Perseverance.

ONE of a series of ancient inscriptions on panels in Pengwersick Castle, near Helston.

HAT thing is harder than a rock?

What softer is than water clear?

Yet will the same, with often drop,
The hard rock pierce, as doth appear:
Even so, nothing so hard to attayne
But may be had with labour and payne.

The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618) was born at Hayes, near Budleigh Salterton, in Devonshire. Statesman, philosopher, courtier, gallant soldier, daring sailor; he was also a true poet. Witness this reply to Marlow's "Come, live with me, and be my love.".

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F all the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to field,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,

And age complains of cares to come.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, with ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

Why should we talk of dainties then--
Of better meat than fits for men?
These are but vain; that's only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

9

The Country's Recreations.

RALEIGH.

UIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldings' sports,

Where trained sardonic smiles are glowing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will.

Fly from our country's pastimes, fly,
Sad troops of human misery.

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azure heaven that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty;

Peace and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals, did you know

Where joy, heart's ease, and comfort; grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in those bowers;

Where winds sometimes our woods may shake, But blustering care could never tempest make; Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.

II

Here's no fantastic masque or dance,
But of our kids that frisk and prance;

Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,. Which done, both bleating run each to his mother; And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Here are no entrapping baits

To hasten to too hasty fates,

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which, worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook:

Nor envy, 'less among

The birds for prize of their sweet song.

Go, let the diving negro seek

For gems hid in some forlorn creek:

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass:
And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest silent groves, oh may you be
For ever mirth's best nursery!

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents

[mountains:

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these And peace still slumber by these purling fountains: Which we may every year

Meet when we come a-fishing here.

A Farewell,

ENTITLED, TO THE FAMOUS AND FORTUNATE GENERALS OF OUR ENGLISH FORCES, ETC.

1589.

GEORGE PEELE (1553-1597), born in Devonshire, dramatist.

AVE done with care, my hearts! aboard amain
With stretching sails to plough the swelling

waves:

Bid England's shore and Albion's chalky cliffs
Farewell; bid stately Troynovant adieu,
Where pleasant Thames from Isis' silver head
Begins her quiet glide, and runs along

To that brave bridge, the bar that thwarts her course,
Near neighbour to the ancient stony Tower-
The glorious hold that Julius Cæsar built.

Change love for arms; girt to your blades, my boys!
Your rests and muskets take, take helm and targe,
And let God Mars his consort make you mirth-
The roaring cannon and the brazen trump,
The angry-sounding drum, the whistling fife,