strain; but then they are languid through negligence, and often

disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not in his time

attained the art of correct writing. But his serious compositions

exhibit a strength and vigour which could not have been expected

from the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an

elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is

nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand this copy

of verses you are to know that the day Oliver died was remarkable