his protectress, as
far as he was concerned, all-powerful; and yet a mere infant whom he
might protect as well as serve! It was a strange mixture of feelings,
all good, and all delightful; a stirring of impulses, a quickening of
affections, a striking of chords never touched before. Substitute the
sacred innocence of childhood for the equally sacred power of virgin
purity, and his feelings of affectionate reverence, of devoted service
and submission, much resembled those entertained by the Satyr towards
"the holy shepherdess," in Fletcher's exquisite drama.*

_Our_

"Rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity,"

could not have spoken nor have thought such words as those of the satyr;
but so far as our English climate and his unfruitful territory might
permit, he put much of the poetry into action. Sluggish of intellect,
and uncouth of demeanour, as the poor lad seemed, it was quite wonderful
how quickly he discovered the several ways in which he might best please
and gratify his youthful benefactress.

* That matchless Pastoral, "The Faithful Shepherdess," is
so much less known than talked of, that subjoin the passage
in question. One more beauti can hardly be found in the
wide range of English poetry.

_Satyr_. Through yon same bending plain That flings his
arms down to the main; And through these thick woods, have I
run, Whose depths have never kiss'd the sun; Since the lusty
Spring began, All to please my master, Pan, Have I trotted
without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains,
this coming night, His paramour, the Syrinx bright.

[_He sees Clorin and stands amazed_.

But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great, immortal race
Of the Gods; for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty,
Than dull, weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold
And live! Therefore on this mould
Slowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land,
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells:
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better nor