proceeded. Had he lived longer his massive intelligence might have made him a dangerous rival or a master to Dryden, and as he shows no inclination towards the French manner of poetry, he might have delayed or altogether warded off the influx of the classical taste. He showed no precocity of genius; he was gradually gathering his singing-robes about him, having already studied much, yet having still much to learn. There is no poet whose works so tempt the critic to ask, 'what was the next step in his development?' He died just too soon to impress his name on history.

Besides his dramas, Randolph composed a considerable number of lyrics and occasional poems. Of these the beautiful Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to hasten him into the country is the best. In this he is more free and graceful in his Latinism than usual. He was a deep student of the Roman poets, and most of his non-dramatic pieces are exercises, performed in a hard though stately style, after Ovid, Martial and Claudian. It cannot be said that these have much charm, except to the technical student of poetry, who observes, with interest, the zeal and energy with which Randolph prepared himself for triumphs which were never to be achieved. In pastoral poetry he had attained more ease than in any other, and some of his idyls are excellently performed. The glowing verses entitled A Pastoral Courtship remind the reader of the twenty-seventh idyl of Theocritus, on which they were probably modelled. The Cotswold Eclogue, which originally appeared in a very curious book entitled Annalia Dubrensia, 1636, is one of the best pastorals which we possess in English. But in reviewing the fragments of the work of Randolph, the critic is ever confronted by the imperfection of his growing talent, the insufficiency of what exists to account for the personal weight that Randolph carried in his lifetime, and for the intense regret felt at his early death. Had he lived he might have bridged over, with a strong popular poetry, the abyss between the old romantic and the new didactic school, for he had a little of the spirit of each. As it is, he holds a better place in English literature than Dryden, or Gray, or Massinger would have held had they died before they were thirty.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.

ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD.

Come, spur away,

I have no patience for a longer stay,

But must go down,

And leave the chargeable noise of this great town;

I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,

Though hid in grey,

Doth look more gay

Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war ;

'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my days

I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
Or to make sport

For some slight puisne of the Inns-of-Court.
Then, worthy Stafford, say,
How shall we spend the day?
With what delights

Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure,

Where mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose;

Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

There from the tree

We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;

And every day

Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace

Than any painted face,

That I do know

Hyde Park can show.

Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state

Might court my love with plate)

The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures: these to me are none.
Why did I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate?
I never mean to wed

That torture to my bed.

My muse is she

My love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs; when I am gone, And the great bugbear, grisly death,

Shall take this idle breath,

If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more;

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
Then (full) we'll seek a shade,

And hear what music's made;
How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,

And how the other birds do fill the quire:

The thrush and blackbird lend their throats
Warbling melodious notes;

We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky,

Whereat what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:
Nor will we spare

To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;

But let our hounds run loose

In any ground they'll choose,
The buck shall fall,

The stag, and all:

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,

For to my muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free:

Heaven, earth, all are but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth

A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,
I'll take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody;

Which he that hears,

Lets through his ears

A madness to distemper all the brain.
Then I another pipe will take

And Doric music make,

To civilise with graver notes our wits again.

FROM THE COTSWOLD ECLOGUE.'

Colin. Early in May up got the jolly rout,
Call'd by the lark, and spread the fields about:
One, for to breathe himself, would coursing be
From this same beech to yonder mulberry,
A second leap'd his supple nerves to try;
A third was practising his melody;
This a new jig was footing, others were
Busied at wrestling, or to throw the bar,
Ambitious which should bear the bell away,
And kiss the nut-brown lady of the May.
This stirr'd 'em up; a jolly swain was he,
Whom Peg and Susan after victory

Crown'd with a garland they had made, beset
With daisies, pinks, and many a violet,

Cowslip, and gilliflower. Rewards, though small,
Encourage virtue, but if none at all

Meet her, she languisheth, and dies, as now
Where worth's deni'd the honour of a bough.
And, Thenot, this the cause I read to be

Of such a dull and general lethargy.

Thenot. Ill thrive the lout that did their mirth gainsay! Wolves haunt his flocks that took those sports away!

Colin. Some melancholy swains about have gone
To teach all zeal their own complexion:
Choler they will admit sometimes, I see,
But phlegm and sanguine no religions be.
These teach that dancing is a Jezebel,
And barley-break the ready way to hell;
The morrice-idols, Whitsun-ales, can be
But profane relics of a jubilee !

These, in a zeal t'express how much they do
The organs hate, have silenc'd bagpipes, too,
And harmless Maypoles, all are rail'd upon,
As if they were the towers of Babylon.
Some think not fit there should be any sport
I' th' country, 'tis a dish proper to th' Court.
Mirth not becomes 'em; let the saucy swain
Eat beef and bacon, and go sweat again.
Besides, what sport can in the pastimes be,
When all is but ridiculous foppery?

FROM 'A PASTORAL COURTSHIP.'

Behold these woods, and mark, my sweet,
How all the boughs together meet?
The cedar his fair arms displays,
And mixes branches with the bays!
The lofty pine deigns to descend,
And sturdy oaks do gently bend.
One with another subtly weaves
Into one loom their various leaves,
As all ambitious were to be
Mine and my Phyllis' canopy.
Let's enter and discourse our loves;
These are, my dear, no tell-tale groves!
There dwell no pies nor parrots there,
To prate again the words they hear,
Nor babbling echo, that will tell
The neighbouring hills one syllable.