they were amongst the most popular of poems, and were reprinted in every collection which bore the name of "English Classics." There are some things in them which ought not to be forgotten. Their general tone is gloomy, their satire is harsh; there is much of meretricious ornament in their illustrations; the blank verse wants the musical flow of the great masters of that noble instrument; but they are strikingly impressive; and we have few productions more calculated to arrest the career of levity-perhaps only for a passing moment-by presenting to its view "the vast concerns of an eternal scene.' Young's Satires, entitled "The Love of Fame," are sometimes looked at; and they stand out to advantage amidst the poetical mediocrity of the age which succeeded Pope. His tragedies are forgotten in their false sublime of language and exaggerated display of character. Edward Young was born in 1684, according to the most correct accounts, and died in 1765. He did not take orders in the Church till 1727.] Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep, From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, At random drove, her helm of reason lost. The day too short for my distress; and night, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd; Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence, and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve, (That column of true majesty in man,) Assist me: I will thank you in the grave The grave, your kingdom; there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye?— Thou who didst put to flight Primæval silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted on the rising ball; O thou, whose word from solid darkness struck Through this opaque of nature, and of soul, But from its loss. one. We take no note of time, To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours: Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands dispatch; How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down-On what? A fathomless abyss; Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, A worm! a god!—I tremble at myself, Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof; Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. For human weal, Heav'n husbands all events; Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire? They live they greatly live a life on earth. On me, more justly number'd with the dead. T 128.-DEPOSITION OF KING RICHARD II. A FRENCH knight or gentleman, whose name has not been preserved, has left a most interesting account of the sudden and tragical downfall of one of the unhappiest of English sovereigns. Like many of his countrymen, he was attracted to England by Richard's marriage with a princess of France. He came over to London in the spring of the year 1399, and remained in close attendance on King Richard about seven months, and until that fallen sovereign was brought to London as a prisoner by Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster. Then, returning to his own country, the Frenchman immediately wrote an account of all that he His manu had seen of the behavior and sufferings of Richard. script, which formerly belonged to Charles of Anjou, Earl of Maine and Mortain, is now among the treasures preserved in the library of the British Museum. Metrical histories were common at the time of its production. It is written for the greater part in French verse or rhyme. Considered as a poem, its merits are small, but as a narrative of facts, it is exceedingly valuable, and the facts themselves are of the most moving and interesting sort. It offers an original circumstantial account of the fall of Richard II.; it bears sufficient internal evidence of its authenticity; and it has been considered as the best document of that kind, relative to the above fact, which has been transmitted to us. Its value has been well appreciated by many English writers. Among our old annalists both Holinshed and Stow made great use of it, and from Holinshed, Shakspeare drew many of the materials which he wove into his grand and pathetic historical play. In more modern times, Tyrrel, Rapin, Turner, Lingard, and other historians, have made great use of this French metrical history, quoting it as an authoritative documeut of an otherwise very obscure part of English history. But the manuscript itself was never published in a perfect form until the year 1824, when the Rev. John Webb enriched the twentieth volume of the Archæologia with it, together with an admirable English translation in prose, and copious explanatory notes. From this translation, which, with the foot notes, occupies two hundred and forty pages of a quarto volume, we will select a few passages, which relate more immediately and personally to the ill-fated Richard. Richard's expedition to Ireland, in the summer of 1399, opened the way into England to the exiled Henry Bolingbroke. Our French knight accompanied the king to Ireland, and wrote an account of the short but difficult campaign in that country. He was with Richard at Dublin when the fatal news was brought to him that Bolingbroke had landed on the English coast, that the Archbishop of Canterbury had publicly preached a sermon in his favor, and that the great body of the nobility, as well ecclesiastic as lay, had joined him. He describes how the king's face turned pale thereat, and how many of the nobles with him treacherously detained him in Ireland for many weeks, with the view of facilitat |