presiding over the half-born philosophies of the future, and beholding the cold rod of Induction blossom in an after-day into the Aaronic flowers and fruits of a magnificent science; Cecil was nodding out wisdom or transcendental craft in the Cabinet; Sir Philip Sidney was carrying the spirit of 'Arcadia' into the field of battle; Spenser was dreaming his one beautiful lifelong Dream; and Shakspeare was holding up his calm mirror to the heart of man and the universe of nature; while, on the prow of the British vessel, carrying on those lofty spirits and enterprises, there appeared a daring mariner, the Poet and 'Shepherd of the Ocean,' with bright eye, sanguine countenance, step treading the deck like a throne, and look contemplating the sunset, as if it were the dawning, and the Evening, as if it were the Morning Star. It was the hopeful and the brilliant Raleigh, who, while he 'opened up to Europe the New World, was the historian of the Old.' Alas that this illustrious 'Marinere' was doomed to a life so troubled and a death so dreadful, and that the glory of one of England's prodigies is for ever bound up with the disgrace of one of England's and Scotland's princes! THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS. 1 Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldling's sports; Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be. 2 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks, Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. 3 Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake, But blustering care could never tempest make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us. * * * * * 4 Blest silent groves! oh, may ye be For ever mirth's best nursery! May pure contents, For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Which we may every year Find when we come a-fishing here. THE SILENT LOVER. 1 Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So when affection yields 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. 2 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion.