see in it presumptive proof that the old poem worked from was great and interesting; and we must be lazy and unprofitable students if we do not, from the proud and splendid modernization, derive a yearning and a craving towards the unknown simple antique. Unknown to us, in our first studies, as we read upward from our own day into the past glories of our vernacular literature; but which, when, with gradually mounting courage, endeavour, and acquirement, we have made our way up so far, we find "Worthy to have not remain'd so long unknown." So, Dryden has done honour and rendered service to his mighty predecessor--truer honour and better service--not by superseding, but by guiding and impelling towards the knowledge of the old Knight's Tale. DRYDEN. The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees, Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees; Three centuries he grows, and three he stays, Supreme in state, and in three more decays: So wears the paving pebble in the street, And towns and towers their fatal periods meet: So rivers, rapid once, now naked lie, Forsaken of their springs and leave their channels dry: So man, at first a drop, dilates with heat; Then form'd the little heart begins to beat; Secret he feeds, unknowing in the cell; At length, for hatching ripe, he breaks the shell, And struggles into breath, and cries for aid; Then helpless in his mother's lap is laid. He creeps, he walks, and, issuing into man, Grudges their life, from whence his own began; Retchless of laws, affects to rule alone, Anxious to reign, and restless on the throne; First vegetive, then feels, and reasons last; Rich of three souls, and lives all three to waste. Some thus, but thousands more, in flower of age, For few arrive to run the latter stage. Sunk in the first, in battle some are slain, And others whelm'd beneath the stormy main. What makes all this but Jupiter the king, At whose command we perish, and we spring? Then 'tis our best, since thus ordain'd to die, To make a virtue of necessity; Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain; The bad grows better, which we well sustain; And could we choose the time, and choose aright, 'Tis best to die, our honour at the height. When we have done our ancestors no shame, But served our friends, and well secured our fame, Then should we wish our happy life to close, And leave no more for fortune to dispose. So should we make our death a glad relief From future shame, from sickness, and from grief; Enjoying, while we live, the present hour, And dying in our excellence and flower. Then round our death-bed every friend should run, And joyous of our conquest early won; While the malicious world, with envious tears, Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs. Since then our Arcite is with honour dead,