Thy sheep, quoth she, cannot be lean,
That have a jolly shepherd swain,
The which can pipe so well:

Yea but (saith he) their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away,

In love of Dowsabel.

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep,
Quoth she, look well unto thy sheep,
Lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabel
Come forth to gather May.

With that she 'gan to veil her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said,

With that the shepherd 'gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.

Saith she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
And all for love of thee.

My cote, saith he, nor yet my fold,
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.

Saith she, yet lever I were dead,

Than I should lose my maidenhead,

And all for love of men.

Saith he, yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.

Unto her paramour.

With that she bent her snow-white kn
Down by the shepherd kneeled she,
And him she sweetly kist.

With that the shepherd whoop'd for jo
Quoth he, there's never shepherd's bo
That ever was so blest.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

EDWARD FAIRFAX, the truly poetical trans Tasso, was the second son of Sir Thomas Fa Denton, in Yorkshire. His family were all s but the poet, while his brothers were seeki tary reputation abroad, preferred the quiet ment of letters at home. He married and se a private gentleman at Fuyston, a place bea situated between the family seat at Denton forest of Knaresborough. Some of his ti devoted to the management of his broth Fairfax's property, and to superintending t cation of his lordship's children. The pros

which he left in the library at Denton sufficiently attest his literary industry. They have never been published, and as they relate chiefly to religious controversy, are not likely to be so, although his treatise on witchcraft, recording its supposed operation upon his own family, must form a curious relic of superstition. Of Fairfax it might, therefore, well be said

"Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

"Believed the magic wonders which he sung."

Of his original works in verse, his History of Edward the black Prince has never been published; but Mr. A. Chalmers (Biog. Dict. art. Fairfax) is, I believe, as much mistaken in supposing that his Eclogues have never been collectively printed, as in pronouncing them entitled to high commendation for their poetry. A more obscurely stupid allegory and fable can hardly be imagined than the fourth eclogue preserved in Mrs. Cooper's Muse's Library: its being an imitation of some of the theological pastorals of Spenser is no apology for its absurdity. When a fox is described as seducing the chastity of a lamb, and when the eclogue writer tells us that

"An hundred times her virgin lip he kiss'd,
“As oft her maiden finger gently wrung,"

who could imagine that either poetry, or ecclesiastical history, or sense or meaning of any kind, was ever meant to be conveyed under such a conundrum?

The time of Fairfax's death has not been discovered; it is known that he was alive in 1631; but his translation of the Jerusalem was published when he was a young man, was inscribed to Queen Elizabeth, and forms one of the glories of her reign.

FROM FAIRFAX'S TRANSLATION OF TASSO'S JERUSALEM DELIVERED, BOOK XVIII.

Rinaldo, after offering his devotions on Mount Olivet, enters on the adventure of the Enchanted Wood.

It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day
Rebellious night yet strove, and still repin'd;
For in the east appear'd the morning grey,
And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shin'd,
When to Mount Olivet he took his way,

And saw, as round about his eyes he twin'd,

Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine;

This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:

Thus to himself he thought; how many bright
And splendent lamps shine in heav'n's temple high!
Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night,
Her fix'd and wand'ring stars the azure sky;
So framed all by their Creator's might,

That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die,
'Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and
land.

Thus as he mused, to the top he went,

And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear;
His eyes upon heav'n's eastern face he bent;
His thoughts above all heav'ns up-lifted were→
The sins and errors, which I now repent,
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear,
Remember not, but let thy mercy fall,
faults and my offences all.

And purge my

Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew
In golden weed the morning's lusty queen,
Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw,
His helm, his harness, and the mountain green:
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew
The air, that balm and nardus breath'd unseen;
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies,
A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies :

The heav'nly dew was on his garments spread,
To which compar'd, his clothes pale ashes seem,
And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled,
And thence of purest white bright rays outstream:
So cheered are the flow'rs, late withered,
With the sweet comfort of the morning beam;
And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old
Adorns herself in new and native gold.

The lovely whiteness of his changed weed
The prince perceived well, and long admir'd;
Toward the forest march'd he on with speed,