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The Fairy Queen's Chariot.
ER chariot ready strait is made,
Fly Cranion, her charioteer,
Upon the coach-box getting.
Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excel:
I trow, 'twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
With thistle-down they shod it;
For all her maidens much did fear,
If Oberon had chanced to hear
That Mab his queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.
[MICHAEL DRAYTON, a voluminous writer of the Elizabethan era, is far less known than he deserves to be, perhaps because he fell into the dangerous error of writing too much, and thus producing chronicles where sketches would have been preferred. Thus his principal work, the "Poly-olbion," contains above twenty-eight thousand verses-a formidable array, such as might daunt the most persevering reader of verse. In the "Baron's Wars," one of his best poems, there are many noble descriptions. The description of "Queen Mab's Chariot," given above, is taken from his "Nymphidia: the Court of Fairy." The lines might have been spoken by Mercutio himself. Drayton's genius did not result in placing him in independent circumstances. After a long life of toil and discomfort, he expired, in 1631 at the age of sixty-eight years.]
THE YOUNG HERDSMAN,
All melted into him; they swallowed up
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
A herdsman, on the lonely mountain tops,
O, then, how beautiful, how bright appeared
Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart
Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,
And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired
Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he learned,
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
In many a calmer hour of sober thought,
The Mother and Child.
ER by her smile how soon the stranger knows ;
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
But soon a nobler task demands her care;
THE MOTHER AND CHILD.
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
Released, he chases the bright butterfly;
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
[The name of SAMUEL ROGERS, the banker-poet, recalls several successive generations of literary celebrities. Born in 1762, he entered the field of letters while the great "Doctor" still towered on his throne as the Grand Cham of literature, and he survived till 1855, almost seventy years after the production of his first collection of poems, which were published in 1786, the year in which Robert Burns first appeared as an author. Rogers is not a very prolific writer; and his poems are rather remarkable for grace and polish of diction, than for innate power. His best work, the "Italy," was published in 1822. Rogers will long be remembered as a kind patron of his less fortunate compeers in literature and art; his great wealth giving him opportunities of doing good, of which he availed himself in no stinted measure. Many have cause to remember him with gratitude.]