prolix discussions, and wants as a rule life and variety. The com. position is often loose and feeble, the vocabulary is singularly limited, and bad taste is conspicuous in every canto. But Hawes, with all his faults, is a true poet. He has a sweet simplicity, a pensive gentle air, a subdued cheerfulness about him which have a strange charm at this distance of dissimilar time. Though the hand of the artist is not firm, and the colouring sometimes too sober, his pictures are very graphic. Take one out of many : The way was troublous and ey nothyng playne, Tyll at the last I came into a dale, His verse is sometimes harsh, but it often breathes a plaintive music, and has a weirdly beautiful rhythm which falls on the ear like the echo of a vanished world,' and seems to transport us back to the dim cloister of some old mediaeval abbey. One such stanza we give : 'O mortall folke you may beholde and see Is death at last, thorough his course and mighte, At last the belle ringeth to evensong.' That couplet alone should suffice for immortality. We may claim also for this neglected poet complete originality at an age when English poetry at least had degenerated into mere translations, into feeble narratives, or into sick'y imitations of Chaucer. But there are two other interesting points connected with The Pastime of Pleasure. It marks with singular precision a great epoch in our literature. It is the last expiring echo of Mediaevalism; it is the first articulate prophecy of the Renaissance. It is the link between The Canterbury Tales and The Faery Queen. Hawes is in poetry what Philippe de Commines is in prose: he belongs to the old world and he breathes its atmosphere-he belongs also to the new, for its first rays are falling on him. He connects the two. The weeds of a time sad and sombre indeed hang about him but Hope is the refrain of his song. 'Drive despaire away, And live in hopë which shall do you good. To wepe and waile, all is for you in waste. In the fayre morrowe.' Again, The dawn had broken, the morning he felt was near. The Pastime of Pleasure was the precursor of The Faery Queen. The two poems are similar in allegorical purpose, similar in the development of their allegory. Some of the incidents, though not identical, are of the same character, and if it would be going too far to say that Spenser was a disciple of Hawes, it would not be going too far to say that Spenser had been a careful student of The Pastime of Pleasure, had been indebted to it for many a useful hint, many a slight preliminary sketch, many a pleasing effect of rhythm and cadence. We have dealt with some minuteness on Hawes, because of the injustice which all his critics have so inexplicably done him. He is,' says Scott, 'a bad imitator of Lydgate, ten times more tedious than his original.' 'Even his name may be omitted,' adds Campbell, 'without any treason to the cause of taste.' Our extracts are, we may add, selected from The Pastime of Pleasure: his minor poems are best forgotten. J. CHURTON COLLINS. DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRAUNDE AMOURE AND LA PUCEL [From Cantos xviii. and xix.] Amoure. O swete lady, the good perfect starre Of my true hart, take ye nowe pitie, Thinke on my paine, whiche am tofore you here, With your swete eyes beholde you and se, Pucel. So me thinke, it dothe right well appeare By your coloure, that loue hath done you wo,— In so short space? I maruell muche also Amoure. My good deare hart, it is no maruaile why; Pucel. Your wo and paine, and all your languishyng For these two lines the Ed, of 1555 reads: Your beaute my herte so surely assayde That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde. Thoughe at the first I wouldne not condescende, Amoure. With thought of yll my minde was neuer mixt I demed oft you loued me before; Amoure. O gemme of vertue, and lady excellent AMOURE LAMENTS THE ABSENCE OF LA BELLE PUCEL [From Canto xx.] Then agayne I went to the tower melodious Of good dame Musicke, my leaue for to take; I saied; O tower, thou maiest well aslake Whilome thou was the faire tower of light, The faire carbuncle, so full of clearenes, Ah, ah! truely, in the time so past When thou art hence, the starre of beauty, So then inwardly my selfe bewaylyng To fede mine eyen, whiche are nowe all blynde, Then of dame Musicke, with all lowlines, |