GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

BORN 1540; DIED 1577.

THIS writer is justly placed among the worthies of our early poetical literature. His principal works are entitled—“The Fruits of War," the "Steel Glass," the "Supposes," a comedy, from Ariosto, and "Jocasta," a tragedy, from Euripides. His minor poems, of which some specimens follow, bear the quaint title of "Flowers, Herbs, and Weeds."

Gascoigne was bred to the law, but quitted it, and served with distinction against the Spaniards, in the war in Holland. His writings present rather the result of just observation than the fruits of creative genius. His verse is uncommonly smooth, easy, and unaffected, for the age in which he wrote; and his pen is never employed but on the side of virtue and honour.

B

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

GOOD MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night
In sleep and quiet rest,

And joy to see the cheerful light

That riseth in the East,

Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,
Come, help me now to sing:
Each willing wight, come, bear a part,

To praise the heavenly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,

Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress,

Yet bear a part in doleful wise,

Yea, think it good accord,

And acceptable sacrifice,

Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread the light,

And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overprest our might:

A glass wherein you may behold

Each storm that stops our breath,Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last
But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,
Doth show his pleasant face,
So must we hope to see God's face,
At last, in heaven on high,

When we have changed this mortal place
For immortality.

And of such haps and heavenly joys,
As then we hope to hold,

All earthly sights and worldly toys

Are tokens to behold.

The day is like the day of doom,

The sun, the Son of man,

The skies the heavens, the earth the tomb Wherein we rest till then.

The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedeck'd with sundry hues,

Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:-

That as thereby he promised

To drown the world no more, So, by the blood which Christ has shed, He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime,
And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time,
Which do but dim our eyes;
But as such dews are dried up quite
When Phoebus shows his face,
So are such fancies put to flight,
Where God doth guide by grace.

The carrion-crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,
Both for her hue and for the rest,
The devil resembleth plain;
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,

The devil so must we overthrow
With gun-shot of belief.

The little birds which sing so sweet,
Are like the angels' voice,

Which render God his praises meet,
And teach us to rejoice:

And as they more esteem that mirth
Than dread the night's annoy,
So must we deem our days on earth
But hell, to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain
God grant us all his grace,
And send us, after worldly pain,
In heaven to have a place;
Where we may still enjoy that light

Which never shall decay :

Lord, for thy mercy, lend us might
To see that joyful day.