the fifth generation, until it may be beyond the
memory of man to know that there was ever other of their families:
neither can this deter me from going on with Scotland, if means and time
do not hinder me, to perform as much as I have promised in my First
Song:

Till through the sleepy main, to _Thuly_ I have gone,
And seen the Frozen Isles, the cold _Deucalidon_,
Amongst whose iron Rocks, grim _Saturn_ yet remains
Bound in those gloomy caves with adamantine chains.

And as for those cattle whereof I spake before, _Odi profanum vulgus, et
arceo_, of which I account them, be they never so great, and so I leave
them. To my friends, and the lovers of my labours, I wish all happiness.
_Michael Drayton._'

The _Polyolbion_ as a whole is easy and pleasant to read; and though in
some parts it savours too much of a mere catalogue, yet it has many
things truly poetical. The best books are perhaps the xiij, xiv, and xv,
where he is on his own ground, and therefore naturally at his best. It
is interesting to notice how much attention and space he devotes to
Wales. He describes not only the 'wonders' but also the fauna and flora
of each district; and of the two it would seem that the flowers
interested him more. Though he was a keen observer of country sights and
sounds (a fact sufficiently attested by the _Nymphidia_ and the
_Nymphals_), it is evident that his interest in most things except
flowers was rather momentary or conventional than continuous and
heart-felt; but of the flowers he loves to talk, whether he weaves us a
garland for the Thame's wedding, or gives us the contents of a maund of
simples; and his love, if somewhat homely and unimaginative, is apparent
enough. But the main inspiration, as it is the main theme, of the
_Polyolbion_ is the glory and might and wealth, past, present, and
future, of England, her possessions and her folk. Through all this
glory, however, we catch the tone of Elizabethan sorrow over the 'Ruines
of Time'; grief that all these mighty men and their works will perish
and be forgotten, unless the poet makes them live for ever on the lips
of men. Drayton's own voluminousness has defeated his purpose, and sunk
his poem by its own bulk. Though it is difficult to go so far as Mr.
Bullen, and say that the only thing better than a stroll in the
_Polyolbion_ is one in a Sussex lane, it is still harder to agree with
Canon Beeching, that 'there are few beauties on the road', the beau