Mississippi Democrat. (Carrollton, Miss.) 1844-18??, 1845-11-19
81 tsrrIIamp, Aems, SC.
An Hour with POeSie. .
"Gather ye roses while you may,
Old Time is still flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
Tomorrow will be dying y HERRIcK.


We have been reading the Elizabehan
poets. Once, when boy, we remember
walking in an antique garden, which had
been left so long deserted that the thick
grass was like velvet to the tread, while
the tangled mazes of the tree and flower
gave it a wild, sylvan aspect, strangely
picturesque. The old poets of the age of
Elizabeth fill us with much the same emo
ton of majestic and secluded beauty.
Have you ever sought out the lyrics of
that day? They are scattered all over
the dramas of the time, like blossoms shed
on the road side, yet in their very prodi-
gality, and though full of rarest beauty,
they are less known now than the whim-
sizes of Tennyson, or the tawdry sentiment
talties of Moore. Shame, that the old
masters should be thus neglected! Listen
to us awhile, and while sitting by the open
easement, with this fresh autumn breeze
rustling the leaves of our book, we will
read you some of the lyrics of that bold
Elizabethan time, whrn 6tuney Ioyeu and
Spencer sung.
Here is Rosaind's Madrigal.n 1t is a
curious fact that some of the best lyrics
we possess have been written by persons
who never produced more than one sue
cessful song. OF this description, among
others, are "Auld Robin Grey, and g For
lack Of gold she left me.'' The madrigal
in question belongs TO the same class, for
it is the only redeeming point in very
tiresome romance, entitled Euphuses'
Golden Legacy" by Thomas Lodge 1.-The
same pastoral, by-the-bye which suggest.
ed Shakspeare's "As You like IT,:
"LoUe IN my bosom like bee,
Doth suck his suOeet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amid my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest,
All, wanton, will ye?
And if sleep, then percheth he
With pretty fight,
And makes a pillow Of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike my lutte, he tunes the string;
He music plays, if 80 | sing
He lends me every lovely thing,
Whist, wanton, still ye!
What playfuIness and grace about thi
lyric! The opening lines are beautiful
are they not? We knew you would thinl
so. Then you will also agree with US tina
there is an exquisite pathos in the follow
ing poem. 1t is a farewell addressed t
Anne Boleyn, by her lover, Sir Thoma
Wyatt, just before that talented, but IN
fortunate lady was married 10 Henry VIII
The manner in which Wyatt alludes TO III
beginning of his love, to its weary delays
and TO its final disappointment; display
an eloquentheart struggling manfnly wit
an unfortunate but passionate affection:
Forget not yet when first began.
The weary life We know-since when
The suit, the service none can tell,
Forget not yet.
Forget not yet the great assays
Ihe cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
Ihe painful patience and delays,
Forget not yet.
Forget not, oh forget not this,
how long ago hath been and is
Inc love that never meant amiss,
Forget not yet.
Forget not now thine own approved,
The which SO constant hath thee loved
Whose steadfast faith hath never moves
Forget not yet"
After reading that you will join wi
the heartfelt wish expressed by Mi
@Trials.