Browne began his poetical career early, and closed it soon. He published the first part of 'Britannia's Pastorals' in 1613, the second in 1616; shortly after, his 'Shepherd's Pipe;' and, in 1620, produced his 'Inner Temple Masque' which was then enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies' edition of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive poetry. SONG. Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is Time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one, and keep the other: Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, Beauty gone, you will repent you. 'Twill be said, when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh, then, fly all nice behaviour! Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour. SONG. 1 Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then a while to me, And if such a woman move As I now shall versify; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. 2 Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified. 3 Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me. 4 Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth: Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth: Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. 5 Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY. 'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart That can debase the excellence of art, Nor great in titles makes our worth obey, Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they. For there is hidden in a poet's name A spell that can command the wings of Fame, And maugre all oblivion's hated birth Begin their immortality on earth, When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines. EVENING.