surveys his flight. The reader will see at once the perfection of the picture. "Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus' eye. Which after him she darts, as one on shore Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware But we must come to a conclusion. The story ends, as is well known, with the death of Adonis. He is killed by the tusked boar; and the following is his queen's lament. "Alas! poor World, what treasure hast thou lost! Bonnet, or veil, henceforth no creature wear; The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you. But when Adonis liv'd, sun and sharp air Lurk'd, like two thieves, to rob him of his fair. And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Play with his locks, then would Adonis weep: And strait, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears." This has more than enough of conceit, it must be ad mitted. What follows is of sterner stuff, and full of passion. It is now, indeed, that the Queen of Paphos speaks, the amorous and vindictive beauty, foiled in love (by Death) and resolute to inflict on the many, the pains and penalties which were incurred by one offender. Let the reader admire a lady's justice. We are ourselves inveterate admirers of “ the sex : nevertheless, we do not wish that these fair creatures should be troubled either with the balance or the sword. ،، Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophecy, That all love's pleasures shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, It shall be sparing, and the fool of riot, It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear; And most deceiving when it seems most just: It shall be cause of war and dire events, Sith in his prime, death doth my love destroy, * Thus ** weary of the world away she hies, Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is conveyed, Holding their course to Paphos"— where, we are told, she means to immure herself, to bewail the death of the slain Adonis. We have quoted so largely from this first poem of Shakespeare, that we are unable to give much extract from the second, The Rape of Lucrece. The story needs no detail; and the poem, though highly passionate, and (as a fine earnest production) superior to the Venus and Adonis, cannot be shewn to advantage by any extracts that we could afford. It is the true tale of Tarquin, who" softly prest the rushes," and committed himself to one infamous adventure, by which he eventually lost his crown and life. It opens with the arrival of the “false lord" at Collatium, where he is welcomed by the Roman lady Lucretia. The time is midnight. "Now stole upon the time the dead of night, No noise but owls and wolves' death-boding cries And the compunction of Tarquin is awakened, and he communes thus. "Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot Let fair Humanity abhor the deed, That spots and stains Love's modest snow-white weed. O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms! O foul dishonour to my household's grave! A martial man to be soft fancy's slave! True valour still a true respect should have." The debate, however, between honour and his lust, is brief. He goes burning to his purpose, and the ruin of Lucrece and his own eternal disgrace are accomplished. The victim's pleading is very touching. "She conjures him by high almighty Jove; By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath; } By her untimely tears, her husband's love; By heaven and earth, and all the power of both; And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. * In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee, Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely name: To thee, to thee, my heav'd up hands appeal, Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire. But, as we have said, her pleading is vain. The force of Tarquin prevails, and the white fame of Lucretia is stained for ever. The" Lord of Rome" departs, and the wife of Collatinus remains" a hopeless cast-away." She utters her frenzy to the winds, and curses the hateful night. "Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime," she says, and then she prays that the day may never behold her. "Make me not object to the tell-tale day; To cypher what is writ in learned books, Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks." There is something to us very fearful in her curse, contrasted as it is with the ordinary imprecations of hate (where a swift vengeance is the only thing invoked), and her own gentle and immaculate nature. Her despair is profound, and so is her invocation. "Let him have time to tear his curled hair; Let him have time to see his friends his foes, Have time to wail th' abusing of his time." This, however, yields in time to tearful sorrow, and she turns from such fierce wishes to gentler complaint. sence. "Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, To creatures stern, sad tunes to change their kinds, At last, she writes to her husband, requesting his preHe accordingly comes, and finds his Lucrece "clad in mourning black," and in exceeding grief. He inquires why she is "thus attired in discontent." "And now this pale swan, in her wat❜ry nest, Few words,' quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, |