with the genius which grasps, and controls, and shapes, and vivifies every subject which it handles. Among this class may be placed "The Fleece." The writer, John Dyer, was a Welshman of respectable parentage, born in 1700, who first studied law, then became a painter, and finally took orders in the Church of England. The extract we have given from "The Fleece" scarcely does justice to the merits of the poem, but we have selected it from its predictions regarding our own country; not only do Virginia and Massachusetts appear on the scene, but even California figures in these verses, written more than a hundred years ago.

ON A RURAL IMAGE OF PAN.

FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

Sleep, ye rude winds! Be every murmur dead
On yonder oak-crowned promontory's head!
Be still, ye bleating flocks-your shepherd calls.
Hang silent on your rocks, ye waterfalls!
Pan on his oaten pipe awakes the strains,

And fills with dulcet sounds the pastoral plains.
Lured by his notes, the nymphs their bowers forsake,
From every fountain, running stream, and lake,
From every hill and ancient grove around,

And to symphonious measures strike the ground.

Translation of J. H. MERIVALE.

PASTORAL SCENE FROM "THE ARCADIA."

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enameled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voicemusic.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 1554-1586.

FROM THE "FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS."

Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds low-falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapors fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of those pastures where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish foe
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;
Let one eye his watches keep,
While the other eye doth sleep;
So you shall good shepherds prove,
And for ever hold the love

Of our great God. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers

On your eyelids! so farewell!

Thus I end my evening knell !

JOHN FLETCHER, 1576-1625.

THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state,
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low, and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns;

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep :
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite :
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my Lord's uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses,
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets and rich content: The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is spent: His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleas'd and full bless'd he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place :
His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house or state torment him;

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him.

PHINEAS FLETCHER, 1584-1650.

THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.

Good Muse, rocke me aslepe

With some swete harmony:

This wearie eyes is not to kepe
Thy wary company.