and lascivious verses, which I, of course, gained the credit of having written; but the honour that was thus conferred upon me, and the gratitude that I owe to these my benefactors, I shall take an opportunity of acknowledging in a manner that they will remember. For truly all pure-hearted and generous persons will now pause ere they publish any work, however creditable to their feelings and morality, seeing unlawfulness has risen to such a pitch, that any individual may give his disgusting obscenities to the world, under the cloak of another's name." Brederode died on the 23d of August, 1618. The following is from his

FOUNTAIN OF LOVE.

"If all were mine that Jove divine
Or other gods could proffer,

Of pomp or show, or dazzling glow,

I would not take their offer,

If I must thee surrender,

In payment for their splendour.
No! I would seek the gods, and say,
"Tis dearer far on earth to stray,
With heart and soul by anguish riven,
And bow'd by poverty and care,

Than seek at once your promised heaven,

And dwell without my loved-one there.

Should they display unbounded sway
O'er all these kingly regions,
And give to me dominion free
O'er lands and mighty legions;
My heart the gift would treasure,
To rule them all at pleasure,
Not for riches, nor for land,
Not for station, nor command,
Nor for sceptres, crowns, nor power,
Nor for all the world is worth,
But that I on thee might shower
Every gift from heaven or earth.

I would decree that all should be
Observant to revere thee,

With bended knee, submissively,

Though princes-kings-stood near thee. Courts should their glories lend thee,

And empresses attend thee,

And queens upon thy steps should wait,
And pay their tribute to thy state
In low and humble duty;

And place thee on a royal seat,
Deck'd, as well becomes thy beauty,
With splendour and adornment meet.

An ivory throne should be thine own,
With ornaments the rarest;
A cloth of red thy floor o'erspread,
To kiss thy footsteps, fairest !

And sweetest flowers be wreathing,
And round thee fondly breathing;
And by thy influence I would prove
How I esteem thy virtues, love!
How thy truth and goodness sway'd me,
More than all my store of gold,

More than thousands that obey'd me,
More than the giant world could hold.

But these I know thou canst forego,
For pride has never found thee,
And I possess more wealthiness
Than all the courtiers round me.
If riches they inherit,

I have them too-in spirit:
And thou dost know as well as I,
That truer greatness deigns to lie
'Neath a garment worn and tatter'd,
Than e'er adorn'd a narrow mind;
And that treasures oft are scatter'd
For the basest of our kind."

BATAVIAN ANTHOLOGY.

REV. R. SOUTHWELL.

POOR Southwell (called the English Jesuit) was cast on a stormy epoch, when neither high birth, nor merit, nor innocence, sufficed to save the victims of political and religious contentions. He was of a good family in Norfolk, educated

at Douay, and at sixteen, entered into the society of Jesuits at Rome. In 1584, he came as a Missionary into England, and was Domestic Chaplain to Anne, Countess of Arundel, in which situation he remained till 1592; when, in consequence of some of the violent re-actions of that time, he was apprehended at Uxenden, in Middlesex, and sent a prisoner to the Tower. Here he was confined three years, during which, he was cruelly racked ten times, with a view to extort from him a disclosure of certain supposed conspiracies against the Government.

At the end of this period, he sent an epistle to Cecil, the Lord Treasurer, humbly intreating his Lordship, that he might either be brought upon his trial, to answer for himself, or, at least, that his friends might have leave to come and see him. The Treasurer answered, "that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire." Shortly after, he was removed to Newgate, tried at Westminster for remaining in England contrary to the statute, convicted, and condemned to death; which sentence was executed at Tyburn, on the 21st of February, 1595, when the unhappy sufferer was only in his 35th year.

Among the bards of the Elizabethan era, Southwell shone with no inferior lustre. With much of the general character of the period, fully participating in its peculiarities, often led away by antithesis, and sometimes conceited in the choice of words, there is an overflowing of mind, a richness of imagination, and a felicity of versification in this author, which eminently entitle his productions to the regard of aftertimes. His melancholy life and dreadful fate would spread a deep interest over his works, even were they in themselves destitute of it, which is very far from being the case. Southwell was also an elegant and powerful prose writer, and a deep casuist. We have been so much pleased with the moral and pathetic turn of the lines "Upon the Image of Death," that we subjoin them as a fair specimen of the minor poems of this author.

"Before my face the picture hangs,

That daily should put me in mind,
Of these cold names and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;