eugland stood

With his brave brother Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet, in that furious fight,

Scarce such another!

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford, the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still, as they ran up:

Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby

Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry :-

Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

Christopher Marlowe.

Marlowe (1564-1593) ranks among the most eminent of the Elizabethan dramatists. He was the son of a shoemaker in Canterbury. After graduating at Cambridge, he became a writer for the stage and an actor. In 1587, he was known as the author of "Tamburlaine the Great." Other plays followed; and for a time Marlowe and Shakspeare were competitors. This splendid rivalry, and all it might have led to, was, however, cut short in 1593, when Marlowe, still not thirty years of age, received a stab in a brawl in some inn at Deptford, and died from its effects. The pastoral song, to which a reply, supposed to be by Raleigh, was written, is among the few specimens we have of Marlowe's non-dramatic verse. In some versions of it the following stanza (coming next before the last) is contained; but it is believed to have been inserted by Izaak Walton, and presents a very unshepherd-like image:

"Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,

Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared cach day for thee and me."

Yet will I call on HIM!-Oh spare me, Lucifer!—
Where is it now?-Tis gone:

And see a threatening 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 harbor me.
Ye stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud;
That, when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.
The watch strikes.

Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon.
Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pain:
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved:
No end is limited to damnéd souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or, why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh! Pythagoras,- Metempsychosis!· were

true,

that

And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me and be my love.

ANSWER TO THE SAME.1 If all the world and Love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,

1 Archbishop Trench is of opinion that the evidence which ascribes this to Raleigh is insufficient.