was driven by a storm upon the English coast. The poet was made prisoner and taken to London. To the friendly intercession of Milton he probably owed his life, though the Tower held him captive for two years. Gondibert," which he had thought was to be interrupted by "so great an experiment as dying," was here resumed, and the sad and lonely days in the Tower were cheered by this congenial work.

Released at length, he plunged with zest into his former theatrical life, but he was now the deposed laureate and had to work in secret. The Puritan reaction had closed the theatres, and the results of Davenant's efforts were very uncertain. But his aim was to revive the stage, and he worked on faithfully until the Restoration, and then he came boldly forth from his retirement. He opened a theatre for the production of his own plays, where he introduced many novelties in scenery, was the author of many innovations, such as women actors, musical accompaniments, etc., and thus the progress of the English drama owed much to this industrious worker.

Davenant was the first to begin that despicable remodelling of Shakespeare which Dryden, Tate, and others imitated; but they were all but catering to the depraved taste of the age, which could not appreciate the higher flights of genius. "The giant race before the flood" had long since departed, Shakespeare and Jonson were in their graves, the Elizabethan age was past and gone. Mere amusement was what was demanded of the poets if they were to win popular approval. The people wanted no great ennobling work of art, no moral strength and dignity on the stage.

At the Restoration the laurel had been again placed upon the brow of Davenant, and he wore it till his death in 1668. His last days were quiet and uneventful, much happier than those of Ben Jonson, and the end came in peace. His life had "exhibited a moving picture of genius in action and in contemplation. With all the infirmities of lively passions, he had all the redeeming virtues of magnanimity and generous affections," and at the last his friends laid him to rest in the sacred seclusion of the grand old Abbey.

Of Davenant's numerous plays it would be impossible to speak in detail. They are energetic and bold in construction, show novelty in imagery, and often originality in the analysis of character. They teem with philosophical reflections and condensed epigrams, and yet they lack passion and fire, and have not the exalted view of human nature and of the earnestness of human life which is shown in " Gondibert." Even with Davenant the stage began to take its downward course. And this, in spite of the great and undeniable services he rendered it. With all his talent, Davenant had not the moral force to

stem the tide of his age. He could not dictate to it like Jonson, nor was he unworldly enough, like Milton, to go serenely on, unmindful of its applause and its alluring rewards.

In the hands of dramatists like Wycherley, Etheredge, Congreve, and Davenant's successor in the Laureateship, Dryden, the English stage became a mere panderer to vice, well meriting the vigorous onslaughts of Jeremy Collier.

Milton said that he who aspires to write a heroic poem must make his own life heroic. Davenant himself said that he who writes a heroic poem gives a greater gift to posterity than to the present age. Poor Davenant hoped to win a place among the immortals by his "Gondibert," but, though many of its fine and sonorous phrases live in the language, the poem, as a whole, is seldom read. Yet the versatile genius of Davenant claims a far better fate for this poem than has been accorded it. Disraeli very justly calls attention to the new vein of invention in narrative poetry which Davenant opened in "Gondibert.” “The poet styled it heroic, but we have since called it romantic." Scott, Byron, and Southey worked this same vein of invention, and discovered richer treasures than ever came within the ken of Davenant, and they had a depth of passion also unknown to him; but he was the pioneer, and should, for his originality, receive due praise. Davenant's work has neither the vitality nor the permanence of the best work of Jonson, and therefore it has not withstood the disintegrating power of time. But, as Disraeli says, one of the curiosities in the history of our poetry is this very poem, which is now nearly forgotten by the world: "The fortunes and the fate of this epic are as extraordinary as the poem itself. Davenant had viewed human life in all its shapes, and had himself taken them. A poet and a wit, the creator of the English stage, a soldier, an emigrant, a courtier, and a politician, and at all times a philosopher, he was, too, a state prisoner, awaiting death with his great poem in his hand."

SELECTIONS FROM DAVENANT.

TO THE QUEEN.

FAIR as unshaded light, or as the day
In its first birth, when all the year was May;
Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new
Unfolded bud, swell'd by the early dew;
Smooth as the face of waters first appear'd,
Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard;
Kind as the willing saints, or calmer far
Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are.
You that are more than our discreeter fear

Dares praise, with such full art, what make you here?
Here, where the summer is so little seen,

That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at green:
You came, as if the silver planet were

Misled awhile from her much-injured sphere;
And t' ease the travels of her beams to-night,
In this small lanthorn would contract her light.

SONG.

THE lark now leaves his watery nest,
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes this window for the east ;

And to implore your light, he sings,
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn,
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

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