rance of unsullied happiness and overflowing joy. It
is quaint, simple, unassuming; without affectation, full of pathos, and
gently sensitive. He was a man who knew no guile, and his sweet and
artless nature is faithfully portrayed in the outpourings of an
impressionable, poetic soul. To dance with rustic maidens on the lea; to
sing by moonlight to the piper's strain; to be happy, always happy, such
is the theme, delicate and refined, of these our half-forgotten poets.

W. B. KEMPLING.

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Pastoral

Good Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile,
Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.

The blackbird and the thrush,
That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest, are now at hush,
And not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.

The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour;
And Phyllida the fair hath lost
The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest;

And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.

Aglaia: a Pastoral

Sylvan Muses, can ye sing
Of the beauty of the Spring?
Have ye seen on earth that sun
That a heavenly course hath run?
Have ye lived to see those eyes
Where the pride of beauty lies?
Have ye heard that heavenly voice
That may make Love's heart rejoice?
Have ye seen Aglaia, she
Whom the world may joy to see?
If ye have not seen all these,
Then ye do but labour leese;
While ye tune your pipes to play
But an idle roundelay;
And in sad Discomfort's den
Everyone go bite her pen;
That she cannot reach the skill
How to climb that blessed hill
Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
Where exceedings do excell,
And in simple truth confess
She is that fair shepherdess
To whom fairest flocks a-field
Do