prolix discussions, and wants as a rule life and variety. The com position is often loose and feeble, the vocabulary is singularly limited, and bad taste is conspicuous in every canto. But Hawes,

with all his faults, is a true poet. He has a sweet simplicity, a pensive gentle air, a subdued cheerfulness about him which have a strange charm at this distance of dissimilar time. Though the hand of the artist is not firm, and the colouring sometimes too sober, his pictures are very graphic. Take one out of many :-

The way was troublous and ey nothyng playne,
Tyll at the last I came into a dale,

Beholdyng Phoebus declinying lowe and pale.
With my greyhoundes, in the fayre twylight
I sate me downe.'

His verse is sometimes harsh, but it often breathes a plaintive music, and has a weirdly beautiful rhythm which falls on the ear like the echo of a vanished world,' and seems to transport us back to the dim cloister of some old mediaeval abbey. One such stanza we give :

'O mortall folke you may beholde and see
Howe I lye here, sometime a mighty knight,
The end of joye and all prosperite

Is death at last, thorough his course and mighte,
After the daye there cometh the darke nighte,
For though the daye be never so long,

At last the belle ringeth to evensong.'

That couplet alone should suffice for immortality. We may claim also for this neglected poet complete originality at an age when English poetry at least had degenerated into mere translations, into feeble narratives, or into sickly imitations of Chaucer.

But there are two other interesting points connected with The Pastime of Pleasure. It marks with singular precision a great epoch in our literature. It is the last expiring echo of Mediaevalism; it is the first articulate prophecy of the Renaissance. It is the link between The Canterbury Tales and The Faery Queen. Hawes is in poetry what Philippe de Commines is in prose: he belongs to the old world and he breathes its atmosphere-he belongs also to the new, for its first rays are falling on him. He connects the two. The weeds of a time sad and sombre indeed hang about him but Hope is the refrain of his song.

'Drive despaire away,

And live in hopë which shall do you good.
Joy cometh after when the payne is past,

Be ye pacient and sober in mode:

To wepe and waile, all is for you in waste.
Was never payne, but it had joy at last

In the fayre morrowe.'

Again,

The dawn had broken, the morning he felt was near. The Pastime of Pleasure was the precursor of The Faery Queen. The two poems are similar in allegorical purpose, similar in the development of their allegory. Some of the incidents, though not identical, are of the same character, and it it would be going too far to say that Spenser was a disciple of Hawes, it would not be going too far to say that Spenser had been a careful student of The Pastime of Pleasure, had been indebted to it for many a useful hint, many a slight preliminary sketch, many a pleasing effect of rhythm and cadence. We have dealt with some minuteness on Hawes, because of the injustice which all his critics have so inexplicably done him. He is,' says Scott, 'a bad imitator of Lydgate, ten times more tedious than his original.' 'Even his name may be omitted,' adds Campbell, 'without any treason to the cause of taste.' Our extracts are, we may add, selected from The Pastime of Pleasure: his minor poems are best forgotten.

J. CHURTON COLLINS.

VOL L

DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRAUNDE AMOURE AND LA PUCEL

[From Cantos xviii. and xix.]

Amoure.

O swete lady, the good perfect starre

Of my true hart, take ye nowe pitie,

Thinke on my paine, whiche am tofore you here,

With your swete eyes beholde you and se,
Howe thought and wo, by great extremitie
Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne.
It was not so when I to loue began.

Pucel.

So me thinke, it dothe right well appeare

By your coloure, that loue hath done you wo,-
Your heuy countenaunce, and your doleful cheare,-
Hath loue suche might, for to aray you so

In so short space? I maruell muche also
That you woulde loue me, so sure in certayns
Before ye knew that I woulde loue agayne.

Amoure.

My good deare hart, it is no maruaile why;
Your beauty cleare and louely lokes swete,
My hart did perce with loue so sodainely,
At the firste time, that I did you mete
In the olde temple, when I did you grete.
O lady deare, that pers'd me to the root;
O floure of comfort, all my heale and boote'.

Pucel.

Your wo and paine, and all your languishyng
Continually, ye shall not spende in vayne,
Sithe I am cause of your great mournyng.
Nothinge exile you shall I by disdaine,
Your hart and mine shall neuer part in twaine,

For these two lines the Ed. of 1555 reads:

Your beaute my herte so surely assayde
That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.

Thoughe at the first I wouldne not condescende,
It was for feare ye did some yll entende.

Amoure.

With thought of yll my minde was neuer mixt
To you, madame, but always cleare and pure
Bothe daye and nyght, vpon you whole perfixt
Put I my minde, yet durst nothing discure
Howe for your sake I did such wo endure,
Till nowe this houre with dredfull hart so faint,
To you, swete hart, I haue made my complaint.
Pucel.

I demed oft you loued me before;
By your demenoure I did it espye,
And in my minde I judged euermore
That at the last ye woulde full secretely
Tell me your minde, of loue right gentilly:
All ye haue done so my mercy to craue
In all worship, you shall my true loue haue.

Amoure.

O gemme of vertue, and lady excellent
Aboue all other in beauteous goodlines,
O eyen bright as starre refulgent,
O profounde cause of all my sickenes,
Nowe all my joye and all my gladnes,
Wouldne God that we were joyned in one
In mariage, before this daye were gone.

AMOURE LAMENTS THE ABSENCE OF LA BELLE PUCEL [From Canto xx.]

Then agayne I went to the tower melodious

Of good dame Musicke, my leaue for to take ;
And priuely with these wordes dolorous

I saied; O tower, thou maiest well aslake
Suche melody nowe; in the more to make
The gemme is gone of all famous port
That was chefe cause of the great comfort.

Whilome thou was the faire tower of light,
But nowe thou art replete with darkenes,
She is nowe gone, that shone in the so bright
Thow wast sometime the tower of gladnes,
Now maist thou be the tower of heauines,
For the chefe is gone of all thy melody,
Whose beauty cleare made most swete armony.

The faire carbuncle, so full of clearenes,
That in the truely did most purely shine,
The pearle of pitie, replete with swetenes,
The gentle gillofloure, the goodly columbine,
The redolent plante of the dulcet vyne,
The dede aromatike may no more encense,
For she is so farre out of thy presence.

Ah, ah! truely, in the time so past
Mine errande was, the often for to se;
Nowe for to enter I may be agast

When thou art hence, the starre of beauty,
For all my delite was to beholde the:
Ah Tower, Tower! all my ioye is gone;
In me to enter comfort there is none.

So then inwardly my selfe bewaylyng

In the tower I went, into the habitacle
Of dame Musicke, where she was singyng
The ballades swete, in her fayre tabernacle ;
Alas, thought I, this is no spectacle

To fede mine eyen, whiche are nowe all blynde,
She is not here, that I was wont to finde.

Then of dame Musicke, with all lowlines,
I did take my leaue, withouten tariyng;
She thanked me with all her mekenes.
And all alone, forthe I went musyng:
Ah, ah, quoth I, my loue and likyng

Is none faire hence, on whom my whole delite
Daiely was set vpon her to haue sight.