that gloom which has so often darkened the sun of genius in its setting. Had he died much younger, he had lived long enough for fame; and we may apply to him some of his own beautiful lines to the memory of Sir H. Morrison:
"It is not growing like a tree
In bulke, doth make man better be,
Or standing like an oake three thousand yeare,
To fall a logge at last, dry, bald and seare;
A lilie of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flowre of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see
And in short measure life may perfect be."
Dryden has called his last plays his dotages, and the sarcasm is perhaps as true as it is severe. Among them were "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last work that he submitted to the stage. It should be remembered, however, that, in contrast to these, he in his later days penned "Love's Welcome at Welbeck," which was represented when his friend and patron, the Earl of Newcastle, entertained Charles I.
In "The Sad Shepherd," too, all his pristine powers seemed for a time to have revived. In this beautiful swan-song there is a classic elegance, and a sweet pastoral simplicity which is entrancing. The verse is music itself. There are lines which combine the stately majesty of Keats' "Hyperion" with the faultless melody of the "Ænone" of Tennyson. This was Jonson's last effort, except a fragment of a tragedy entitled "The Fall of Mortimer." He was employed, too, even when the pen shook in his palsied hand, on the "Discoveries" and "Grammar," of which only fragments have reached us.
On the 6th of August, 1637, he closed his eyes on this world. He had outlived by many years his wife and all his children. No tender offices of family affection soothed
