he forceth our guard, placed upon the bridge to keep the passage' (John de Serres). Or, I may cite another place of the same author, where he tells us how the Britons, being invaded by Charles VIII, king of France, thought it good policy to apparel twelve hundred of their own men in English cassocks, that the very sight of the English red cross would be enough to terrify the French. But I will not stand to borrow of the French historians (all of which, excepting de Serres and Paulus Aemilius, report wonders of our nation); the proposition which first I undertook to maintain, that the military virtue of the English prevailing against all manner of difficulties ought to be preferred before that of the Romans, which was assisted with all advantages that could be desired. If it be demanded, why, then, did not our kings finish the conquest as Cæsar had done, my answer may be -I hope without offence-that our kings were like to the race of the Eacidae, of whom the old poet Ennius gave this note: Belli potentes sunt mage quam sapienti potentes — They were more warlike than politic. Whoso notes their proceedings may find that none of them went to work like a conqueror, save only King Henry V, the course of whose victories it pleased God to interrupt by his death."

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Raleigh's poetry is characterized by brilliancy of imagination and a certain directness and force of style that bear witness to the remarkable spirit of the man. The following is one of his best short poems. Its authorship has been disputed but not disproved :

Passions are likened best to floods and streams;

The shallow murmur, but the deep are

dumb;

So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they

come.

They that are rich in words, in words discover, That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,

The merit of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion;

Since if my plaints serve not t' approve
The conquest of thy beauty,

It comes not from excess of love,
But from excess of duty :

For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,

As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing-
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires that aim too high
For any mortal lover,

When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet when discretion doth bereave The plaints that they should utter, Then thy discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart! My true, though secret passion;

He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.