it our anchor'd barks,
We cross'd a pleasant valley; rather say
A nest of sister vales, o'erhung with hills
Of varied form and foliage; every vale
Had its own proper brook, the which it hugg'd
In its green breast, as if it fear'd to lose
The treasur'd crystal. You might mark the course
Of these cool rills more by the ear than eye,
For, though they oft would to the sun unfold
Their silver as they past, 'twas quickly lost;
But ever did they murmur. On the verge
Of one of these clear streams, there stood a cell
O'ergrown with moss and ivy; near to which,
On a fall'n trunk, that bridged the little brook
A hermit sat. Of him we ask'd the name
Of this sweet valley, and he call'd it Hakeness.

(_Argentile and Curan_, A, 1.)

In two lines more, we are unluckily reminded that this is no living
landscape.

Thither, my Sewold, go, or pitch thy tent
Near to thy ships, for they are near the _scene_.

Since the time of Mason, this rage for describing what is called
scenery (and scenery indeed it often is, having little of nature in it)
has infected many of our play-writers and novelists.

Argentile's intention of raising a rustic monument to the memory of his
father, is taken from Shakspeare.

This grove my sighs shall consecrate; in shape
Of some fair tomb, here will I heap the turf
And call it Adelbright's. Yon aged yew,
Whose rifted trunk, rough bark, and gnarled roots
Give solemn proof of its high ancientry,
Shall canopy the shrine. There's not a flower,
That hangs the dewy head, and seems to weep,
As pallid blue-bells, crow-tyes and marsh lilies,
But I'll plant here, and if they chance to wither,
My tears shall water them; there's not a bird
That trails a sad soft note, as ringdoves do,
Or twitters painfully like the dun martlet,
But I will lure by my best art, to roost
And plain them in these branches. Larks and finches
Will I fright hence, nor aught shall dare approach
This pensive spot, save solitary things
That love to mourn as I do.

How cold and lifeless are these pretty lines, when compared to the
"wench-like words," of the young princes, which suggested them.

If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

_Arv_. With fairest flow'rs,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flower that'