2R4 A Winter Evening with the Poets. 



been diffused over the masses of society by the early ballads, which 

 have been found to precede the dawn of literature in every country. 

 They were, however, if we may be allowed the metaphor, indications, of 

 the golden morning, which soon after began to appear above the 

 horizon. The elements of poetry were prepared, and Chaucer moulded 

 them into a form, and breathed the life of inspiration into his creation. 

 A dreary period elapsed from his death to the days of Surrey and Sack- 

 ville. We look in vain for any name of distinguished excellence. The 

 seed sown by Chaucer, lay for a long season in the earth before it burst 

 forth into an abundant harvest. The names of a few intermediate 

 writers occur, such as Lydgate, who was more famous as a traveller 

 than a poet, and James I. of Scotland, and Skelton, more remarkable for 

 his furious attacks upon the Cardinal Wolsey, than his offerings to the 

 muses, to which may be added those of Occleve and Gawin Douglas. Of 

 the writings of Skelton, we are willing to confess our ignorance ; we 

 know, however, that one of the most accomplished scholars and classical 

 critics of the present day, (we allude to the Rev. Alexander Dyce,) is 

 now engaged in ^editing his works. 



The Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt, were friends and con- 

 temporaries, and must ever be pointed out by the historian as the pro- 

 moters of a more elegant style of versification. A memoir of each is 

 prefixed to the beautiful edition of their works in the Aldine Poets. 

 Little requires to be said of their poetry. .Wyatt, was a clever man, 

 and a very mediocre writer ; his Defence proves the one, and his poetry, 

 the other. His poems consist almost entirely of amatory effusions, put 

 forth under such endearing titles as these : -How the Lover perishefh m 

 his Delight as the Fly in the Fire; and again On. his Love that pricked 

 herjinger with a Needle. We are inclined to reject altogether the story 

 of his attachment to Anne Boleyn, and confess our inability to discover 

 that alteration which the believers in the love-tale assert to have taken 

 place in his verses, after the execution of the unfortunate lady. Any of 

 our readers who have no other occupation, may read Dr. Notts' specu- 

 lations on the mutual affection of the queen and the poet, or their 

 perusal may be imposed, by way of gentle correction, on a refractory 

 child. 



The character of Wyatt seems to have been deservedly held in high 

 estimation by his contemporaries, and his death called forth numerous 

 memorials of love and esteem. That " his poems sufficiently attest the 

 variety and scope of his abilities/' we coincide with his biographer in 

 the " Aldine," in considering, though in a different sense. We are at a 

 loss to guess how any critic of this day, could call the following lines, 

 written by Wyatt during his incarceration in the Tower, to Sir Francis 

 Bryan beautiful. 



Sighs are my food, ray drink are my tears ; 

 Clinking of fetters woul.l sv,ch music crave; 

 Stink, and close air, away my life it wears ; 

 Poor innocence is all the hope I have ; 

 Rain, wind, or weather, judge I by my ears ; 

 Malice assavl's Hint righteousness should have. 



Sure am I, Bryan, this wound shall heal again, 



But, yet, alas the scar shall still remain. 



We are quite ready to confess our ignorance of the meaning of the 

 lines we have marked in italics. Our readers we trust will be more 



