ere minnows sport and dart with silver flight
beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices are
spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides like a
monarch in his azure kingdom;--or, better still, mounted on a green
dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, looking for encounter with
some Christian knight, who, "full of sad feare and ghastley dreariment,"
would nathless risk life, honour, all--for his faire ladie love. Beloved
Spenser! age withers not thy beauty.

Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish day is past, and
the young modest flowers, which refused their perfume to the sun, that,
with his hot and fiery beams, sought to command their incense, now
welcome back the evening, and become prodigal of sweetness;--within some
rustic temple, clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren
hath formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trembles
not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath of heaven plays
with those blossoms of the sun--the painted butterflies--that fold their
wings and fain would sleep till morning. There let her come, and with
her bring more blessed children of the olden time,--

"Whose names
In Fame's eternal volume live for aye."

The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, if not our
sweetest sonneteer; and Michael Drayton, with his apt crest--Mercury's
bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams. Old Fletcher, floating towards his
Purple Island, in the same graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful,
it may be sombre, brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle
in all its purple glory; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and
heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, and his
gay bonnet, graced by the heron's plume; his voice subdued by sorrow,
but still sweet and free, singing of "Sion's flowers"--Drummond of
Hawthornden! welcome from bonny Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who
fling their music on the breezy air, that floats along in melody.

Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail--beauty in all thy lines, so quaint
yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet
still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits
the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou
turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse--although a poet
and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must