So likewise by Gods mighty hafide,
Syr Frauncis Drake, by dreadfull sworde,
Dyd foyle hys foes in forraine lande,
Which did contemne Christes holy word.

And many captives did sette free,
Which earst were long in misery,

Twenty five ships were then preparde,
Fifteen pinnasses brave and fine,
Well furnished for his safegarde,"
Preventing foes that would him tyne.

With masters good and marriners yarẹ -
As ever tooke charge I dare compare.

The best navigators in this lande,
Conferde with him unto thys ende,
By thys famous Knight to understanđe,
Theyr valors to atchieve and wende.
In countryes straunge beyond the sea,
If God permit, who can say nay.

SIR FRANCIS HUBERT.

THE name of this English Poet does not appear, either in the first or last edition of Phillips's Theatrum Poetarum, or in Ritson's Biographia Poetica. But the author of an Epic Poem, and that by no means contemptible in

plan

plan or execution, in the spirit or harmony of versification, should not be entirely forgotten, I am happy in this opportunity of contributing to its preservation.

The following Poem is in the Eritish Museum.

"THE HISTORIE OF EDWARD THE SECOND, SURNAMED CARNARVON, one of our English Kings, together with the Fatal Down-fall of his two unfortunate Favorites, Gaveston and Spencer. Now published by the Author thereof, according to the true originall Copie, and purged from those foule Errors and Corruptions wherewith that spurious and surreptitious Peece which lately came forth, under the same Tytle, was too much defiled and deformed.

With the Addition of some other Observations, both of Use and Ornament. By F. H. Knight. London. Printed by B. A. and T. F. for L. Chapman, and are to be sold at the upper end of Chancery Lane. 1629."

Prefixed is a head of the unfortunate Edward; and the Poem is dedicated to the Authors " loving Brother, Mr. Richard Hubert."

very

This Poem must have been of some notoriety in its day, for the Author complains that a surreptitious copy had been industriously circulated. The dedication to the author's brother thus concludes:

"And so humbly desiring the Almighty to blesse you, both in soule, body and estate, I rest not

your

your Servant, according to the new and fine but false phrase of the time, but in honest old English, your loving Brother and true Friend for

ever.

FRAN. HUBERT."

The following is a specimen of the Poem:

O sacred vertue, what a powerfull guard
Art thou? What a strong tower of defence?
All hearts are won to reverence and regard
Thy awfull worth: thou neyther giv'st offence,
Nor takest it: men are not without sence,

But they both see and tast, and love and nourish
That reall good, by which themselves do flourish.

What understandinge soule, that doth not know,
And knowing love, and loving will not spend
The dearest bloud, that in his veines doth flow,
To guard, and give unto that prince, whose end
To publike more then private good doth bend?
Hee shall be ever able to command

At wil, his subjects purse, his heart, his hand.

Flight was our best defence, and flye we did,
So silly doves before proud falcons flye,
Till Gaveston in Scarborrow-castle hid

My peeres surpris'd: whom Warwickes Earl Syr Guy
Beauchamp beheaded so my Pierce did dye.

A gloomie night concluded his faire morne,
And fortunes darling ended fortunes scorne.

O what

O what is hon ur but an exhalation?
A fierie meteor soone extinct and gone,
A breath of people, and the tongues relation,
That streyght is ended when the voyce is done,
A morning dew, dry'd up with mid-day sun,

A ceasing sweet, like Danaes golden shoure,
That both began and ended in an houre.

There breeds a little beast by Nilus streames,
Which being borne, when Phoebus first doth rise;
Grows old when he reflects his hottest beams,
And when at night to western seas he hies,
Then life begins to faile, and streight it dyes,
Borne, old, and dead, and all but in a day:
Such honour is, so soone it wears away.

How much more happy is that sweet estate,
That neither creepes too lowe, nor soares too high,
Which yield no matter to contempt or hate,
Which others not disdaine, not yet envie,
Which neyther does, por takes an injurie,
But living to itselfe in sweet content,
Is neither abject, nor yet insolent.

He lives indeed, and spendes his course of time
In truest pleasure, that this life can yield,
He hath set houres to pray at ev'n, and prime,
He walks abroad into his quiet field,

And studies how his home affaires to wield.

His soul and body make one comon wealth,
His councels care to keepe them both in health.

He

He feares no poysons in his meates and drinkes,
He needs no guard to watch about his bed, ·
No teacher undermines him, what he thinkes,
No dangerous projects hammer in his head,
He sits and sees how things are managed,
And by observing what hath earst beene done,
He levels oft, how future things will run.

ELIZABETH MELVILL.

ON the suggestion of my friend Mr. George Chalmers, I give the following Poetical Tract a place in this Collection:

"A GODLY DREAM.

By Elizabeth Melvill,

Lady Culros Younger,

At the request of a speciall Friend.
Matthew vii. 13. and Luke xiii. 24.

Enter in at the strayt gate, for wyde is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and manie there bee which go in there

at.

Aberdene.

Imprinted by E. Raban, Laird of Letters, and are to bee sold at his shop, at the end of the Broad Gate. 1644."

There