musical song is as much one of Shakespeare's gifts, as the superlative imagination which enabled him to see through the deeds of men. Several of the Elizabethan poets show an ear for melody, and a knowledge of lyrical form, which give an abiding vitality to their verse. Webster, one of the most powerful, although far from the most pleasing, of Shakespeare's contemporaries, throws his grim strength into tragedy which sometimes borders on the grotesque. He heaps horror upon horror with a vehemence of language which enchains the reader while it appals him; but this gloomy poet does now and then venture upon a lyrical strain, sad indeed according to his wont, but at the same time beautiful. Here, for instance, are ten quaint lines worthy almost of Shakespeare:

"Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

Since o'er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm ;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

For with his nails he'll dig them up again."

This song is entitled by Mr. Palgrave A Land Dirge,' and with good judgment he places it on the same page with the sea dirge sung by Ariel. A

lovely little song of somewhat similar character by Beaumont and Fletcher, might have aptly followed these two famous pieces. It is sung by Aspasia in 'The Maid's Tragedy.'

66 Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear,
Say, I died true.

"My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!"

In their lyrics these twin poets approach sometimes very near to Shakespeare-so near indeed that it might seem as if they had caught the echo of his verse; and we think that Hazlitt is correct in his judgment, that, while as dramatists they rank in the second class, they belong to the first order as lyrical and descriptive poets. If we may judge from the Faithful Shepherdess,' Fletcher's genius as a lyrist surpassed that of Beaumont; and it is infinitely sad that so lovely a lyrical drama should be deformed by gross coarseness, and by passages which, viewed simply from the artist's standing point, are out of place in such a work. Coleridge wished that Beaumont and Fletcher had written poems rather

than plays. Had they done so, instead of pandering, as they too often did, to the corrupt tastes of the town, we might have had lyrics from these brother poets worthy of a place with the youthful poems of Milton. There is a little poem ascribed to Beaumont, although it appears in the 'Nice Valour,' a play of Fletcher's, which must have suggested the opening lines of 'Il Penseroso.' So perfect is its beauty, so delicious its music, that it is not surprising it laid hold of Milton and prompted him to utter on a like subject his own beautiful thoughts.

"Hence all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
Were men but wise to see 't,

But only melancholy;
O sweetest melancholy!

"Welcome folded arms and fixèd eyes;

A sigh that piercing mortifies;

A look that's fastened to the ground;
A tongue chained up without a sound!

"Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale Passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.".

It was Francis Beaumont also who wrote the lines on Life, which may remind the reader of similar

but not more striking verses on the same topic.

"Like to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on waters stood-
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to-night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot."

Ben Jonson, whose learning has so encumbered his verse as in a measure to obscure his fame, had a sensitive ear for rhythm; and those who know him only as a dramatist have missed perhaps some of the finest traits in his poetical nature. As we read of rare Ben, we picture to ourselves a coarse-grained, powerful-looking man, prodigious in waist, and boasting, like Falstaff, a mountain belly-a man who liked good cheer too well, whose love was license, and who led the life of a town wit in a gross age, when the conscience of a playwright was not likely to be over-sensitive. London life he understood in all its variety; and as the leader of the Apollo Club,

we can picture him enjoying the same kind of honour which was bestowed some years later upon Dryden. Such a man, you might say, was not likely to babble of green fields, or to sing the sweet songs which are inspired by an open-air life, or by that faith in the beauty and purity of womanhood which is the reward of honest thought and generous aspirations. Nevertheless, this fine dramatist, manabout-town though he was, and far, it is to be feared, from a cleanly liver, had an eye for natural loveliness and a heart susceptible to the grace of womanly charms, and of all that is lovely and of good report, which surprises and delights us as we read his lyrical poems. To know Ben Jonson at his best, as a man, if not as a poet, the reader should gain a familiar acquaintance with The Forest' and with Underwoods,' under which headings are to be found the gems of his lyrical poetry as well as much of rare excellence in descriptive and rural verse. This tavern poet and town wit knew and loved nature well, and how charmingly he could sing of love might be proved by a variety of examples. Perhaps the song commencing with

"Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine,"

is Jonson's best; at all events it is the one best