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SPECIMENS, bc.

JAMES I.

It has been remarked by bishop Percy, that almost all the poetry which was composed during the early part of the preceding reign, was remarkable for the facility and musical flow of its versification; whereas the compositions of Donne, Jonson, and many of their contemporaries are, in general, unusually harsh and discordant.

Indeed, our literature could not fail of reflecting, in some degree, the manners of the court. Our maiden queen, unable to submit, without some degree of peevishness and regret, to the ravages made in her charms by the attacks of age and infirmity, spread uneasiness and constraint all around her: and the playful gallantry inseparable from a female court, was gradually succeeded by a more cold and gloomy system of manners. Poetry, which had long been busied with the loves and graces, were now only occupied with the abstruse researches of science; and fancy seemed to be crushed and over-laid by the weight of learning.

The accession of James I. who brought to the throne, the accomplishments and dispositions of a pedagogue, contributed to the growth of pedantry' and affectation; and at the same time the sullen spirit of puritanism, which began to be widely diffused, concurred in vitiating the national taste. The theatres alone seem to have been the refuge of genius ; indeed no period of our history has produced so many models of dramatic excellence : but the wretched spirit of criticism which prevailed in the closet, is evinced by the multiplied editions of Donne, Herbert, and similar versifiers; by the general preference of Jonson to Shakspeare; and by the numberless volumes of patchwork and shreds of quotation, which form the prose compositions of this age.

It is remarkable, that the series of Scotish poets terminates abruptly in this reign; and that no name of eminence occurs between those of Drummond and Thomson. Indeed it is not extraordinary, that the period which intervened between

the union of the two crowns and that of the countries, should have proved highly unpropitious to Scotish literature. Scotland becoming an appendage to the sister kingdom, was subjected, as Ireland has since been, to the worst of all governments, being abandoned to the conflict of rival families, who were alternately supported by the English administration; so that it exhibited a species of anarchy under the auspices of a legitimate sovereign.

James I. was himself a poet, and specimens of his talent, such as it was, are to be found in many of our miscellanies. He also wrote some rules and cauteles, for the use of professors of the art, which have been long, and perhaps deservedly, disregarded.

ROBERT BURTON,

Known to the learned by the name of Democritus junior,

was born in 1576. He was a man of great learning; a philosopher, a mathematician, an excellent classical scholar, and a very curious calculator of nativities. His “Anatomy “ of Melancholy," a most singular work, in which Dr. Ferriar has detected the source of many of Sterne's most admired passages, was first published in 4to, 1621, and after passing through very many editions in folio, has been lately republished. Burton was fond of poetry, and left behind him a very curious poetical library.

THE ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY,

Prefixed to the Anatomy of Melancholy.

When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, and void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very ficet;

All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

When I lie waking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,
My thoughts on me theu tyrannize,
Fear and sorrow me surprise ;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so sad as melancholy.

When to myself I act, and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile;
By a brook-side, or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought-for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.

All my joys besides are fully,
None so sweet as melancholy.

When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,
In a dark grove, or irksome den,
With discontents and furies, then
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul epsconce.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so sour as melancholy,

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