P. 40, No. xliii.--It would be difficult not to think that we had here the undeveloped germ of _Il Penseroso_ of Milton, if this were not shown to be impossible by the fact that Milton’s poem was published two years previously to this. P. 41, No. xliv.--Hallam thinks that Southwell has been of late praised at least as much as he deserves. This may be so, yet taking into account the finished beauty of such poems as this and No. 1. of this collection, poems which, as far as they go, leave nothing to be desired, he has scarcely been praised _more_ than he deserves. How in earlier times he was rated the fact that there were twenty-four editions of his poems will sufficiently testify; though possibly the creed which he professed, and the death which he died, may have had something to do with this. Robert Southwell was a seminary priest, and was executed at Tyburn in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, in conformity with a law, which even the persistent plottings of too many of these at once against the life of the Sovereign and the life of the State must altogether fail to justify or excuse. P. 44, No. xlvi.--The judgment of one great poet on another his contemporary, must always have a true interest for us, and it was with serious regret that I omitted Ben Jonson’s ever-memorable lines on Shakespeare. Many things a contemporary sees, as none who belong to a later time can see them; knows, as none other can know; and even where he does not tell us much which we greatly care to learn about the other, he is sure to tell us something, whether he means it or not, about himself and about his age. English literature possesses many judgments of this kind. What Ben Jonson did for Shakespeare, Cartwright, a strong-thoughted writer if not an eminent poet, and more briefly Cleveland here, have done in turn for Jonson; Denham for Cowley; Cowley for Crashaw; Carew for Donne; Marvell for Milton; Dryden for Oldham. There is not one of these which may not be read with profit by the careful student of English literature; and certainly Cleveland must be allowed very happily to have seized here some of the main excellences of Jonson. P. 45, No. xlvii.--Another poem on the same subject, in Byrd’s _Psalms, Sonnets, and Songs_, is as a whole inferior to this, but yields one stanza which is equal in merit to any here: ‘I wish but what I have at will; I wander not to seek for more; I like the plain; I climb no hill; In greatest storms I sit on shore; And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.’