sighin　the　harmony　of　the　rustling　of　her　robes。　He　deeply　feels　it　in
  her　winning　endearmentsin　her　burning　enthusiasmsin　her　gentle
  charitiesin　her　meek　and　devotional　endurancesbut　above　allah；　far
  above　all；　he　kneels　to　ithe　worships　it　in　the　faith；　in　the　purity；　in
  the　strength；　in　the　altogether　divine　majestyof　her　love。
  Let　me　conclude　by　　the　recitation　of　yet　another　brief　poem　　one
  very　different　in　character　from　any　that　I　have　before　quoted。　It　is　by
  Motherwell；　and　is　called　〃The　Song　of　the　Cavalier。〃　With　our　modern　and
  altogether　rational　ideas　of　the　absurdity　and　impiety　of　warfare；　we　are
  not　precisely　in　that　frame　of　mind　best　adapted　to　sympathize　with　the
  sentiments；　and　thus　to　appreciate　the　real　excellence　of　the　poem。　To　do
  this　fully　we　must　identify　ourselves　in　fancy　with　the　soul　of　the　old
  cavalier：
  Then　mounte！　then　mounte；　brave　gallants　all；
  And　don　your　helmes　amaine：
  Deathe's　couriers。　Fame　and　Honor　call
  No　shrewish　teares　shall　fill　your　eye
  When　the　sword…hilt's　in　our　hand；
  Heart…whole　we'll　part；　and　no　whit　sighe
  For　the　fayrest　of　the　land；
  Let　piping　swaine；　and　craven　wight；
  Thus　weepe　and　poling　crye；
  Our　business　is　like　men　to　fight。
  ~~~　End　of　Text　~~~
  OLD　ENGLISH　POETRY　*
  IT　should　not　be　doubted　that　at　least　one…third　of　the　affection　with
  which　we　regard　the　elder　poets　of　Great　Britain　should　be…attributed　to
  what　is；　in　itself；　a　thing　apart　from　poetry…we　mean　to　the　simple　love
  of　the　antique…and　that；　again；　a　third　of　even　the　proper　_poetic
  sentiment　_inspired_　_by　their　writings　should　be　ascribed　to　a　fact
  which；　while　it　has　strict　connection　with　poetry　in　the　abstract；　and
  with　the　old　British　poems　themselves；　should　not　be　looked　upon　as　a
  merit　appertaining　to　the　authors　of　the　poems。　Almost　every　devout
  admirer　of　the　old　bards；　if　demanded　his　opinion　of　their　productions；
  would　mention　vaguely；　yet　with　perfect　sincerity；　a　sense　of　dreamy；
  wild；　indefinite；　and　he　would　perhaps　say；　indefinable　delight；　on　being
  required　to　point　out　the　source　of　this　so　shadowy　pleasure；　he　would　be
  apt　to　speak　of　the　quaint　in　phraseology　and　in　general　handling。　This
  quaintness　is；　in　fact；　a　very　powerful　adjunct　to　ideality；　but　in　the
  case　in　question　it　arises　independently　of　the　author's　will；　and　is
  altogether　apart　from　his　intention。　Words　and　their　rhythm　have　varied。
  Verses　which　affect　us　to…day　with　a　vivid　delight；　and　which　delight；　in
  many　instances；　may　be　traced　to　the　one　source；　quaintness；　must　have
  worn　in　the　days　of　their　construction；　a　very　commonplace　air。　This　is；
  of　course；　no　argument　against　the　poems　now…we　mean　it　only　as　against
  the　poets　_thew。　_There　is　a　growing　desire　to　overrate　them。　The　old
  English　muse　was　frank；　guileless；　sincere；　and　although　very　learned；
  still　learned　without　art。　No　general　error　evinces　a　more　thorough
  confusion　of　ideas　than　the　error　of　supposing　Donne　and　Cowley
  metaphysical　in　the　sense　wherein　Wordsworth　and　Coleridge　are　so。　With
  the　two　former　ethics　were　the　end…with　the　two　latter　the　means。　The　poet
  of　the　〃Creation〃　wished；　by　highly　artificial　verse；　to　inculcate　what　he
  supposed　to　be　moral　truth…the　poet　of　the　〃Ancient　Mariner〃　to　infuse　the
  Poetic　Sentiment　through　channels　suggested　by　analysis。　The　one　finished
  by　complete　failure　what　he　commenced　in　the　grossest　misconception；　the
  other；　by　a　path　which　could　not　possibly　lead　him　astray；　arrived　at　a
  triumph　which　is　not　the　less　glorious　because　hidden　from　the　profane
  eyes　of　the　multitude。　But　in　this　view　even　the　〃metaphysical　verse〃　of
  Cowley　is　but　evidence　of　the　simplicity　and　single…heartedness　of　the
  man。　And　he　was　in　this　but　a　type　of　his　school…for　we　may　as　well
  designate　in　this　way　the　entire　class　of　writers　whose　poems　are　bound　up
  in　the　volume　before　us；　and　throughout　all　of　whom　there　runs　a　very
  perceptible　general　character。　They　used　little　art　in　composition。　Their
  writings　sprang　immediately　from　the　soul…and　partook　intensely　of　that
  soul's　nature。　Nor　is　it　difficult　to　perceive　the　tendency　of　this
  _abandon…to　elevate　_immeasurably　all　the　energies　of　mind…but；　again；　so
  to　mingle　the　greatest　possible　fire；　force；　delicacy；　and　all　good
  things；　with　the　lowest　possible　bathos；　baldness；　and　imbecility；　as　to
  render　it　not　a　matter　of　doubt　that　the　average　results　of　mind　in　such　a
  school　will　be　found　inferior　to　those　results　in　one　_（ceteris　_paribus）
  more　artificial。
  We　can　not　bring　ourselves　to　believe　that　the　selections　of　the　〃Book　of
  Gems〃　are　such　as　will　impart　to　a　poetical　reader　the　clearest　possible
  idea　of　the　beauty　of　the　school…but　if　the　intention　had　been　merely　to
  show　the　school's　character；　the　attempt　might　have　been　considered
  successful　in　the　highest　degree。　There　are　long　passages　now　before　us　of
  the　most　despicable　trash；　with　no　merit　whatever　beyond　that　of　their
  antiquity。。　The　criticisms　of　the　editor　do　not　particularly　please　us。
  His　enthusiasm　is　too　general　and　too　vivid　not　to　be　false。　His　opinion；
  for　example；　of　Sir　Henry　Wotton's　〃Verses　on　the　Queen　of　Bohemia〃…that
  〃there　are　few　finer　things　in　our　language；〃　is　untenable　and　absurd。
  In　such　lines　we　can　perceive　not　one　of　those　higher　attributes　of　Poesy
  which　belong　to　her　in　all　circumstances　and　throughout　all　time。　Here
  every　thing　is　art；　nakedly；　or　but　awkwardly　concealed。　No　prepossession
  for　the　mere　antique　（and　in　this　case　we　can　imagine　no　other
  prepossession）　should　induce　us　to　dignify　with　the　sacred　name　of　poetry；
  a　series；　such　as　this；　of　elaborate　and　threadbare　compliments；　stitched；
  apparently；　together；　without　fancy；　without　plausibility；　and　without
  even　an　attempt　at　adaptation。
  In　common　with　all　the　world；　we　have　been　much　delighted　with　〃The
  Shepherd's　Hunting〃　by　Withersa　poem　partaking；　in　a　remarkable　degree；
  of　the　peculiarities　of　〃Il　Penseroso。〃　Speaking　of　Poesy　the　author　says：
  〃By　the　murmur　of　a　spring；
  Or　the　least　boughs　rustleling；
  By　a　daisy　whose　leaves　spread；
  Shut　when　Titan　goes　to　bed；
  Or　a　shady　bush　or　tree；
  She　could　more　infuse　in　me
  Than　all　Nature's　beauties　can
  In　some　other　wiser　man。
  By　her　help　I　also　now
  Make　this　churlish　place　allow
  Something　that　may　sweeten　gladness
  In　the　very　gall　of　sadness
  The　dull　loneness；　the　black　shade；
  That　these　hanging　vaults　have　made
  The　strange　music　of　the　waves
  Beating　on　these　hollow　caves；
  This　black　den　which　rocks　emboss；
  Overgrown　with　eldest　moss；
  The　rude　portals　that　give　light
  More　to　terror　than　delight；
  This　my　chamber　of　neglect
  Walled　about　with　disrespect；
  From　all　these　and　this　dull　air
  A　fit　object　for　despair；
  She　hath　taught　me　by　her　might
  To　draw　comfort　and　delight。〃
  But　these　lines；　however　good；　do　not　bear　with　them　much　of　the　general
  character　of　the　English　antique。　Something　more　of　this　will　be　found　in
  Corbet's　〃Farewell　to　the　Fairies！〃　We　copy　a　portion　of　Marvell's　〃Maiden
  lamenting　for　her　Fawn；〃　which　we　prefer…not　only　as　a　specimen　of　the
  elder　poets；　but　in　itself　as　a　beautiful　poem；　abounding　in　pathos；
  exquisitely　delicate　imagination　and　truthfulness…to　anything　of　its
  species：
  〃It　is　a　wondrous　thing　how　fleet
  'Twas　on　those　little　silver　feet；
  With　what　a　pretty　skipping　grace
  It　oft　would　challenge　me　the　race；
  And　when't　had　left　me　far　away
  'Twould　stay；　and　run　again；　and　stay；
  For　it　was　nimbler　much　than　hinds；
  And　trod　as　if　on　the　four　winds。
  I　have　a　garden　of　my　own；
  But　so　with　roses　overgrown；
  And　lilies；　that　you　would　it　guess
  To　be　a　little　wilderness；
  And　all　the　spring…time　of　the　year
  It　only　loved　to　be　there。
  Among　the　beds　of　lilies　I
  Have　sought　it　oft　where　it　should　lie；
  Yet　could　not；　till　itself　would　rise；
  Find　it；　although　before　mine　eyes。
  For　in　the　flaxen　lilies'　shade
  It　like　a　bank　of　lilies　laid；
  Upon　the　roses　it　would　feed
  Until　its　lips　even　seemed　to　bleed；
  And　then　to　me　'twould　boldly　trip；
  And　print　those　roses　on　my　lip；
  But　all　its　chief　delight　was　still
  With　roses　thus　itself　to　fill；
  And　its　pure　virgin　limbs　to　fold
  In　whitest　sheets　of　lilies　cold。
  Had　it　lived　long；　it　would　have　been
  Lilies　without；　roses　within。〃
  How　truthful　an　air　of　lamentations　hangs　here　upon　every　syllable！　It
  pervades　all。。　It　comes　over　the　sweet　melody　of　the　words…over　the
  gentleness　and　grace　which　we　fancy　in　the　little　maiden　herself…even　over
  the　half…playful；　half…petulant　air　with　which　she　lingers　on　the　beauties
  and　good　qualities　of　her　favorite…like　the　cool　shadow　of　a　summer　cloud
  over　a　bed　of　lilies　and　violets；　〃and　all　sweet　flowers。〃　The　whole　is
  redolent　with　poetry　of　a　very　lofty　order。　Every　line　is　an　idea
  conveying　either　the　beauty　and　playfulness　of　the　fawn；　or　the
  artlessness　of　the　maiden；　or　her　love；　or　her　admiration；　or　her　grief；
  or　the　fragrance　and　warmth　and　_appropriateness　_of　the　little　nest…like
  bed　of　lilies　and　roses　which　the　fawn　devoured　as　it　lay　upon　them；　and
  could　scarcely　be　distinguished　from　them　by　the　once　happy　little　damsel
  who　went　to　seek　her　pet　with　an　arch　and