POETICAL TRIBUTES ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

IN a MS. at the British Museum, No. 4712, in Ayscough's Catalogue, there is the following verses on the death of queen Elizabeth, which will be admired for their force and quaint

ness.

Britannia Lachryma.

Weep, little Isle ! and for thy mistress' death,
Swim in a double sea of brakish water!

Weep, little world! for great Elizabeth,

Daughter of warre, for Mars himself begat her!

Mother of Peace, for she bore the latter.

She was and is (what can there more be said?)
On earth the first, in heaven the second maid.

On the funeral of the maiden queen, a poet of the day described the national grief in the following stanzas:

The queen was brought by water to Whitehall,
At every stroke the oars did tears let fall;
More clung about the barge; fish under water
Wept out their eyes of pearle, and swome blind after.
I think the bargemen might, with easier thighs,

Have row'd her thither in her people's eyes;

For, howsoe'er, thus much my thoughts have scann'd,
Sh'ad come by water had she come by land.

FUNERAL SERMON ON OLIVER CROMWELL.

ON the death of Oliver Cromwell, one Edward Matthews dedicated a funeral sermon to his son Richard, in very singular terms. It was entitled "Threrie Hybernici; or, Ireland sympathizing with England and Scotland, in a sad lamentation for the loss of her Josiah, represented in a sermon preached at Christ Church, in Dublin, before his excellency, the lord deputy, with divers of the nobility, gentry, and commonality, there assembled to celebrate a funeral solemnity, upon the death of the late lord protector. By Dr. Harrison, chief chaplain to his said excellency.

And all Judah and Jerusalem mourned for him, 2 Chron. xxv. 24. This is a lamentation, and shall be for a lamenta

tion, Ezek. xix. 14. 4 Reg. xiii. 14. Pater mê, currus Israel, et auriga ejus. 4 Reg. ii. 12.

66

Cicer. Somn. Scip. Omnibus qui patriam conservarint, adjuverint, auxerint, certus est in cæno ac definitus locus, ubi beati ævo sempiterno fruentur.

"Senec. Nunquam Stygias fertur ad umbras inclita

virtus.

"London: Printed by E. Cotes; and are to be sold by John North, bookseller, in Častle Street, at Dublin, in Ireland, 1659."

The following is the Dedication.

"To the most illustrious Richard, lord protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the dominions thereunto belonging:

66

May it please your highness: It was a saying of David, (Psalm cxii. 6.) the righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance; and of Solomon, (Prov. x. 7.) the memorial of the just shall be blessed. Divine Providence made it my lot to hear this sermon pathetically delivered by that pious divine, Dr. Harrison, in a full, fluent manner, extracting tears from the eyes, and sighs from the hearts, of the hearers. I moved the doctor for the printing thereof, being so precious a piece, touching so unparalleled a person, that it was more fit to be made public, than perish in oblivion; who, in a modest manner, termed it a sudden, imperfect, and unpolished collection of scattered thoughts and notes, which brevity of time, and burthen of spirit, would not permit him more completely to compile; yet, upon my importunity, he was pleased to condescend to my motion, and delivered me this copy, now printed, written with his own hand. The usefulness of the piece, replete with so many observations, together with the desire of erecting all lasting monuments that might tend to the eternising of the blessed memory of that thrice renowned patron and pattern of piety, your royal father (whose pious life is his never-perishing pyramid, every man's heart being his tomb, and every good man's heart an epitaph), hath emboldened me, in all humility, to present it to your highness as a lively effigies to mind you of his matchless virtues. And, as the learned author intended it, not so much for the eye or ear, as for the heart; not for reading only, but practice principally; so may your highness please to make use thereof, as a pattern of imitation for piety and reformation in the nations. That your highness may become a successful successor of such a peerless predecessor, to inherit his goodness with his greatness, that

out of his ashes you may spring another phoenix as a honeycomb out of the strong lion; a royal branch of that rare root; a strong rod to be a sceptre to rule: so shall your highness's holy and ever virtuous progress be a new crown of comfort to the three nations, filling the people's hearts with joyful hopes of happiness, and a firm well-grounded peace, that they may sit safely under their vines and fig-trees, freed from the terrors and turmoils of tumultuous broils; and that your highness may obtain and enjoy the continual protection of the Omnipotent Protector, to crown your highness and the nations with loving kindness and tender mercies, shall be the constant prayer of

"Your highness's most humble
and faithfully devoted,

EDWARD MATTHEWS."

FREDERICK THE GREAT, AND THE YOUNG PRETENDER.

A COPY of the following letter from the king of Prussia, to the young pretender, was found amongst the papers of a gentleman of the first rank, after his decease, in 1770. It presents every mark of genuineness.

Much beloved cousin,

I can no longer, my dear prince, deny myself the satisfaction of congratulating you on your safe arrival in France, and though my connection with the reigning family did not permit me to rejoice too openly at the progress of your arms, I can assure you, on the word of a king, I was sincerely touched at your misfortunes, and under the decpest apprehensions for the safety of your person. All Europe was astonished at the greatness of the enterprise; for, though Alexander, and other heroes, have conquered kingdoms with inferior armies, you are the only one who ever engaged in such an attempt without

one.

Voltaire, who, of all poets, is best able to write, is, above all men, indebted to your highness, for having at length furnished him with a subject worthy of his pen, which has all the requisites of an epic poem, except happier event.

However, though fortune was your foe, Great Britain, and not your highness, are the only losers by it, as the difficulties you have undergone have only served to discover those talents and virtues which have gained you the admiration of

all mankind, and even the esteem of those amongst your enemies, in whom every spark of virtue is not totally

extinct.

The princess, who has all the curiosity of her sex, is desirous of seeing the features of a hero, of whom she has heard so much; so that your highness has it in your power to oblige both her and me by sending us your picture by the count de who is on his return to Berlin, and be assured I shall esteem it the most valuable acquisition I ever made.

You are frequently the subject of my conversation with Marshal Keith, whom I have had the good fortune to engage in my service; and besides his consummate knowledge in military affairs, he is possessed of a thousand amiable qualities: yet nothing endears him so much to me, as his entertaining the same sentiments that I do with regard to your royal highness.

Were my situation different from what it is, I should give you more essential proofs of my friendship than mere words; but you may depend upon any good offices I can do with my brother of France: yet I am sorry to tell you, that I am too well acquainted with the politics of that court, to expect that they will do you any solid service, as they would have every thing to apprehend from a prince of your consummate abilities and enterprising genius, placed at the head of the bravest people in the world.

Adieu, royal hero! and assure yourself that no change of fortune can make any alteration in my esteem.

From our Court at Berlin,

Nov. 8th 1747.

PRUSSIA.

RULES FOR BECOMING A POET.

THE following observations on poetry were written in the Turkish language, by Nabi Effendi, a celebrated poet, who died about the beginning of the eighteenth century. If modern British poets would subject themselves to the standard thus prescribed, they would either be less numerous, or more valued.

66

My son, before you attempt to run the painful race of poetry, examine your strength. If you perceive within yourself that divine fire which glows in the bosom of great poets,

F

give yourself up to your genius. First enrich your mind by reading the works of those who have excelled in verse. Nesi and Baki are in the first rank of the Turkish poets. Persia, the fruitful mother of genius, has produced a great number of good poets. What strength and purity in the works of Saib and Kellmi! Ciami, Nouri, and Khakani abound with beauties innumerable, and inexpressible. Sali, like the soft nightingale, fills the groves with sounds of melody. Chevket, like the eagle, bears his ambitious wings to heaven. Hafiz sings of love, and the sweet juices of the vine, while Atter aids the cause of virtue, by the sublime precepts of morality. The Arabs have been no less ardent in the cultivation of poetry than the Persians. They have even more of that enthusiasm, that poetic furor which seizes, inflames, and elevates the heart. Their style is impetuous: their strong imagination paints every object with force; and their poetry is impregnated with all the warmth of their climate. Their works are like diamonds, that dart a thousand rays; but, to taste their beauty, it is necessary thoroughly to understand their language. Whoever would attain to perfection, should have a consummate knowledge of the Arabic and the Persian. Those two languages are the wings on which a poet must rise into the air; without them he will grovel on the ground.

66

Would you wish, my son, that your verse should not only be admired by your contemporaries, but pass to posterity, never sacrifice sense to rhyme. Convey some useful truth under some ingenious emblem, or fine allegory. Let your works have a general tendency to promote the virtues of mankind. The garden of poetry is dry and ungenial, if it be not watered with the streams of philosophy.

"The greater part of our ordinary poets speak only of lilies, locks of hair, nightingales, and wine. If they describe some imaginary beauty with which they are smitten, they compare her sometimes to the spring, sometimes to an enamelled mead. Her lips are like the rose, and and her complexion resembles the jessamine. Cold and servile imitators, their languid imagination supplies them with nothing new. They cannot march, except in a beaten path.

"Truth, my son, hath no need of severity to make us hear her voice. Never employ your muse in satire. A professed satirist is feared by all mankind: all are apprehensive of the malignity of his pen. He has hatred and envy to encounter, and many reasons to repent his caustic genius."