versification, and there is one song of his so
charming that it appears in almost every collection
of merit, from Campbell's "Beauties"
downwards.*

*The latest collection of English Songs is that published
in the National Illustrated Library, which is very generally
accessible, on account of its cheapness.

"Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

"Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung,
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have un-commended died.

"Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

"Then, die! that she,
The common fate of all things rare,
May read in thee—
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wond'rous sweet and fair."

Herrick has signalised himself by the finest
"Anacreontic " in our language. I mean the
one beginning,

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying,
And the same flower that blooms to day,
To-morrow will be dying."

Here is a pretty love conceit.

"TO ELECTKA.
"I dare not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that or this,
I might grow proud the while.

"No, no! the utmost share
Of my desire shall be,
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissed thee!"

The most remarkable instances of the
wonderful adroitness of his fancy are found in his
little poem on Fairies. His fancy was redundant;
he speaks of a "coy girl," who he says

"Strings my tears as pearl."

Herrick's "Hesperides " came out in 1648.
There is a freshness about his strains which
carries one back to the Shakspearean days.
In his views of scenery, in his dalliance with
flowers and love thoughts, his truthful poetry
alternates between the dashing wit of
"Mermaid" talk and the bright freshness of the
country.

I scarcely know whether the following lines
can be said to constitute "a song." I extract
them from that part of the "Hesperides"
winch is devoted to religious subjects. The
original edition of 1648, with its quaint type
and spelling, and its dedication to Prince
Charles (Herrick was a Royalist), is before
me.

"THE ROSE.

"Before Man's fall, the Rose was born
(St. Ambrose says) without the thorn;
But for man's fault, then was the thorn
Without the fragrant rose-bud born;
But ne'er the rose without the thorn."

I pass by the songs, which we all know, of
the great intellect of the century; the song
which calls "Echo" from the haunts of the
"love-lorn nightingale," &c.; the song which
summons "Sabrina fair" from the "glassy,
cool, translucent wave," wherein she shall be
seen for ever. No one needs now to be told
of them.

Dryden has not left us a good song in all
his family of volumes. His songs are of the
Sham-Pastoral School. Here is a very
characteristic one by Sir John Suckling, the
convivial, sincere, and stanch royalist, who
raised a troop of horse for the King at his own
expense. It represents very well the tone of
his school—easy, flippant—not ungentlemanly,
but not very exalted.

"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prythee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If, of herself, she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her!"

While Suckling and Dryden wrote, translations
from the classics had been going on.
Most gentlemen of literary tastes tried their
hands at turning out versions of Anacreon,
Horace, or Catullus. "Coclia" and "Chloris"
are the prevailing names of the period. And
there is always visible the tendency to make
wit take the place of heart, which corrupts
all writing, and that of songs particularly.

This tendency advanced. In Congreve, the
song became a mere epigram. Parnell
hammered away at "Coelia" and "Anacreontics."
The songs of Anne's time were not inspired
melodies, like the old Shakspearean ones; nor
deep fantastic love-rhymes, like Donne's and
Cowley's; nor gay Pagan flights of
Epicureanism, like the songs of the Cavalier days.
They were wretched pieces of rhymed artificial
sentiment. Gay's are witty enough, and his
"Black-eyed Susan" has nature in it, as
Gay himself had; but is an exception to his
fellows. I doubt if that time produced a