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A Description of the Country's Recreations.
QUIVERING Fears, heart-tearing Cares,
Fly, fly to courts !
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where mirth's but mummery,
Fly from our country pastimes ! fly,
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the chrystal brooks, Or the
azur'd heaven, that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty !
Peace and a secure mind,
Abused mortals ! did
know Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,
And seek them in these bowers Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may
shake, But blustering care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance,
Nor wars are seen,
green Two harmless lambs are butting one the other; Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother;
And wounds are never found,
Go, let the diving negro seek
We all pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morn
And gold ne'er here appears,
Blest, silent groves ! O may ye be
May pure Contents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these
mountains, And Peace still slumber by these purling fountains,
Which we may every year
Tears at the grave of Sir Albertus Morton, who was
buried at Southampton, wept by Sir H. Wotton.
SILENCE, in truth, would speak my sorrow best,
For deepest wounds can least their feelings tell: Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest
But time to bid him whom I lov'd farewell!
Oh my unhappy lines ! you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries, And now, congeald with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent, -Here my Albertus lies!
This is the sable stone, this is the cave
These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.
Here will I paint the characters of wo,
Here will I pay my tribute to the dead ; And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,
To humanize the flints whereon I tread:
Where, though I mourn my matchless loss alone,
And none between my weakness judge and me; Yet e'en these pensive walls allow my.moan,
Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree.
But is he gone? and live I rhyming here
As if some Muse would listen to my lay, When all distuu'd sit waiting for their dear, And bathe the banks where he was wont to
Dwell thou in endless light, discharged Soul,
And run the rest of my remaining dust.
Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife.
He first deceas'd; she for a little tried
SIR JOHN DAVIS,
The son of a wealthy tanner at Chisgrove, in Wiltshire, was
born about 1570, and in 1585 entered a commoner at Queen's-College, Oxford. Having taken a degree, he removed to the Middle Temple; but was expelled, says Wood, for that“ he being a high-spirited young man, did, upon some “ slight provocation or punctilio, bastinado Rich. Martin “ (afterward recorder of London) in the common-hall, “ while he was at dinner.” He then retired to Oxford, and composed his “ Nosce Teipsum.” Being restored by the favour of the lord keeper Ellesmere, he practised as a barrister; was elected a burgess in Parliament in 1601; and, after the death of Elizabeth, was successively promoted by King James to the offices of solicitor and attorney-general, of serjeant at law, and king's serjeant in Ireland, and in 1626 was appointed chief justice of the King's Bench in England; but died before he could enter upon the duties
of this office. His poem on the Immortality of the Soul is a noble monu
ment of his learning, acuteness, command of language, and facility of versification. His similies (as Mrs. Cooper and Mr. Headley have justly observed) are singularly happy ; always enlivening, and often illustrating his abstruse and difficult subject : but while we admire his wit and in. genuity, we sometimes regret the more indefinite but sub
limer conceptions of his model, Lucretius. Besides the “ Nosce Teipsum,” he composed “ Orchestra,”
a poem on Dancing; and twenty-six“ Acrosticke Hymnes" on the words Elisabetha Regina, one of which is here given. They are probably the best acrostics ever written, VOL. II.