The following will be new to many of our readers:

THE SHEPHERD’S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA

Prais’d be Diana’s fair and harmless light;
Prais’d be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground;
Prais’d be her beams, the glory of the night;
Prais’d be her power, by which all powers abound!

Prais’d be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods;
Prais’d be her knights, in whom true honor lives;
Prais’d be that force by which she moves the floods!
Let that Diana shine, which all these gives!

In heaven, queen she is among the spheres;
She mistress-like, makes all things to be pure;
Eternity in her oft-change she bears;
She, Beauty is ; by her, the fair endure.

Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is plac’d;
By her the virtues of the stars down slide;
In her is Virtue’s perfect image cast!

A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
With Circes let them dwell that think not so!

Though we discover in his verses the vices of the courtier, and they are not equally sustained, as if his genius were warped by the frivolous society of the Court, he was capable of rising to unusual heights. His genius seems to have been fitted for short flights of unmatched sweetness and vigor, but by no means for the sustained loftiness of the epic poet. One who read his verses would say that he had not grown to be the man he promised. They have occasionally a strength of character and heroic tone rarely expressed or appreciated; and powers and excellences so peculiar, as to be almost unique specimens of their kind in the language. Those which have reference to his death have been oftenest quoted, and are the best. The Soul’s Errand deserves to be remembered till her mission is accomplished in the world.

We quote the following, not so well known, with some omissions, from the commencement of —

HIS PILGRIMAGE

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon;
My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;
My gown of glory, (hope’s true gage)
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will here be given,
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven,
Over all the silver mountains,
Where do spring those nectar fountains:

And I there will sweetly kiss
The happy bowl of peaceful bliss.
Drinking mine eternal fill
Flowing on each milky hill.
My soul will be adry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.

In that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparell’d fresh like me.

But he wrote his poems, after all, rather with ships and fleets, and regiments of men and horse. At his bidding, navies took their place in the channel, and even from prison he fitted out fleets with which to realize his golden dreams, and invited his companions to fresh adventures.

Raleigh might well be studied if only for the excellence of his style, for he is remarkable even in the midst of so many masters.