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SIR WALTER RALEIGH was born at Hayes-Farm, near East Budeleigh, Devon, in 1552. In 1568, he entered at Oriel College, Oxford, and afterwards at the Middle Temple. But the times were such as to call for action rather than thought; the pursuits of Alma Mater, and the sober study of the law, were soon deserted; the genius of Raleigh eagerly sought and found a more accessible road to fame. He fought during six years, as a volunteer, under the Protestant banner, in France; subsequently served a campaign in the Netherlands; acquired reputation for skill and courage in Ireland, during the rebellion of 1580; and, on his return to England, obtained, “through a piece of gallantry," the favour of Queen Elizabeth, by whom he was knighted, and raised to high honours, "having gotten the Queen's ear in a trice," and alarmed the jealousy of the favourite, Leicester. Yet, "far from sucking in the luxuries and vanities of a court, while he enjoyed the smile of it, both his thoughts and his purse were employed in preparations to leave it for a very different course of life."

The various chances and changes of his eventful career-his attempt to colonize Virginia, his participation in the destruction of the "invincible" Armada, his expedition against Panama, his capture of San Joseph, his parliamentary conduct as knight of the shire for his native county, his co-operation in the taking of Cadiz, his share in "the Island Voyage," his serious or absurd contests with the Earl of Essex, his appointments to profitable places by the Queen, his disgrace under the reign of her successor, his trial and condemnation upon an ill-sustained charge of high treason, his imprisonment of fifteen wearisome years, his subsequent disastrous voyage to Guiana, his return, and his unjust execution, under his old and almost forgotten sentence-are matters at which we can but, in passing, glance. The mention of them supplies an outline of the full life of one who was distinguished as "the noble and valorous knight," a man of astonishing energy, who combined almost every variety of talent, whose acquirements in science were marvellous, whose heroic courage and indomitable perseverance are almost without parallel, whose enterprize was unchecked by difficulties and unchilled by failure, and who, while excelling in feats of arms and in strength of counsel, surpassed also in those arts which are the more exclusive produce of retirement and peace,-history, oratory, philosophy, politics, and poetry. His death took place on the 29th October, 1618.

Raleigh is described as always making a very elegant appearance, both in splendor of attire and politeness of address; as "having a good presence, a handsome and wellcompacted person, a strong natural wit and a better judgment, with a bold and plausible tongue, whereby he could set out his parts to the best advantage."

The poetical remains of Sir Walter Raleigh are few, but they suffice to show how greatly he could have excelled in this art of peace, had circumstances enabled him, and inclination prompted him, to devote to it the energies of his capacious mind. In his minor writings, as in his stupendous plans, he was original, bold, and adventurous; and although it is difficult, according to old Puttenham, "to find out and make public his doings" -many poems being attributed to him upon unsatisfactory evidencethere is proof enough in those which are undoubtedly his, to sustain a very high reputation. Spenser, his personal friend, speaking of his poetry, styles him "the summer nightingale," who was "Himself as skilful in that art as any."

Among other specimens, we have inserted one to which has been given the several titles of "the Lye," "the Soul's Errand," and "the Soul's Farewell." It is doubtful whether Raleigh was really the writer of it; it is, at least, certain that the tradition is erroneous which describes it as having been "penned down" by him on the night before his execution, as it was printed in Davison's "Poetical Rhapsodie" ten years previous to that event. Mr. Ellis assigns it to Joshua Sylvester, "until a more authorised claimant shall appear;" but it is so vastly superior to the known compositions of this author, that we are inclined to withhold from him the merit of having produced it, and prefer the authority of the collector of "Ancient Reliques," who assigns it to Raleigh, and surmises that it might have been written in 1603, after his condemnation, when he was in hourly anticipation of death. The poem is so transcendently vigorous, that we think few of his contemporaries could have produced it; the style, moreover, greatly resembles that of Raleigh, a blending of mature reflection, forcible thought, and striking metaphor.

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SWEET violets, Love's paradise, that spread

Your gracious odours, which you couched beare
Within your palie faces,

Upon the gentle wing of some calme breathing winde,
That playes amidst the plaine,

If by the favour of propitious starres you gaine
Such grace as in my ladie's bosome place to finde,

Be proud to touch those places!

And when her warmth your moysture forth doth weare, Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed,

Your honours of the flowrie meades I pray,

You pretty daughters of the earth and sunne, With milde and seemely breathing straite display

My bitter sighs, that have my hart undone!

Vermillion roses, that with new dayes rise,
Display your crimson folds fresh looking faire,
Whose radiant bright disgraces

The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne!
Ah, if her virgin's hand

Do pluck your purse, ere Phœbus view the land,
And vaile your gracious pompe in lovely Nature's scorne,
If chaunce my mistresse traces

Fast by your flowers to take the Sommer's ayre,
Then wofull blushing tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their teares, Adonis' death reporting,
And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend,
Whose drops of bloud, within your leaves consorting,
Report fair Venus' moanes to have no end!
Then may Remorse, in pittying of my smart,
Drie up my teares, and dwell within her hart!

THE SHEPHEARD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.

MELIEEUS.

SHEPHEARD, What's Love, I pray thee tell?

FAUSTUS.

It is that fountaine, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell:
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell,

That toules all into heaven or hell:
And this is Love, as I heard tell.

MELIBEUS.

Yet what is Love, I prethee say?

FAUSTUS.

It is a worke on holy-day,

It is December match'd with May,
When lustie bloods in fresh aray

Heare ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I heare say.

MELIBEUS.

Yet what is Love, good Shepheard saine?

FAUSTUS.

It is a sun-shine mixt with raine;
It is a tooth-ach; or like paine:
It is a game, where none doth gaine.

The lass saith no, and would full faine :
And this is Love, as I heare saine.

MELIBEUS.

Yet, Shepheard, what is Love, I pray?

FAUSTUS.

It is a yea, it is a nay,

A pretty kind of sporting fray,

It is a thing will soone away;

Then Nimphs take 'vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I heare say.

MELIBEUS,

Yet what is Love, good Shepheard show?

FAUSTUS.

A thing that creepes, it cannot goe;
A prize that passeth to and fro,

A thing for one, a thing for moe,

And he that prooves shall find it so,
And, Shepheard, this is Love I trow.

THE SILENT LOVER.

PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streames; The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb. So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come : They that are rich in words must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistresse of my heart,
The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion!

Since, if my plaints were not t' approve
The conquest of thy beautie,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my dutie.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A sainte of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want reliefe
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the griefe,
Despaire disdains the healing!

Thus those desires that boil so high

In

any mortal lover,

When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaintes that I should utter,
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a Suitor.

Silence in Love bewrays more woe
Than words, though nere so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pitty!

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion!

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