Chapter 4

The sun in the morning disclosed his light, With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, The casement being open, espied me in bed; With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; Which having turned off, I then call to pay, And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: It certainly was the most ugly of jades, His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; And by these the true colour one can no more know, Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, The one for a horse, and the other an ass. But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; But we, by good luck, before him got thither, He else would have carried us, no man knows whither.

And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; For her ride in great haste, and * * For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; But in a small house near unto 't there was store Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, Before I did further proceed in devotion: I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, They said I should find a rare fricasee made: I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. Over the fountain a chapel there stands, Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; From each angle of which a pillar does rise, Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice To support and uphold from falling to ground A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, As within a few paces to furnish the wheels Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, With as many crystalline liberal glasses, Did all importune me to drink of the water Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; And giving two more to the poor that were there, Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair.

My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, I never ate better meat, that I can tell; When having half dined, there comes in my host, A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, And one thing, that he had converted his wife.

But now my guide told me, it time was to go, For that to our beds we must both ride and row; Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: On then we travelled, our guide still before, Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. Thus in places of danger taking more heed, And in safer travelling mending our speed: Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, And o'er against Connoway came at the last: Just over against a castle there stood, O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; 'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld.

The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, Came in as good time as good time could be, To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; And bestowing our horses before and abaft, O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, Within very few paces we entered the port, Where another King's Head invited me down, For indeed I have ever been true to the crown.

DR HENRY MORE.

This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, 'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been translated long before.

More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems --blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of 'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment.

OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.'

1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace By his rude ignorance. For there's no place For forced labour, or slow industry, Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky.

2 Like to a meteor, whose material Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, Whose inward hidden parts ethereal Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, And then even of itself on high doth climb: That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light.

3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, So soon that purer flame of love unties Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, She soars aloft; for she herself doth find Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, And carols out her inward life and spring Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing.

EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART.

1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright.

2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, And lively forms with orient colours clad Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought Into some spacious room, who when they've had A turn or two, go out, although unbade. All these I see and know, but entertain None to my friend but who's most sober sad; Although, the time my roof doth them contain Their presence doth possess me till they out again.

3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; But as in silver trumpet nought is found When once the piercing sound is passed away, (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) As empty I of what my flowing quill In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill.

4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, Nor dare my wary mind afford assent To what is placed above all mortal skill; But yet, our various thoughts to represent, Each gentle wight will deem of good intent. Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling.

5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air. My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, And lightly stepping on from star to star Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far, Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; Nor aught she finds her passage to debar, For still the azure orb as she draws nigh Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly.

DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS.

1 As the seas, Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise, And met with mighty showers and pouring rain From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies, With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane, Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame.

2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire, And belch out pitchy flames, till over all Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire, And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire: Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn, With gentle rest right easily will respire, Till to her pristine task she do return As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn.

3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born, While yet the world is in her vernal pride; For old corruption quite away is worn, As metal pure so is her mould well tried. Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind: Fair comely bodies goodly beautified.

4 For all the while her purged ashes rest, These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew, And roscid manna rains upon her breast, And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new, Where all take life and doth the world renew; And then renewed with pleasure be yfed. A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed.

A DISTEMPERED FANCY.

1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight! Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come, Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung,

2 And lovingly salute against her will, Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe: She'd lever thousand times they did her kill, Than force her such vile baseness undergo. Anon some giant his huge self will show, Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave, With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow: She surely deems him her live, walking grave, From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save.

3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, A boundless sea she finds of misery; The fiery snorts of the leviathan, That makes the boiling waves before him fly, She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye: If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks Her frighted self do straightway terrify; Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks.

SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN.

1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark, Whereby by night our wary steps we guide In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, And flusher streams perhaps from horny side. But when we've passed the peril of the way, Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, The naked light how clearly doth it ray, And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day.

2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state, Confined to these strait instruments of sense, More dull and narrowly doth operate. At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence, Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere, And round about has perfect cognoscence Whate'er in her horizon doth appear: She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear.

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE.

Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem.

The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say,

'I was the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.'

Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance--

'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;'

and this--

'Harsh poverty, That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;'

but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly elaborate poem.

ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS.

* * The Turks had ought Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow Their stubborn resolutions with the strength Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length Of the chronical disease extended had To some few months, since to oppress the sad But constant islanders, the army lay, Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay From battle rusts the soldier's valour in His tainted cabin, there had often been, With all variety of fortune, fought Brave single combats, whose success had brought Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow Of either party; but the balance, now Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look Who next the lists should enter; each desires The task were his, but honour now requires A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free Consent of all, Argalia comes to be Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until The combat ends, the expecting people fill The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake Their tents, of whom the city ladies take A dreadful view, till a more noble sight Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat They toil for victory. The conflict's heat Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed Than burning calentures could do; both blamed The feeble influence of their stars, that gave No speedier conquest; each neglects to save Himself, to seek advantage to offend His eager foe * * * * * * * But now so long The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew O' the villains that did at a distance view Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, Running to succour him, begin a hot And desperate combat with those knights that stand To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent His scattered troops.

* * * * *

Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die A sacrifice unto the cruelty Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in The combat late he slew; yet had not been In that so much unhappy, had not he That honoured then his sword with victory, Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright But cruel lady, whose refined delight Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot Contention of her blood, which he foresaw That heavy news would from her anger draw, To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent Him living to her, that her anger, spent In flaming torments, might not settle in The dregs of discontent. Staying to win Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd With speedy death, though waited on by all The hell-instructed torments that could fall Within invention's reach; but he's not yet Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse Of suffering Christians, once, before they take The ornaments of nature off, to make Their prisoners public to the view, that all Might mock their miseries: this sight did call Janusa to her palace-window, where, Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, As the most pleasing object, with the sight Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight Of her loved brother's soul.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality of his genius. He died in 1695.

Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries--

'How came the world's gray fathers forth To mark thy sacred sign!'

Vaughan had said--

'How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye, Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry; When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!'

Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than to poets.

Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and suffering,--for true it is that

'Wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'--

and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius.

ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, And on the rack of self-extension die? Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, Come, see your dissolution, and weigh What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. As the elements by circulation pass From one to the other, and that which first was Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave And nature but complete: what the one gave, The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed There sleep the relics of as proud a head, As stern and subtle as your own; that hath Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, Calm these high furies, and descend to men. Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. Have I obeyed the powers of a face, A beauty, able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am informed; the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more. Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, Are couched in this accumulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library, Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.

[1] Vast-tentered: extended. [2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions.

ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION.

I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen The amours and courtship of the silent queen; Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume: with the sad vale Of Diophania; and the mournful tale Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style or matter; just as I have known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To the next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last, swollen with increase, she glides along The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. Nor are they mere inventions, for we In the same piece find scattered philosophy, And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory, So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history. So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, Cast that commended mixture wished of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star; And while there is a people, or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST.

I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. But I am richly cozened, and can see Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again. And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starved the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' the press. For thou hast drained invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain? Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy? Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. So, nested in some hospitable shore, The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, Which I think such, if needless ink not soil So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; This or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee. True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and matched the past.

PICTURE OF THE TOWN.

Abominable face of things!--here's noise Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; With new fine worships, and the old cast team Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. 'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots. Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss.

* * * * *

Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us. The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; Or, if they mention thee, like some old man That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee; That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; In our metropolis, may I ne'er see Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill, Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspired Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, 'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. Innocent spenders we! A better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

Happy that first white age! when we Lived by the earth's mere charity; No soft luxurious diet then Had effeminated men-- No other meat nor wine had any Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; And, by the parents' care laid up, Cheap berries did the children sup. No pompous wear was in those days, Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. Their beds were on some flowery brink, And clear spring water was their drink. The shady pine, in the sun's heat, Was their cool and known retreat; For then 'twas not cut down, but stood The youth and glory of the wood. The daring sailor with his slaves Then had not cut the swelling waves, Nor, for desire of foreign store, Seen any but his native shore. No stirring drum had scared that age, Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; No wounds, by bitter hatred made, With warm blood soiled the shining blade; For how could hostile madness arm An age of love to public harm, When common justice none withstood, Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? Oh that at length our age would raise Into the temper of those days! But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate And avarice inflame our state. Alas! who was it that first found Gold hid of purpose under ground-- That sought out pearls, and dived to find Such precious perils for mankind?

REGENERATION.

1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day I stole abroad; It was high spring, and all the way Primrosed, and hung with shade; Yet was it frost within, And surly wind Blasted my infant buds, and sin, Like clouds, eclipsed my mind.

2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring Mere stage and show, My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, Rough-cast with rocks and snow; And as a pilgrim's eye, Far from relief, Measures the melancholy sky, Then drops, and rains for grief,

3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, 'Twixt steps and falls, I reached the pinnacle, where placed I found a pair of scales; I took them up, and laid In the one late pains, The other smoke and pleasures weighed, But proved the heavier grains.

4 With that some cried, Away; straight I Obeyed, and led Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- Some called it Jacob's Bed-- A virgin soil, which no Rude feet e'er trod, Where, since he stept there, only go Prophets and friends of God.

5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, A grove descried Of stately height, whose branches met And mixed on every side; I entered, and, once in, (Amazed to see 't;) Found all was changed, and a new spring Did all my senses greet.

6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold A thousand pieces, And heaven its azure did unfold, Chequered with snowy fleeces. The air was all in spice, And every bush A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, But all the ear lay hush.

7 Only a little fountain lent Some use for ears, And on the dumb shades language spent, The music of her tears; I drew her near, and found The cistern full Of divers stones, some bright and round, Others ill-shaped and dull.

8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light Danced through the flood; But the last, more heavy than the night, Nailed to the centre stood; I wondered much, but tired At last with thought, My restless eye, that still desired, As strange an object brought.

9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried (Though 'twas mid-day) Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed And taking in the ray; Here musing long I heard A rushing wind, Which still increased, but whence it stirred, Nowhere I could not find.

10 I turned me round, and to each shade Despatched an eye, To see if any leaf had made Least motion or reply; But while I, listening, sought My mind to ease By knowing where 'twas, or where not, It whispered, 'Where I please.'

'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, And let me die before my death!'

'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16.

RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY.

'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20.

BODY.

1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath That binds and loosens death Inspired a quickening power through the dead Creatures abed, Some drowrsy silk-worm creep From that long sleep, And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell About her silent cell, Until at last, full with the vital ray, She winged away, And, proud with life and sense, Heaven's rich expense, Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements As mean, and span-extents. Shall I then think such providence will be Less friend to me, Or that he can endure to be unjust Who keeps his covenant even with our dust?

SOUL

2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this I taught thee all that is? Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, And change of suits, And how of death we make A mere mistake; For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still Incorporates by skill, And then returns, and from the womb of things Such treasure brings, As pheenix-like renew'th Both life and youth; For a preserving spirit doth still pass Untainted through this mass, Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all That to it fall; Nor are those births, which we Thus suffering see, Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave Their substance doth deprave, And the more noble essence finds his house Sickly and loose, He, ever young, doth wing Unto that spring And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, Till time no more shall rot His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) Like some spruce bride, Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light, All pure and bright, Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain Thou only fall'st to be refined again.

3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass But mists and shadows pass, And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs And course of things, Shall with enlightened rays Pierce all their ways; And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go To heaven or earth below, To read some star, or mineral, and in state There often sate; So shalt thou then with me, Both winged and free, Rove in that mighty and eternal light, Where no rude shade or night Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more Watch stars, or pore Through melancholy clouds, and say, 'Would it were day!' One everlasting Sabbath there shall run Without succession, and without a sun.

'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13.

THE SEARCH.

'Tis now clear day: I see a rose Bud in the bright east, and disclose The pilgrim-sun. All night have I Spent in a roving ecstasy To find my Saviour. I have been As far as Bethlehem, and have seen His inn and cradle; being there I met the wise men, asked them where He might be found, or what star can Now point him out, grown up a man? To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired Amongst the doctors, and desired To see the temple, but was shown A little dust, and for the town A heap of ashes, where, some said, A small bright sparkle was abed, Which would one day (beneath the pole) Awake, and then refine the whole.

Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence To Jacob's well, bequeathed since Unto his sons, where often they, In those calm, golden evenings, lay Watering their flocks, and having spent Those white days, drove home to the tent Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) I sit where once my Saviour sate. The angry spring in bubbles swelled, Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, And whispered, Jesus had been there, But Jacob's children would not hear. Loth hence to part, at last I rise, But with the fountain in mine eyes, And here a fresh search is decreed: He must be found where he did bleed. I walk the garden, and there see Ideas of his agony, And moving anguishments, that set His blest face in a bloody sweat; I climbed the hill, perused the cross, Hung with my gain, and his great loss: Never did tree bear fruit like this, Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. But, O his grave! where I saw lent (For he had none) a monument, An undefiled, a new-hewed one, But there was not the Corner-stone. Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, He'll not be found where he was slain; So mild a Lamb can never be 'Midst so much blood and cruelty. I'll to the wilderness, and can Find beasts more merciful than man; He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, And forty days withstood the fell And high temptations of hell; With seraphim there talked he, His Father's flaming ministry, He heavened their walks, and with his eyes Made those wild shades a paradise. Thus was the desert sanctified To be the refuge of his bride. I'll thither then; see, it is day! The sun's broke through to guide my way.

But as I urged thus, and writ down What pleasures should my journey crown, What silent paths, what shades and cells, Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, I should rove in, and rest my head Where my dear Lord did often tread, Sugaring all dangers with success, Methought I heard one singing thus:

1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; Who pores And spies Still out of doors, Descries Within them nought.

2 The skin and shell of things, Though fair, Are not Thy wish nor prayer, But got By mere despair Of wings.

3 To rack old elements, Or dust, And say, Sure here he must Needs stay, Is not the way, Nor just.

Search well another world; who studies this, Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is.

'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28.

ISAAC'S MARRIAGE.

'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' --GEN. xxiv. 63.

Praying! and to be married! It was rare, But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, That to renew't were to degenerate. But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, And offered up so early unto Heaven, Thy flames could not be out; religion was Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined The sacred constellation of thy mind.

But being for a bride, prayer was such A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. O sad and wild excess! and happy those White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way Advised thy servant what to do and say; These taught him at the well, and thither brought The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. But here was ne'er a compliment, not one Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; But in a virgin's native blush and fears, Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace Beyond a curled lock or painted face! A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo To draw him drink, and for his camels too.

And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb Unto thy God; for marriage of all states Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates. This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly Above the stars, a track unknown and high; And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer. So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice.

Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit Together with his blood thy father's spirit, Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee Familiar ever since thy infancy. Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow. Age made them reverend and a snowy head, But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed. Then who would truly limn thee out must paint First a young patriarch, then a married saint.

[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me.

MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY.

Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast This sullied flower, Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; But every hour He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state Leaves me a slave to passions and my fate. Besides I've lost A train of lights, which in those sunshine days Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, Unto my cost, One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense More punishment than knowledge to my sense. Two thousand years I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king Those famous tables did from Sinai bring. These swelled my fears, Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe; For sin took strength and vigour from the law. Yet have I found A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone. His saving wound Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave To sinners confidence, life to the grave. This makes me span My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap. For God, made man, Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade.

'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18.

THE SHOWER.

1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease Of her sick waters, and infectious ease. But now at even, Too gross for heaven, Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake.

2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this Pierced not; love only can with quick access Unlock the way, When all else stray, The smoke and exhalations of the breast.

3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, Perhaps at last, Some such showers past, My God would give a sunshine after rain.

BURIAL.

1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, And their dark bed, When I am cast into that deep And senseless sleep, The wages of my sin, O then, Thou great Preserver of all men, Watch o'er that loose And empty house, Which I sometime lived in!

2 It is in truth a ruined piece, Not worth thy eyes; And scarce a room, but wind and rain Beat through and stain The seats and cells within; Yet thou, Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, And in this cot, All filth and spot, Didst with thy servant inn.

3 And nothing can, I hourly see, Drive thee from me. Thou art the same, faithful and just, In life or dust. Though then, thus crumbed, I stray In blasts, Or exhalations, and wastes, Beyond all eyes, Yet thy love spies That change, and knows thy clay.

4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, Can I be lost? But the delay is all; Time now Is old and slow; His wings are dull and sickly. Yet he Thy servant is, and waits on thee. Cut then the sum, Lord, haste, Lord, come, O come, Lord Jesus, quickly!

'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23.

CHEERFULNESS.

1 Lord, with what courage and delight I do each thing, When thy least breath sustains my wing! I shine and move Like those above, And, with much gladness Quitting sadness, Make me fair days of every night.

2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; And hap what will, If thou be in't,'tis welcome still. But since thy rays In sunny days Thou dost thus lend, And freely spend, Ah! what shall I return for this?

3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou Wouldst make each part Of this poor sinful frame pure heart! Then would I drown My single one; And to thy praise A concert raise Of hallelujahs here below.

THE PASSION.

1 O my chief good! My dear, dear God! When thy blest blood Did issue forth, forced by the rod, What pain didst thou Feel in each blow! How didst thou weep, And thyself steep In thy own precious, saving tears! What cruel smart Did tear thy heart! How didst thou groan it In the spirit, O thou whom my soul loves and fears!

2 Most blessed Vine! Whose juice so good I feel as wine, But thy fair branches felt as blood, How wert thou pressed To be my feast! In what deep anguish Didst thou languish! What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee! How in one path Did the full wrath Of thy great Father Crowd and gather, Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee!

3 How did the weight Of all our sins, And death unite To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs! How pale and bloody Looked thy body! How bruised and broke, With every stroke! How meek and patient was thy spirit! How didst thou cry, And groan on high, 'Father, forgive, And let them live! I die to make my foes inherit!'

4 O blessed Lamb! That took'st my sin, That took'st my shame, How shall thy dust thy praises sing? I would I were One hearty tear! One constant spring! Then would I bring Thee two small mites, and be at strife Which should most vie, My heart or eye, Teaching my years In smiles and tears To weep, to sing, thy death, my life.

RULES AND LESSONS.

1 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. Give him thy first thoughts then; so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep.

2 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours 'Twixt Heaven and us. The manna was not good After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut.

3 Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn. Each bush And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day.

4 Serve God before the world; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven.

5 Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, Man's resurrection and the future's bud Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food. Three blessings wait upon them, two of which Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich.

6 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; Despatch necessities; life hath a load Which must be carried on, and safely may. Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part.

7 Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, Let mildness and religion guide thee out; If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force? But what's not good and just ne'er go about. Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick; That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick.

8 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true; If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can Tie up his hands that dares mock God and man?

9 Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. A sweet self-privacy in a right soul Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole.

10 To all that seek thee bear an open heart; Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; If trials come, this will make good thy part, For honesty is safe, come what can hap; It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, Which thrives in storms, and smells best after showers.

11 Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give Proportion to their merits, and thy purse; Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a curse. Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray, The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day.

12 Spend not an hour so as to weep another, For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words, Dash not with them thy friend, nor Heaven; oh, smother A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. Unbitted tongues are in their penance double; They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble.

13 Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise In judgment against lewdness; that's base wit That voids but filth and stench. Hast thou no prize But sickness or infection? stifle it. Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least, If not a very devil, worse than beast.

14 Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst; Allow your joys, religion: that done, speed, And bring the same man back thou wert at first. Who so returns not, cannot pray aright, But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night.

15 To heighten thy devotions, and keep low All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, Observe God in his works; here fountains flow, Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and the earth stands fast; Above are restless motions, running lights, Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights.

16 When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes His wondrous method; mark the various scenes In heaven; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by his means; Thou canst not miss his praise; each tree, herb, flower Are shadows of his wisdom and his power.

17 To meals when thou dost come, give him the praise Whose arm supplied thee; take what may suffice, And then be thankful; oh, admire his ways Who fills the world's unemptied granaries! A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast A very robbery, and himself no guest.

18 High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide Thee other thoughts; away with friends and mirth; The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide Under the dark and melancholy earth. All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span.

19 Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all Thy beams home with thee: trim thy lamp, buy oil, And then set forth; who is thus dressed, the fall Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil. Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire Cool to a glorious evening, and expire.

20 When night comes, list[1] thy deeds; make plain the way 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; But perfect all before thou sleep'st; then say 'There's one sun more strung on my bead of days.' What's good score up for joy; the bad, well scanned, Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand.

21 Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one hour Before thy time; be not a stranger there, Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flower Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear This conversation; but the good man lies Entombed many days before he dies.

22 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing In some good thoughts; so, when the day shall rise, And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn And die; that bush where God is shall not burn.

23 When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, and rake In that dead age; one beam i' the dark outvies Two in the day; then from the damps and ache Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; God pries Through thickest nights; though then the sun be far, Do thou the works of day, and rise a star.

24 Briefly, do as thou wouldst be done unto, Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch and pray. These are the words and works of life; this do, And live; who doth not thus, hath lost heaven's way. Oh, lose it not! look up, wilt change those lights For chains of darkness and eternal nights?

[1] 'List:' weigh.

REPENTANCE.

Lord, since thou didst in this vile clay That sacred ray, Thy Spirit, plant, quickening the whole With that one grain's infused wealth, My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole Both growth and power; checking the health And heat of thine. That little gate And narrow way, by which to thee The passage is, he termed a grate And entrance to captivity; Thy laws but nets, where some small birds, And those but seldom too, were caught; Thy promises but empty words, Which none but children heard or taught. This I believed: and though a friend Came oft from far, and whispered, No; Yet, that not sorting to my end, I wholly listened to my foe. Wherefore, pierced through with grief, my sad, Seduced soul sighs up to thee; To thee, who with true light art clad, And seest all things just as they be. Look from thy throne upon this roll Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, Which I confess with all my soul; My God, accept of my confession! It was last day, Touched with the guilt of my own way, I sat alone, and taking up, The bitter cup, Through all thy fair and various store, Sought out what might outvie my score. The blades of grass thy creatures feeding; The trees, their leaves; the flowers, their seeding; The dust, of which I am a part; The stones, much softer than my heart; The drops of rain, the sighs of wind, The stars, to which I am stark blind; The dew thy herbs drink up by night, The beams they warm them at i' the light; All that have signature or life I summoned to decide this strife; And lest I should lack for arrears, A spring ran by, I told her tears; But when these came unto the scale, My sins alone outweighed them all. O my dear God! my life, my love! Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! Forgive your penitent offender, And no more his sins remember; Scatter these shades of death, and give Light to my soul, that it may live; Cut me not off for my transgressions, Wilful rebellions, and suppressions; But give them in those streams a part Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. Lord, I confess the heinous score, And pray I may do so no more; Though then all sinners I exceed, Oh, think on this, thy Son did bleed! Oh, call to mind his wounds, his woes, His agony, and bloody throes; Then look on all that thou hast made, And mark how they do fail and fade; The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, Are dark and unclean in thy sight; How then, with thee, can man be holy, Who dost thine angels charge with folly? Oh, what am I, that I should breed Figs on a thorn, flowers on a weed? I am the gourd of sin and sorrow, Growing o'er night, and gone to-morrow. In all this round of life and death Nothing's more vile than is my breath; Profaneness on my tongue doth rest, Defects and darkness in my breast; Pollutions all my body wed, And even my soul to thee is dead; Only in him, on whom I feast, Both soul and body are well dressed; His pure perfection quits all score, And fills the boxes of his poor; He is the centre of long life and light; I am but finite, he is infinite. Oh, let thy justice then in him confine, And through his merits make thy mercy mine!

THE DAWNING.

Ah! what time wilt thou come? when shall that cry, 'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the skyl? Shall it in the evening run When our words and works are done? Or will thy all-surprising light Break at midnight, When either sleep or some dark pleasure Possesseth mad man without measure? Or shall these early, fragrant hours Unlock thy bowers, And with their blush of light descry Thy locks crowned with eternity? Indeed, it is the only time That with thy glory doth best chime; All now are stirring, every field Full hymns doth yield; The whole creation shakes off night, And for thy shadow looks the light; Stars now vanish without number, Sleepy planets set and slumber, The pursy clouds disband and scatter, All expect some sudden matter; Not one beam triumphs, but from far That morning-star.

Oh, at what time soever thou, Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, And, with thy angels in the van, Descend to judge poor careless man, Grant I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave. But as this restless, vocal spring All day and night doth run and sing, And though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; So let me all my busy age In thy free services engage; And though, while here, of force I must Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, And in my flesh, though vile and low, As this doth in her channel flow, Yet let my course, my aim, my love, And chief acquaintance be above; So when that day and hour shall come In which thyself will be the Sun, Thou'lt find me dressed and on my way, Watching the break of thy great day.

THE TEMPEST.

1 How is man parcelled out! how every hour Shows him himself, or something he should see! This late, long heat may his instruction be; And tempests have more in them than a shower.

When nature on her bosom saw Her infants die, And all her flowers withered to straw, Her breasts grown dry; She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, Sigh to the sky, Till to those sighs, fetched from her womb, Rain did reply; So in the midst of all her fears And faint requests, Her earnest sighs procured her tears And filled her breasts.

2 Oh that man could do so! that he would hear The world read to him! all the vast expense In the creation shed and slaved to sense, Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear.

3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent Of this poor creature, by a gracious art Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And laid surprises in each element.

4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all Strive upwards still, and point him the way home.

5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, Water's refined to motion, air to light, Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth.

6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, Their leaves with water and humidity, The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky.

7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown?

8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, And lessening still, grow up invisibly,

9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better music than the spheres.

10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law?

11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? How is it that the sun to thee alone Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light?

12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must Be broke again, for flints will give no fire Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust!

[1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat

THE WORLD.

1 I saw eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit's sour delights; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear treasure, All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flower.

2 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, He did nor stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl Upon his soul, And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, Worked under ground, Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see That policy. Churches and altars fed him; perjuries Were gnats and flies; It rained about him blood and tears; but he Drank them as free.

3 The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves. Thousands there were as frantic as himself, And hugged each one his pelf; The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, And scorned pretence; While others, slipped into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, Who think them brave, And poor, despised truth sat counting by Their victory.

4 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; But most would use no wing. 'O fools,' said I,'thus to prefer dark night Before true light! To live in grots and caves, and hate the day Because it shows the way, The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God, A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he!' But, as I did their madness so discuss, One whispered thus, 'This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, But for his bride.'

'All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.'--1 JOHN ii. 16, 17.

THE CONSTELLATION.

1 Fair, ordered lights, whose motion without noise Resembles those true joys, Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, And we here taste sometimes below.

2 With what exact obedience do you move, Now beneath, and now above! And in your vast progressions overlook The darkest night and closest nook!

3 Some nights I see you in the gladsome east, Some others near the west, And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, And beat about your endless line.

4 Silence and light and watchfulness with you Attend and wind the clue; No sleep nor sloth assails you, but poor man Still either sleeps, or slips his span.

5 He gropes beneath here, and with restless care, First makes, then hugs a snare; Adores dead dust, sets heart on corn and grass, But seldom doth make heaven his glass.

6 Music and mirth, if there be music here, Take up and tune his ear; These things are kin to him, and must be had; Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad.

7 Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep When it were best to sleep; Dares know effects, and judge them long before, When the herb he treads knows much, much more.

8 But seeks he your obedience, order, light, Your calm and well-trained flight? Where, though the glory differ in each star, Yet is there peace still and no war.

9 Since placed by him, who calls you by your names, And fixed there all your flames, Without command you never acted ought, And then you in your courses fought.

10 But here, commissioned by a black self-will, The sons the father kill, The children chase the mother, and would heal The wounds they give by crying zeal.

11 Then cast her blood and tears upon thy book, Where they for fashion look; And, like that lamb, which had the dragon's voice, Seem mild, but are known by their noise.

12 Thus by our lusts disordered into wars, Our guides prove wandering stars, Which for these mists and black days were reserved, What time we from our first love swerved.

13 Yet oh, for his sake who sits now by thee All crowned with victory, So guide us through this darkness, that we may Be more and more in love with day!

14 Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move In order, peace, and love; And, taught obedience by thy whole creation, Become an humble, holy nation!

15 Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress, Beauty and holiness; And so repair these rents, that men may see And say, 'Where God is, all agree.'

MISERY.

Lord, bind me up, and let me lie A prisoner to my liberty, If such a state at all can be As an impris'ment serving thee; The wind, though gathered in thy fist, Yet doth it blow still where it list, And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold, Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold.

As waters here, headlong and loose, The lower grounds still chase and choose, Where spreading ail the way they seek And search out every hole and creek; So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, Take the down-road to vanity, Where they all stray, and strive which shall Find out the first and steepest fall. I cheer their flow, giving supply To what's already grown too high, And having thus performed that part, Feed on those vomits of my heart. I break the fence my own hands made Then lay that trespass in the shade; Some fig-leaves still I do devise, As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. Excess of friends, of words, and wine Take up my day, while thou dost shine All unregarded, and thy book Hath not so much as one poor look. If thou steal in amidst the mirth And kindly tell me, I am earth, I shut thee out, and let that slip; Such music spoils good fellowship. Thus wretched I and most unkind, Exclude my dear God from my mind, Exclude him thence, who of that cell Would make a court, should he there dwell. He goes, he yields; and troubled sore His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; The mighty God, the eternal King Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. But I go on, haste to divest Myself of reason, till oppressed And buried in my surfeits, I Prove my own shame and misery. Next day I call and cry for thee Who shouldst not then come near to me; But now it is thy servant's pleasure, Thou must and dost give him his measure. Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower Of healing sweets thyself dost pour Into my wounds; and now thy grace (I know it well) fills all the place; I sit with thee by this new light, And for that hour thou'rt my delight; No man can more the world despise, Or thy great mercies better prize. I school my eyes, and strictly dwell Within the circle of my cell; That calm and silence are my joys, Which to thy peace are but mere noise. At length I feel my head to ache, My fingers itch, and burn to take Some new employment, I begin To swell and foam and fret within: 'The age, the present times are not To snudge in and embrace a cot; Action and blood now get the game, Disdain treads on the peaceful name; Who sits at home too bears a load Greater than those that gad abroad.' Thus do I make thy gifts given me The only quarrellers with thee; I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, Then would go travel, fight, or die. Thousands of wild and waste infusions Like waves beat on my resolutions; As flames about their fuel run, And work and wind till all be done, So my fierce soul bustles about, And never rests till all be out. Thus wilded by a peevish heart, Which in thy music bears no part, I storm at thee, calling my peace A lethargy, and mere disease; Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes To calm me in these mutinies, I style mere tempers, which take place At some set times, but are thy grace.

Such is man's life, and such is mine, The worst of men, and yet still thine, Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so, Then give me over to my foe. Yet since as easy 'tis for thee To make man good as bid him be, And with one glance, could he that gain, To look him out of all his pain, Oh, send me from thy holy hill So much of strength as may fulfil All thy delights, whate'er they be, And sacred institutes in me! Open my rocky heart, and fill It with obedience to thy will; Then seal it up, that as none see, So none may enter there but thee.

Oh, hear, my God! hear him, whose blood Speaks more and better for my good! Oh, let my cry come to thy throne! My cry not poured with tears alone, (For tears alone are often foul,) But with the blood of all my soul; With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans, Faithful and most repenting moans, With these I cry, and crying pine, Till thou both mend, and make me thine.

MOUNT OF OLIVES.

When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys, Active as light, and calm without all noise, Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers, Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath; Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood; My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye Confessed, 'The world did only paint and lie.' And where before I did no safe course steer, But wandered under tempests all the year; Went bleak and bare in body as in mind, And was blown through by every storm and wind, I am so warmed now by this glance on me, That 'midst all storms I feel a ray of thee. So have I known some beauteous passage rise In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes, And in the depth and dead of winter bring To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring.

Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, My withered leaves again look green and flourish; I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing; Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, That these may be thy praise, and my joy too!

ASCENSION-DAY.

Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights, Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights, Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts To him who gives all good and perfect gifts, Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed So many ages from me, is so proved And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I Feel me a sharer in thy victory! I soar and rise Up to the skies, Leaving the world their day; And in my flight For the true light Go seeking all the way; I greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, That blest enclosure, where the angels gave The first glad tidings of thy early light, And resurrection from the earth and night, I see that morning in thy convert's[1] tears, Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. I smell her spices; and her ointment yields As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased Now shines in all the chambers of the east. What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth Of saints and angels glorify the earth? What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? They pass as at the last great day, and run In their white robes to seek the risen Sun; I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love. Thy forty days' more secret commerce here After thy death and funeral, so clear And indisputable, shows to my sight As the sun doth, which to those days gave light. I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine. Such was the bright world on the first seventh day, Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay; When like a virgin clad in flowers and green The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest With which their great Creator had them dressed: When heaven above them shined like molten glass, While all the planets did unclouded pass; And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour, Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower. With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place, And the last steps of my mild Master trace. I see him leading out his chosen train All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain In silent drops steal from their holy eyes, Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies. And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave. The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight Having lost thee, behold two men in white! Two and no more: 'What two attest is true,' Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew. Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord, Upon the clouds again to judge this world!

[1] 'Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene.

COCK-CROWING.

1 Father of lights! what sunny seed, What glance of day hast thou confined Into this bird? To all the breed This busy ray thou hast assigned; Their magnetism works all night, And dreams of paradise and light.

2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, Their little grain-expelling night So shines and sings, as if it knew The path unto the house of light. It seems their candle, howe'er done, Was tinned and lighted at the sun.

3 If such a tincture, such a touch, So firm a longing can empower, Shall thy own image think it much To watch for thy appearing hour? If a mere blast so fill the sail, Shall not the breath of God prevail?

4 O thou immortal light and heat! Whose hand so shines through all this frame, That by the beauty of the seat, We plainly see who made the same, Seeing thy seed abides in me, Dwell thou in it, and I in thee!

5 To sleep without thee is to die; Yea,'tis a death partakes of hell: For where thou dost not close the eye It never opens, I can tell. In such a dark, Egyptian border, The shades of death dwell, and disorder.

6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes, And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light, Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows A love-sick soul's exalted flight? Can souls be tracked by any eye But his, who gave them wings to fly?

7 Only this veil which thou hast broke, And must be broken yet in me, This veil, I say, is all the cloak And cloud which shadows me from thee. This veil thy full-eyed love denies, And only gleams and fractions spies.

8 Oh, take it off! make no delay; But brush me with thy light, that I May shine unto a perfect day, And warm me at thy glorious eye! Oh, take it off! or till it flee, Though with no lily, stay with me!

THE PALM-TREE.

1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade, As I have yours long since. This plant you see So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade Both you and it, had equal liberty

2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath And air of Eden, like a malcontent It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent

3 The more he grows. Celestial natures still Aspire for home. This Solomon of old, By flowers, and carvings, and mysterious skill Of wings, and cherubims, and palms, foretold.

4 This is the life which, hid above with Christ In God, doth always (hidden) multiply, And spring, and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced, A tree whose fruit is immortality.

5 Here spirits that have run their race, and fought, And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns.

6 Here is the patience of the saints: this tree Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed With dew by night; but One you cannot see Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed.

7 Here is their faith too, which if you will keep When we two part, I will a journey make To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep, And weave it for your head against you wake.

THE GARLAND.

1 Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below, To whom a falling star and nine days' glory, Or some frail beauty, makes the bravest show, Hark, and make use of this ensuing story.

When first my youthful, sinful age Grew master of my ways, Appointing error for my page, And darkness for my days; I flung away, and with full cry Of wild affections, rid In post for pleasures, bent to try All gamesters that would bid. I played with fire, did counsel spurn, Made life my common stake; But never thought that fire would burn, Or that a soul could ache. Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, False joys, fantastic flights, Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, These were my prime delights. I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, Culled flowers and made me posies; Gave my fond humours their full wing, And crowned my head with roses. But at the height of this career I met with a dead man, Who, noting well my vain abear, Thus unto me began: 'Desist, fond fool, be not undone; What thou hast cut to-day Will fade at night, and with this sun Quite vanish and decay.'

2 Flowers gathered in this world, die here; if thou Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow, And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find A garland, where comes neither rain nor wind.

LOVE-SICK.

Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee! Oh that thy Spirit would so strongly move me, That thou wert pleased to shed thy grace so far As to make man all pure love, flesh a star! A star that would ne'er set, but ever rise, So rise and run, as to outrun these skies, These narrow skies (narrow to me) that bar, So bar me in, that I am still at war, At constant war with them. Oh, come, and rend Or bow the heavens! Lord, bow them and descend, And at thy presence make these mountains flow, These mountains of cold ice in me! Thou art Refining fire; oh, then, refine my heart, My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortal heat; Heat motion gives; then warm it, till it beat; So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear; So hear, that thou must open; open to A sinful wretch, a wretch that caused thy woe; Thy woe, who caused his weal; so far his weal That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine, Mine ever, ever; and me ever thine.

PSALM CIV.

1 Up, O my soul, and bless the Lord! O God, My God, how great, how very great art thou! Honour and majesty have their abode With thee, and crown thy brow.

2 Thou cloth'st thyself with light as with a robe, And the high, glorious heavens thy mighty hand Doth spread like curtains round about this globe Of air, and sea, and land.

3 The beams of thy bright chambers thou dost lay In the deep waters, which no eye can find; The clouds thy chariots are, and thy pathway The wings of the swift wind.

4 In thy celestial, gladsome messages Despatched to holy souls, sick with desire And love of thee, each willing angel is Thy minister in fire.

5 Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid And founded the firm earth; then with the deep As with a vail thou hidd'st it; thy floods played Above the mountains steep.

6 At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice Of their Lord's thunder they retired apace: Some up the mountains passed by secret ways, Some downwards to their place.

7 For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound Which, though but sand, keeps in and curbs whole seas: There all their fury, foam, and hideous sound, Must languish and decrease.

8 And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love Doth broach the earth; and lesser brooks lets forth, Which run from hills to valleys, and improve Their pleasure and their worth.

9 These to the beasts of every field give drink; There the wild asses swallow the cool spring: And birds amongst the branches on their brink Their dwellings have, and sing.

10 Thou from thy upper springs above, from those Chambers of rain, where heaven's large bottles lie, Dost water the parched hills, whose breaches close, Healed by the showers from high.

11 Grass for the cattle, and herbs for man's use Thou mak'st to grow; these, blessed by thee, the earth Brings forth, with wine, oil, bread; all which infuse To man's heart strength and mirth.

12 Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, even to those Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs The birds their nests build; though the stork doth choose The fir-trees for her house.

13 To the wild goats the high hills serve for folds, The rocks give conies a retiring place: Above them the cool moon her known course holds, And the sun runs his race.

14 Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night, In whose thick shades and silence each wild beast Creeps forth, and, pinched for food, with scent and sight Hunts in an eager quest.

15 The lion's whelps, impatient of delay, Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek Their meat from thee, who dost appoint the prey, And feed'st them all the week.

16 This past, the sun shines on the earth; and they Retire into their dens; man goes abroad Unto his work, and at the close of day Returns home with his load.

17 O Lord my God, how many and how rare Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made Them all; and this the earth, and every blade Of grass we tread declare.

18 So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are Innumerable creeping things, both small And great; there ships go, and the shipmen's fear, The comely, spacious whale.

19 These all upon thee wait, that thou mayst feed Them in due season: what thou giv'st they take; Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need, And plenteous meals they make.

20 When thou dost hide thy face, (thy face which keeps All things in being,) they consume and mourn: When thou withdraw'st their breath their vigour sleeps, And they to dust return.

21 Thou send'st thy Spirit forth, and they revive, The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, And to thy works art true.

22 Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage Is moved and trembles, the hills melt and smoke With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage At thy rebuke are broke.

23 Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath I will in songs to thy great name employ That gift of thine, and to my day of death Thou shalt be all my joy.

24 I'll spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver Shall be consumed. O my soul, bless thy Lord! Yea, bless thou him for ever!

THE TIMBER.

1 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.

2 And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still-enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.

3 But thou, beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

4 And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent, Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

5 Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke in life thy peace.

6 So murdered man, when lovely life is done, And his blood freezed, keeps in the centre still Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run At his approach that did the body kill.

7 And is there any murderer worse than sin? Or any storms more foul than a lewd life? Or what resentient can work more within Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife?

8 He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care, And truly hates to be detained on earth, Hath got an house where many mansions are, And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth.

9 But though thus dead unto the world, and ceased From sin, he walks a narrow, private way; Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeased, And all his life a rainy, weeping day.

10 For though he should forsake the world, and live As mere a stranger as men long since dead; Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve To think he should be so long vainly led.

11 But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, Though of themselves but a sad blubbered story, By showing the sin great, show the relief Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory.

12 If my way lies through deserts and wild woods, Where all the land with scorching heat is cursed; Better the pools should flow with rain and floods To fill my bottle, than I die with thirst.

13 Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above; Begetting virgins where they use to flow; The trees of life no other waters love, Than upper springs, and none else make them grow.

14 But these chaste fountains flow not till we die. Some drops may fall before; but a clear spring And ever running, till we leave to fling Dirt in her way, will keep above the sky.

'He that is dead is freed from sin.'--ROM. vi. 7.

THE JEWS.

1 When the fair year Of your Deliverer comes, And that long frost which now benumbs Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here Shall yet to man appear, And familiarly confer Beneath the oak and juniper; When the bright Dove, Which now these many, many springs Hath kept above, Shall with spread wings Descend, and living waters flow To make dry dust, and dead trees grow;

2 Oh, then, that I Might live, and see the olive bear Her proper branches! which now lie Scattered each where; And, without root and sap, decay; Cast by the husbandman away. And sure it is not far! For as your fast and foul decays, Forerunning the bright morning star, Did sadly note his healing rays Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind, And would be cross, when God was kind,--

3 So by all signs Our fulness too is now come in; And the same sun, which here declines And sets, will few hours hence begin To rise on you again, and look Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. For surely he Who loved the world so as to give His only Son to make it free, Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve To see man lost, will for old love From your dark hearts this veil remove.

4 Faith sojourned first on earth in you, You were the dear and chosen stock: The arm of God, glorious and true, Was first revealed to be your rock.

5 You were the eldest child, and when Your stony hearts despised love, The youngest, even the Gentiles, then, Were cheered your jealousy to move.

6 Thus, righteous Father! dost thou deal With brutish men; thy gifts go round By turns, and timely, and so heal The lost son by the newly found.

PALM-SUNDAY.

1 Come, drop your branches, strew the way, Plants of the day! Whom sufferings make most green and gay. The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, Weeping still like the wet morrow, Your shades and freshness comes to borrow.

2 Put on, put on your best array; Let the joyed road make holyday, And flowers, that into fields do stray, Or secret groves, keep the highway.

3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, That since man fell expect with groans To see the Lamb, come all at once, Lift up your heads and leave your moans; For here comes he Whose death will be Man's life, and your full liberty.

4 Hark! how the children shrill and high 'Hosanna' cry; Their joys provoke the distant sky, Where thrones and seraphim reply; And their own angels shine and sing, In a bright ring: Such young, sweet mirth Makes heaven and earth Join in a joyful symphony.

5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) Is in these joys a high partaker, Ordained and made to bear his Maker.

6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew! Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; Thy bright solemnities did shew The third glad day through two sad nights.

7 I'll get me up before the sun, I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, And all alone full early run To gather flowers to welcome thee.

8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, I will be still a child, still meek As the poor ass which the proud jeer, And only my dear Jesus seek.

9 If I lose all, and must endure The proverbed griefs of holy Job, I care not, so I may secure But one green branch and a white robe.

[1] Zechariah ix. 9.

PROVIDENCE.

1 Sacred and secret hand! By whose assisting, swift command The angel showed that holy well Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, And turned to smiles the begging tears Of young, distressed Ishmael.

2 How, in a mystic cloud, Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, Dost thou convey man food and money, Unseen by him till they arrive Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey!

3 If I thy servant be, Whose service makes even captives free, A fish shall all my tribute pay, The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat, And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, As if I knew no month but May.

4 I will not fear what man With all his plots and power can. Bags that wax old may plundered be; But none can sequester or let A state that with the sun doth set, And comes next morning fresh as he.

5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, And herbs which on dry hills do spring, Or in the howling wilderness Do know thy dewy morning hours, And watch all night for mists or showers, Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.

6 May he for ever die Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend Thy service nor his soul one day! May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; And what he saves may his foes spend!

7 If all my portion here, The measure given by thee each year, Were by my causeless enemies Usurped; it never should me grieve, Who know how well thou canst relieve, Whose hands are open as thine eyes.

8 Great King of love and truth! Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, And wilt not leave me when grown old, Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, Unto my wormwood diet keep, Since thou hast made thy arm my fold.

ST MARY MAGDALENE.

Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, When in his naked, pure array; Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, As thou in tears dost, best in dew. How art thou changed, how lively, fair, Pleasing, and innocent an air, Not tutored by thy glass, but free, Native, and pure, shines now in thee! But since thy beauty doth still keep Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? This dusky state of sighs and tears Durst not look on those smiling years, When Magdal-castle was thy seat, Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. Why lies this hair despised now Which once thy care and art did show? Who then did dress the much-loved toy In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, Which with skilled negligence seemed shed About thy curious, wild, young head? Why is this rich, this pistic nard Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? What pretty sullenness did haste Thy easy hands to do this waste? Why art thou humbled thus, and low As earth thy lovely head dost bow? Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth At their Lord's footstool have their birth; Therefore thy withered self in haste Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, That at the root of this green tree Thy great decays restored might be. Thy curious vanities, and rare Odorous ointments kept with care, And dearly bought, when thou didst see They could not cure nor comfort thee; Like a wise, early penitent, Thou sadly didst to him present, Whose interceding, meek, and calm Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. This, this divine restorative Called forth thy tears, which ran in live And hasty drops, as if they had (Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; Learn Mary's art of tears, and then Say you have got the day from men. Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, Who loved much, and much more could move; Her art! whose memory must last Till truth through all the world be passed; Till his abused, despised flame Return to heaven, from whence it came, And send a fire down, that shall bring Destruction on his ruddy wing. Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; But now are fixed stars, whose light Helps such dark stragglers to their sight.

Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind A judge wert thou, and how unkind! It was impossible that thou, Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. Is't just to judge her faithful tears By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? 'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' And sat there none such at thy dinner? Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; He is still leprous that still paints: Who saint themselves, they are no saints.

THE RAINBOW.

Still young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object[1] of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. After the fall the first sin was in blood, And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; But since Christ died, (as if we did devise To lose him too, as well as paradise,) These two grand sins we join and act together, Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, Could not reform us, and blood in despite, Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire.

Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; I will on thee as on a comet look, A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; Thy light as luctual and stained with woes I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; Yet I know well, and so our sins require, Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire.

[1] Genesis ix. 16.

THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY.

MARK IV. 26.

1 If this world's friends might see but once What some poor man may often feel, Glory and gold and crowns and thrones They would soon quit, and learn to kneel.

2 My dew, my dew! my early love, My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! Hover not long, eternal Dove! Life without thee is loose and spills.

3 Something I had, which long ago Did learn to suck and sip and taste; But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste.

4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake One living drop! one drop life keeps! If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps!

5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, And soon as left shrinks back to ill; Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow And spread and open to thy will!

6 For thy eternal, living wells None stained or withered shall come near: A fresh, immortal green there dwells, And spotless white is all the wear.

7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below Tempests and winds and winter nights! Vex not that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights.

8 If those bright joys he singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads; And moons, though full, would get them down.

9 Let glory be their bait whose minds Are all too high for a low cell: Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell.

10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge; And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge.

11 What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself an outward test? Who breaks his glass to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest.

12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-winged reapers come!

CHILDHOOD.

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven.

Why should men love A wolf more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God's own beams? Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living (fie on men!) Are, when dead, medicinal then. If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise, Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself, Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the practice worldlings call Business and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan Thee more than ere I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light! Oh for thy centre and mid-day! For sure that is the narrow way!

ABEL'S BLOOD.

Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye Did first against a murderer cry; Whose streams, still vocal, still complain Of bloody Cain; And now at evening are as red As in the morning when first shed. If single thou, Though single voices are but low, Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, What thunders shall those men arraign Who cannot count those they have slain, Who bathe not in a shallow flood, But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, But deep still calleth upon deep; Whose urgent sound, like unto that Of many waters, beateth at The everlasting doors above, Where souls behind the altar move, And with one strong, incessant cry Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? Almighty Judge! At whose just laws no just men grudge; Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour Comforts and joys and hopes each hour On those that keep them; oh, accept Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept From bloody men! and grant I may That sworn memorial duly pay To thy bright arm, which was my light And leader through thick death and night! Aye may that flood, That proudly spilt and despised blood, Speechless and calm as infants sleep! Or if it watch, forgive and weep For those that spilt it! May no cries From the low earth to high heaven rise, But what, like his whose blood peace brings, Shall, when they rise, speak better things Than Abel's doth! May Abel be Still single heard, while these agree With his mild blood in voice and will, Who prayed for those that did him kill!

RIGHTEOUSNESS.

1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest;

2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, Without to-morrow's evils and future loads?

3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? Who sees invisibles, and doth comply With hidden treasures that make truly rich?

4 He that doth seek and love The things above, Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; Who simple still and wise, Still homeward flies, Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.

5 Whose acts, words, and pretence Have all one sense, One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; Whose eyes are both put out, And goes about Guided by faith, not by exterior light.

6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads Thorns in the beds Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; Making the time they had Bitter and sad, Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow.

7 Who knows earth nothing hath Worth love or wrath, But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. Who seeks and follows peace, When with the ease And health of conscience it is to be had.

8 Who bears his cross with joy, And doth employ His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; Who lends not to be paid, And gives full aid Without that bribe which usurers impose.

9 Who never looks on man Fearful and wan, But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, Though high and haughty, must Be ta'en in dust; But the good man is God's peculiar treasure.

10 Who doth thus, and doth not These good deeds blot With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath By secret filth, nor feeds Some snake, or weeds, Cheating himself--That man walks in this path.

JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR.

I see the temple in thy pillar reared, And that dread glory which thy children feared, In mild, clear visions, without a frown, Unto thy solitary self is shown. 'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, And God himself died by the multitude. This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.

The first true worship of the world's great King From private and selected hearts did spring; But he most willing to save all mankind, Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. Hence catholic or universal came A most fair notion, but a very name. For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, When once made public, is esteemed by none. Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, And sets up laws to pull his honour down. This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, Under that stately and mysterious cloud Which his death scattered, he foretold the place And form to serve him in should be true grace, And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule By God's permission, and man turns a mule, This little Goshen, in the midst of night And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. Thus is the solemn temple sunk again Into a pillar, and concealed from men. And glory be to his eternal name, Who is contented that this holy flame Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he With his strong arm turns our captivity!

But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too,

Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, And all that distance was law and command. But we a healing Sun, by day and night, Have our sure guardian and our leading light. What thou didst hope for and believe we find And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, But we the substance have, and on him rest.

[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11.

THE FEAST.

1 Oh, come away, Make no delay, Come while my heart is clean and steady! While faith and grace Adorn the place, Making dust and ashes ready!

2 No bliss here lent Is permanent, Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; Short sips and sights Endear delights: Who seeks for more he would inherit.

3 Come then, true bread, Quickening the dead, Whose eater shall not, cannot die! Come, antedate On me that state, Which brings poor dust the victory.

4 Aye victory, Which from thine eye Breaks as the day doth from the east, When the spilt dew Like tears doth shew The sad world wept to be released.

5 Spring up, O wine, And springing shine With some glad message from his heart, Who did, when slain, These means ordain For me to have in him a part!

6 Such a sure part In his blest heart, The well where living waters spring, That, with it fed, Poor dust, though dead, Shall rise again, and live, and sing.

7 O drink and bread, Which strikes death dead, The food of man's immortal being! Under veils here Thou art my cheer, Present and sure without my seeing.

8 How dost thou fly And search and pry Through all my parts, and, like a quick And knowing lamp, Hunt out each damp, Whose shadow makes me sad or sick!

9 O what high joys! The turtle's voice And songs I hear! O quickening showers Of my Lord's blood, You make rocks bud, And crown dry hills with wells and flowers!

10 For this true ease, This healing peace, For this [brief] taste of living glory, My soul and all, Kneel down and fall, And sing his sad victorious story!

11 O thorny crown, More soft than down! O painful cross, my bed of rest! O spear, the key Opening the way! O thy worst state, my only best!

12 O all thy griefs Are my reliefs, As all my sins thy sorrows were! And what can I, To this reply? What, O God! but a silent tear?

13 Some toil and sow That wealth may flow, And dress this earth for next year's meat: But let me heed Why thou didst bleed, And what in the next world to eat.

'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9.

THE WATERFALL.

With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth Here flowing fall, And chide and call, As if his liquid, loose retinue staid Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; The common pass, Where, clear as glass, All must descend, Not to an end, But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank! where often I Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; Why, since each drop of thy quick store Runs thither whence it flowed before, Should poor souls fear a shade or night, Who came (sure) from a sea of light? Or, since those drops are all sent back So sure to thee that none doth lack, Why should frail flesh doubt any more That what God takes he'll not restore?

O useful element and clear! My sacred wash and cleanser here; My first consigner unto those Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! What sublime truths and wholesome themes Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams! Such as dull man can never find, Unless that Spirit lead his mind, Which first upon thy face did move And hatched all with his quickening love. As this loud brook's incessant fall In streaming rings re-stagnates all, Which reach by course the bank, and then Are no more seen: just so pass men. O my invisible estate, My glorious liberty, still late! Thou art the channel my soul seeks, Not this with cataracts and creeks.

DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT.

This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry.

Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers!

After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died.

While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his 'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says--

'His tawny teeth Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at The dismal riddle of his living death._'

The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on 'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for appreciating true poetry.

HELL.

1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale, High walled with strong damnation, moated round With flaming brimstone: full against the hall Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank.

2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be, Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws. Hither flocked all the states of misery; As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot.

3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride, Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite, And hanged round with torments far and wide: The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight, Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield, A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field.

4 There on's immortal throne of death they see Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held His globe, (for all the world he claims to be His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit, With restless madness gnawed themselves and it.

5 His awful horns above his crown did rise, And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes Were hell reflected in a double glass, Two comets staring in their bloody stream, Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame.

6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at The dismal riddle of his living death: His grizzly beard a singed confession made What fiery breath through his black lips did trade.

7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back His chair of ever-fretting pain was set, Frighted beside itself, began to quake: Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear, Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare.

JOSEPH'S DREAM.

1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes, And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear, And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing A nimble vision me did thither bring.

2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed Where choice of every weather treasured lies: Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise; There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes.

3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air Was sweet and calm, and in my memory Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair Canaan now fled from my discerning eye; The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read, By that due prospect, what it was indeed.

4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames, Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about, Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought Fire could have been so mild; but surely here It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere.

5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet An ardency as in your noble heart That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm; Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm.

6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare, On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled Me up into a region as far, In splendid worth, surmounting this low world As in its place: for liquid crystal here Was the tralucid matter of each sphere.

7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by, Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator Instated her in that large monarchy She holdeth over all the ocean's water: To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er All other humid bodies gives her power.

8 Now complimental Mercury was come To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere, And bid us eloquent welcome to his home. Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride.

9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride, (Which brought again my mother to my mind,) Into her region lured my ravished guide. This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find; And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow.

10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold, The rich reflection of his own aspect: Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked, What life, what verdure, what heroic might, What pearly spirits, what sons of active light.

11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere, Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!) And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place. Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw, Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know.

12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy Something which looked but frowardly on me: And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye My musing troubled sense; for straightway he, Lest I should start and wake upon the fright, Speeded from thence his seasonable flight.

13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where Illustrious Mildness round about did flow; Religion had built her temple there, And sacred honours on its walks did grow: No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown, Which in those mystic gardens was not sown.

14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed; And much I wondered how, and he so dull, Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead, Of dark and solitary comers full; Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be, Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy.

15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field, Innumerable stars we marshalled found In fair array: this earth did never yield Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing.

PARADISE.

1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense, Which smiled upon the flowery vales below, Where living crystal found a sweet pretence With musical impatience to flow, And delicately chide the gems beneath Because no smoother they had paved its path.

2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires, Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides, Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires, Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes, Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities.

3 The early gales knocked gently at the door Of every flower, to bid the odours wake; Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore From bed to bed, and so returned them back To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses.

4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended; Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths, And with fresh airs of life all things befriended: For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join And make the powers of these blasts divine.

5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load Of fruit which blest oppression overbore: That orchard where the dragon warder stood, For all its golden boughs, to this was poor, To this, in which the greater serpent lay, Though not to guard the trees, but to betray.

6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row; Here, of munificence a thickset grove; There, of wise industry a quickset grew; Here, flourished a dainty copse of love; There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit; Here, larger trees of gravity were set,

7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there, Under whose sheltering shadow piety, Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were; Next stood renown with head exalted high; Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace. O blessed place, where grew such things as these!

EVE.

1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair And lovely plain where gentle majesty Walked in delicious state: her temples clear Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover Of amber-locks whose volume curled over.

2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair Poured down itself upon her ivory back: In which soft flood ten thousand graces were Sporting and dallying with every lock; The rival winds for kisses fell to fight, And raised a ruffling tempest of delight.

3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures, Held up the canopy above her eyes, And opened to the heavens far richer treasures, Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise: Those beams can ravish but the body's sight, These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light.

4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love; Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace; Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above, But in the hemisphere of her own face; Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles; Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles.

5 For silence here could eloquently plead; Here might the unseen soul be clearly read: Though gentle humours their mild mixture made, They proved a double burning-glass which shed Those living flames which, with enlivening darts, Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts.

6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other; Where white and red strove for the fairer glory, Blending in sweet confusion together. The rose and lily never joined were In so divine a marriage as there.

7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles, Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats, Harmless temptations, and honest guiles. For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck, Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek.

8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood; For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that Takes most delight to look and walk abroad. But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay, Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,--

9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue, Her odours and her honey, travelled, Which nicest critics would have judged among Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred. Indeed, the richer Araby in her Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were.

10 More gracefully its golden chapiter No column of white marble e'er sustained Than her round polished neck supported her Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned. Yet neither would this pillar hardness know, Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow.

11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top A pair of pretty sister cherries chose, And there their living crimson lifted up. The milky countenance of the hills confessed What kind of springs within had made their nest.

12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands That pleasure moved as any finger stirred: Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands And chains of love: her waist itself did gird With its own graceful slenderness, and tie Up delicacy's best epitome.

13 Fair politure walked all her body over, And symmetry rejoiced in every part; Soft and white sweetness was her native cover, From every member beauty shot a dart: From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean, No blemish could by envy's self be seen.

14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry; All gems compounded into one rich stone, All sweets knit into one conspiracy; A constellation of all stars in one; Who, when she was presented to their view, Both paradise and nature dazzled grew.

15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career About the world, no sooner spied her face, But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze Till shame enforced him to lash on again, And clearer wash him in the western main.

16 The smiling air was tickled with his high Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss, Embracing with entirest liberty A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his. All odorous gales that had but strength to stir Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her.

17 The marigold her garish love forgot, And turned her homage to these fairer eyes; All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise Unparching courteous lustre, which instead Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread.

18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear Delightful presence, could not choose but melt At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt The influence of her looks; for having let Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set.

TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE.

1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation! Built all of graceful delicacy, rich In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion For youthful eyes, had not the saint within Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine.

2 How happily compendious didst thou make My study when I was the lines to draw Of genuine beauty! never put to take Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee.

3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet In studied silence hugged my secret bliss) How facile was my Muse's task, when set Virtue's and grace's features to express! For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight I nothing had to do, but look and write.

4 How sadly parted are those words; since I Must now be writing, but no more can look! Yet in my heart thy precious memory, So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine; Nor shall thy death devour what was divine.

5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear What you alone profoundly will resent: A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, And sing among the winged choir above.

6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day Had made his progress, and in every inn Whose golden signs through all his radiant way So high are hung, as often lodged been, Since in the sacred knot this noble she Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me.

7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that We straight were sweetly lost in one another. Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, They in one concord blended are together: For nothing now our life but music was; Her soul the treble made, and mine the base.

8 How at the needless question would she smile, When asked what she desired or counted fit? Still bidding me examine mine own will, And read the surest answer ready writ. So centred was her heart in mine, that she Would own no wish, if first not wished by me.

9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by That standard her content resolved to measure. By this rare art of sweetness did she prove That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love.

10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held If I were sad alone; her share, alas! And more than so, in all my sorrows' field She duly reaped: and here alone she was Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much!

* * * * *

11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: She never was perplexed to hear her lace Accused for six months' old, when first put on: She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, Intelligence with fashions to maintain.

12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought Each plait to scrupulous examination: Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass Through all the petty stages of her dress.

13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight In needless sallies; none but civil care Of friendly correspondence could invite Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she Might make her own in tender sympathy.

14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, Home was the region of her liberty. Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: Home was her less encumbered scene, though there Angels and gods she knew spectators were.

* * * * *

15 This weaned her heart from things below, And kindled it with strong desire to gain Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain From begging, yet with humble resignation, To be dismissed from her mortal station.

16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, And languished with most serene content! No paroxysms could make her once complain, Nor suffered she her patience to be spent Before her life; contriving thus to yield To her disease, and yet not lose the field.

17 This trying furnace wasted day by day (What she herself had always counted dross) Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, That of the goodly fabric nothing was Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined Together were her body and her mind.

18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- Released the longing soul: no ejulation Tolled her knell; no dying agony Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die.

19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest: Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite Of any death--here in this faithful breast. Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine.

20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I Have on my other Psyche fixed here; Since her ideal beauties signify The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be But to enhance and more illustrate thee.

IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED.

1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place On earth, a palace wondrous large and high, Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was; Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying The number of the horns which crowned its king.

2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls, Raised to a fair but formidable height; In answer to which strange materials, A graff of dreadful depth and breadth Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood Of innocently-pure and holy blood.

3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war, Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head Of every turret, took their prospect far And wide about the world; and questioned Each wind that travelled by, to know if they Could tell them news of any bloody prey.

4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass, With firmitude and pride were buttressed. The gate of polished steel wide opened was To entertain those throngs, who offered Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which That city's tyrant did the world bewitch.

5 For she had wisely ordered it to be Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name; Whence cheated nations, who before were free, Into her flattering chains for freedom came. Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun Who rose and set in her dominion.

6 But thick within the line erected were Innumerable prisons, plated round With massy iron and with jealous fear: And in those forts of barbarism, profound And miry dungeons, where contagious stink, Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink.

7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass, Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie; Whose groans, reported by the hollow place, Summoned compassion from the passers by; Whom they, alas! no less relentless found, Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound.

8 For they designed for the shambles were To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty, Who could be gratified with no fare But such delight of savage luxury.

END.

1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st; The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach, And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow.

2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace, From all the wild circumference, each line Directly runs to find its resting-place: Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine Ennobling breast, which is their only butt, The arrows of all high desires are shot.

3 All labours pant and languish after thee, Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss; Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be, They never find; and therefore on they press Further and further, till desired thou, Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow.

4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring Returns not answer, but is jealous till His patient hopes thy happy season bring Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart; For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art.

5 The no less sweating and industrious lover Lays not his panting heart to rest upon Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover On love's outside, and may as soon be gone As easily they came; but strives to see His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee.

6 The traveller suspecteth every way, Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be; Nor is secure but that his leader may Step into some mistake as well as he; Or that his strength may fail him; till he win Possession of thee, his wished inn.

7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust, The hardy runner prosecutes his race With obstinate celerity, in trust That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face: His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take.

8 The mariner will trust no winds, although Upon his sails they blow fair flattery; No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow Can charm his fears into security; He credits none but thee, who art his bay, To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way.

9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last To double thee, endured a tedious sea; Through public foaming tempests have I passed; Through flattering calms of private suavity; Through interrupting company's thick press; And through the lake of mine own laziness:

10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion; Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted My jealous pen; and through the conjuration Of ignorant and envious censures, which Implacably against all poems itch:

11 But chiefly those which venture in a way That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace; Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may Adorn a verse with as becoming grace As Venus and her son; that truth may be A nobler theme than lies and vanity.

12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe; Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace.

13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee, The harbour which inflamed my desire, And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me In my uneven road; I am on fire, Till into thy embrace myself I throw, And on the shore hang up my finished vow.

[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

FROM ROBERT HEATH.

WHAT IS LOVE?

1 Tis a child of fancy's getting, Brought up between hope and fear, Fed with smiles, grown by uniting Strong, and so kept by desire: 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire Never dying, Whose smoke like incense doth aspire, Upwards flying.

2 It is a soft magnetic stone, Attracting hearts by sympathy, Binding up close two souls in one, Both discoursing secretly: 'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties Yet ne'er unbinds, Fixing thus two lovers' eyes, As well as minds.

3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony, Where two skilful hands do strike; And every sound expressively Marries sweetly with the like: 'Tis the world's everlasting chain That all things tied, And bid them, like the fixed wain, Unmoved to bide.

PROTEST OF LOVE.

When I thee all o'er do view I all o'er must love thee too. By that smooth forehead, where's expressed The candour of thy peaceful breast, By those fair twin-like stars that shine, And by those apples of thine eyne: By the lambkins and the kids Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: By each peachy-blossomed cheek, And thy satin skin, more sleek And white than Flora's whitest lilies, Or the maiden daffodillies: By that ivory porch, thy nose: By those double-blanched rows Of teeth, as in pure coral set: By each azure rivulet, Running in thy temples, and Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as On each a jewel pendent was: By those lips all dewed with bliss, Made happy in each other's kiss.

TO CLARASTELLA.

Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, * * * * * Whose rosy and vermilion hue Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: Whose fragrant, aromatic breath Would revive dying saints from death, Whose siren-like, harmonious air Speaks music and enchants the ear; Who would not hang, and fixed there Wish he might know no other sphere? Oh for a charm to make the sun Drunk, and forget his motion! Oh that some palsy or lame gout Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! Or that I might or mould or clip His speedy wings, whilst on her lip I quench my thirsty appetite With the life-honey dwells on it! * * * * * Then on his holy altar, I Would sacrifice eternally, Offering one long-continued mine Of golden pleasures to thy shrine.

BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. (FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.)

1 My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That God or nature hath assigned: Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

2 No princely port, nor wealthy store, Nor force to win a victory; No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a loving eye; To none of these I yield as thrall, For why, my mind despise them all.

3 I see that plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as are aloft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear.

4 I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may. Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with anything.

5 I laugh not at another's loss, Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

6 My wealth is health and perfect ease, And conscience clear my chief defence; I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I!

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

1 An old song made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate: Like an old courtier of the queen's, And the queen's old courtier.

2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges: Like an old courtier, &c.

3 With an old study filled full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks: Like an old courtier, &c.

4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose, And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose: Like an old courtier, &c.

5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb: Like an old courtier, &c.

6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds: Like an old courtier, &c.

7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined: Like a young courtier of the king's, And the king's young courtier.

8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand: Like a young courtier, &c.

9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care, Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair: Like a young courtier, &c.

10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood: Like a young courtier, &c.

11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays, And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys: Like a young courtier, &c.

12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone: Like a young courtier, &c.

13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete, With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat: Like a young courtier, &c.

14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold Among the young courtiers of the king, Or the king's young courtiers.

THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

(FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.)

1 There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

2 Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow: Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

HALLO, MY FANCY.

1 In melancholic fancy, Out of myself, In the vulcan dancy, All the world surveying, Nowhere staying, Just like a fairy elf; Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

2 Amidst the misty vapours, Fain would I know What doth cause the tapers; Why the clouds benight us And affright us, While we travel here below. Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

3 Fain would I know the reason Why the little ant, All the summer season, Layeth up provision On condition To know no winter's want; And how housewives, that are so good and painful, Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1

4 Ships, ships, I will descry you Amidst the main; I will come and try you What you are protecting, And projecting, What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

5 When I look before me, There I do behold There's none that sees or knows me; All the world's a-gadding, Running madding; None doth his station hold. He that is below envieth him that riseth, And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

6 Look, look, what bustling Here I do espy; Each another jostling, Every one turmoiling, The other spoiling, As I did pass them by. One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, A third is fully bent on sport and recreation. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

7 Amidst the foamy ocean, Fain would I know What doth cause the motion, And returning In its journeying, And doth so seldom swerve! And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

8 Fain would I be resolved How things are done; And where the bull was calved Of bloody Phalaris, And where the tailor is That works to the man i' the moon! Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go!

9 In conceit like Phaeton, I'll mount Phoebus' chair; Having ne'er a hat on, All my hair a-burning In my journeying, Hurrying through the air. Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, And see how they on foamy bits are playing; All the stars and planets I will be surveying! Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

10 Oh, from what ground of nature Doth the pelican, That self-devouring creature, Prove so froward And untoward, Her vitals for to strain? And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying; And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got

11 Fain would I conclude this, At least make essay, What similitude is; Why fowls of a feather Flock and fly together, And lambs know beasts of prey: How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

12 I'm rapt with admiration, When I do ruminate, Men of an occupation, How each one calls him brother, Yet each envieth other, And yet still intimate! Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered, Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered, In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred! Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

13 What multitude of notions Doth perturb my pate, Considering the motions, How the heavens are preserved, And this world served, In moisture, light, and heat! If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, Or one turns another continuing in journeying, If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning! Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

14 Fain also would I prove this, By considering What that which you call love is: Whether it be a folly Or a melancholy, Or some heroic thing! Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded, And fully upon one his desire hath founded, Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

15 To know this world's centre, Height, depth, breadth, and length, Fain would I adventure To search the hid attractions Of magnetic actions, And adamantic strength. Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain; If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

16 Fain would I have it tried By experiment, By none can be denied; If in this bulk of nature, There be voids less or greater, Or all remains complete? Fain would I know if beasts have any reason; If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason; If fear of winter's want makes swallows fly the season. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go;

17 Hallo, my fancy, hallo, Stay, stay at home with me, I can thee no longer follow, For thou hast betrayed me, And bewrayed me; It is too much for thee. Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring; Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring; For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing: Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me.

'Alas, poor scholar! Whither wilt thou go?' or 'Strange alterations which at this time be, There's many did think they never should see.'

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

1 Come, follow, follow me, You, fairy elves that be; Which circle on the green, Come, follow Mab, your queen. Hand in hand let's dance around, For this place is fairy ground.

2 When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest; Unheard and unespied, Through keyholes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy elves.

3 And if the house be foul With platter, dish, or bowl, Up-stairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep; There we pinch their arms and thighs; None escapes, nor none espies.

4 But if the house be swept, And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duly she is paid; For we use, before we go, To drop a tester in her shoe.

5 Upon a mushroom's head Our tablecloth we spread; A grain of rye or wheat Is manchet which we eat; Pearly drops of dew we drink, In acorn cups filled to the brink.

6 The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snails, Between two cockles stewed, Is meat that's easily chewed; Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

7 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, Serve us for our minstrelsy; Grace said, we dance a while, And so the time beguile; And if the moon doth hide her head, The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

8 On tops of dewy grass So nimbly do we pass, The young and tender stalk Ne'er bends when we do walk; Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been.

END OF VOL. II.

SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

With an Introductory Essay,

By

THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

IN THREE VOLS.

VOL. III.

CONTENTS.

THIRD PERIOD--FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY To a very young Lady Song

JOHN POMFRET The Choice

THE EARL OF DORSET Song

JOHN PHILIPS The Splendid Shilling

WALSH, GOULD, &c.

SIR SAMUEL GARTH The Dispensary

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE Creation

ELIJAH FENTON An Ode to the Right Hon. John Lord Gower

ROBERT CRAWFORD The Bush aboon Traquair

THOMAS TICKELL To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison

JAMES HAMMOND Elegy XIII

SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c.

RICHARD SAVAGE The Bastard

THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER An American Love Ode

JONATHAN SWIFT Baucis and Philemon On Poetry On the Death of Dr Swift A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736

ISAAC WATTS Few Happy Matches The Sluggard The Rose A Cradle Hymn Breathing toward the Heavenly Country To the Rev. Mr John Howe

AMBROSE PHILIPS A Fragment of Sappho

WILLIAM HAMILTON The Braes of Yarrow

ALLAN RAMSAY Lochaber no more Tho Last Time I came o'er the Moor From 'The Gentle Shepherd'--Act I., Scene II.

DODSLEY, BROWN, &c

ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE Imitation of Thomson Imitation of Pope Imitation of Swift

WILLIAM OLDYS Song, occasioned by a Fly drinking out of a Cup of Ale

ROBERT LLOYD The Miseries of a Poet's Life

HENRY CAREY Sally in our Alley

DAVID MALLETT William and Margaret The Birks of Invermay

JAMES MERRICK The Chameleon

DR JAMES GRAINGER Ode to Solitude

MICHAEL BRUCE To the Cuckoo Elegy, written in Spring

CHRISTOPHER SMART Song to David

THOMAS CHATTERTON Bristowe Tragedy Minstrel's Song The Story of William Canynge Kenrick February, an Elegy

LORD LYTTELTON From the 'Monody'

JOHN CUNNINGHAM May-eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen

ROBERT FERGUSSON The Farmer's Ingle

DR WALTER HARTE

EDWARD LOVIBOND The Tears of Old May-Day

FRANCIS FAWKES The Brown Jug

JOHN LANGHORNE From 'The Country Justice' Gipsies A Case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice

SIR WILLIAM BLACKSTONE The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse

JOHN SCOTT Ode on hearing the Drum The Tempestuous Evening

ALEXANDER ROSS Woo'd, and Married, and a' The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow

RICHARD GLOVER From 'Leonidas,' Book XII Admiral Hosier's Ghost

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD Variety

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE Cumnor Hall The Mariner's Wife

LORD NUGENT Ode to Mankind

JOHN LOGAN The Lovers Written in a Visit to the Country in Autumn Complaint of Nature

THOMAS BLACKLOCK The Author's Picture Ode to Aurora, on Melissa's Birthday

MISS ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN The Flowers of the Forest The Same

SIR WILLIAM JONES A Persian Song of Hafiz

SAMUEL BISHOP To Mrs Bishop To the Same

SUSANNA BLAMIRE The Nabob What Ails this Heart o' mine?

JAMES MACPHERSON Ossian's Address to the Sun Desolation of Balclutha Fingal and the Spirit of Loda Address to the Moon Fingal's Spirit-home The Cave

WILLIAM MASON Epitaph on Mrs Mason An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers

JOHN LOWE Mary's Dream

JOSEPH WARTON Ode to Fancy

MISCELLANEOUS Song Verses, copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging-house, in the neighbourhood of London The Old Bachelor Careless Content A Pastoral Ode to a Tobacco-pipe Away! let nought to Love displeasing Richard Bentley's sole Poetical Composition Lines addressed to Pope

INDEX

SPECIMENS, WITH MEMOIRS, OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

* * * * *

THIRD PERIOD.

FROM DRYDEN TO COWPER.

* * * * *

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

Sedley was one of those characters who exert a personal fascination over their own age without leaving any works behind them to perpetuate the charm to posterity. He was the son of Sir John Sedley of Aylesford, in Kent, and was born in 1639. When the Restoration took place he repaired to London, and plunged into all the licence of the time, shedding, however, over the putrid pool the sheen of his wit, manners, and genius. Charles was so delighted with him, that he is said to have asked him whether he had not obtained a patent from Nature to be Apollo's viceroy. He cracked jests, issued lampoons, wrote poems and plays, and, despite some great blunders, was universally admired and loved. When his comedy of 'Bellamira' was acted, the roof fell in, and a few, including the author, were slightly injured. When a parasite told him that the fire of the play had blown up the poet, house and all, Sedley replied, 'No; the play was so heavy that it broke down the house, and buried the poet in his own rubbish.' Latterly he sobered down, entered parliament, attended closely to public business, and became a determined opponent of the arbitrary measures of James II. To this he was stimulated by a personal reason. James had seduced Sedley's daughter, and made her Countess of Dorchester. 'For making my daughter a countess,' the father said, 'I have helped to make his daughter' (Mary, Princess of Orange,) 'a queen.' Sedley, thus talking, acting, and writing, lived on till he was sixty- two years of age. He died in 1701.

He has left nothing that the world can cherish, except such light and graceful songs, sparkling rather with point than with poetry, as we quote below.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

1 Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit As unconcerned, as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain.

2 When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day; I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.

3 Your charms in harmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine, Age from no face took more away, Than youth concealed in thine.

4 But as your charms insensibly To their perfection pressed, Fond Love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest.

5 My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favoured you, Threw a new flaming dart.

6 Each gloried in their wanton part, To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art, To make a Beauty, she.

7 Though now I slowly bend to love, Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate.

8 Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disordered be, Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see.

SONG.

1 Love still has something of the sea, From whence his mother rose; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose.

2 They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost.

3 One while they seem to touch the port, Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport, The vessel drives again.

4 At first Disdain and Pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and Falsehood soon appear, In a more cruel shape.

5 By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood; So slowly they receive the sum, It hardly does them good.

6 'Tis cruel to prolong a pain; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy.

7 An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could not deeper love.

JOHN POMFRET,

The author of the once popular 'Choice,' was born in 1667. He was the son of the rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and, after attending Queen's College, Cambridge, himself entered the Church. He became minister of Malden, which is also situated in Bedfordshire, and there he wrote and, in 1699, published a volume of poems, including some Pindaric essays, in the style of Cowley and 'The Choice.' He might have risen higher in his profession, but Dr Compton, Bishop of London, was prejudiced against him on account of the following lines in the 'Choice:'--

'And as I near approached the verge of life, Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) Should take upon him all my worldly care, Whilst I did for a better state prepare.'

The words in the second line, coupled with a glowing description, in a previous part of the poem, of his ideal of an 'obliging modest fair' one, near whom he wished to live, led to the suspicion that he preferred a mistress to a wife. In vain did he plead that he was actually a married man. His suit for a better living made no progress, and while dancing attendance on his patron in London he caught small-pox, and died in 1703, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.

His Pindaric odes, &c., are feeble spasms, and need not detain us. His 'Reason' shews considerable capacity and common sense. His 'Choice' opens up a pleasing vista, down which our quiet ancestors delighted to look, but by which few now can be attracted. We quote a portion of what a biographer calls a 'modest' preface, which Pomfret prefixed to his poems:--'To please every one would be a new thing, and to write so as to please nobody would be as new; for even Quarles and Withers have their admirers. It is not the multitude of applauses, but the good sense of the applauders which establishes a valuable reputation; and if a Rymer or a Congreve say it is well, he will not be at all solicitous how great the majority be to the contrary.' How strangely are opinions now altered! Rymer was some time ago characterised by Macaulay as the worst critic that ever lived, and Quarles and Withers have now many admirers, while 'The Choice' and its ill-fated author are nearly forgotten.

THE CHOICE.

If Heaven the grateful liberty would give, That I might choose my method how to live, And all those hours propitious fate should lend, In blissful ease and satisfaction spend, Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, Built uniform, not little, nor too great: Better, if on a rising ground it stood, On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. It should within no other things contain, But what are useful, necessary, plain: Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure, The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. A little garden, grateful to the eye; And a cool rivulet run murmuring by, On whose delicious banks, a stately row Of shady limes or sycamores should grow. At the end of which a silent study placed, Should be with all the noblest authors graced: Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines Immortal wit and solid learning shines; Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too, Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew; He that with judgment reads his charming lines, In which strong art with stronger nature joins, Must grant his fancy does the best excel; His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well; With all those moderns, men of steady sense, Esteemed for learning and for eloquence. In some of these, as fancy should advise, I'd always take my morning exercise; For sure no minutes bring us more content, Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. I'd have a clear and competent estate, That I might live genteelly, but not great; As much as I could moderately spend, A little more sometimes t' oblige a friend. Nor should the sons of poverty repine Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; And all that objects of true pity were, Should be relieved with what my wants could spare; For that our Maker has too largely given, Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven.

THE EARL OF DORSET.

This noble earl was rather a patron of poets than a poet, and possessed more wit than genius. Charles Sackville was born on the 24th January 1637. He was descended directly from the famous Thomas, Lord Buckhurst. He was educated under a private tutor, travelled in Italy, and returned in time to witness the Restoration. In the first parliament thereafter, he sat for East Grinstead, in Surrey, and might have distinguished himself, had he not determined, in common with almost all the wits of the time, to run a preliminary career of dissipation. What a proof of the licentiousness of these times is to be found in the fact, that young Lord Buckhurst, Sir Charles Sedley, and Sir Thomas Ogle were fined for exposing themselves, drunk and naked, in indecent postures on the public street! In 1665, the erratic energies of Buckhurst found a more legitimate vent in the Dutch war. He attended the Duke of York in the great sea-fight of the 3d June, in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was, with all his crew, blown up. He is said to have composed the song, quoted afterwards, 'To all you ladies now at land,' on the evening before the battle, although Dr Johnson (who observes that seldom any splendid story is wholly true) maintains that its composition cost him a whole week, and that he only retouched it on that remarkable evening. Buckhurst was soon after made a gentleman of the bed-chamber, and despatched on short embassies to France. In 1674, his uncle, James Cranfield, the Earl of Middlesex, died, and left him his estate, and the next year the title, too, was conferred on him. In 1677, he became, by the death of his father, Earl of Dorset, and inherited the family estate. In 1684, his wife, whose name was Bagot, and by whom he had no children, died, and he soon after married a daughter of the Earl of Northampton, who is said to have been celebrated both for understanding and beauty. Dorset was courted by James, but found it impossible to coincide with his violent measures, and when the bishops were tried at Westminster Hall, he, along with some other lords, appeared to countenance them. He concurred with the Revolution settlement, and, after William's accession, was created lord chamberlain of the household, and received the Order of the Garter. His attendance on the king, however, eventually cost him his life, for having been tossed with him in an open boat on the coast of Holland for sixteen hours, in very rough weather, he caught an illness from which he never recovered. On 19th January 1705-6, he died at Bath.

During his life, Dorset was munificent in his kindness to such men of genius as Prior and Dryden, who repaid him in the current coin of the poor Parnassus of their day--gross adulation. He is now remembered mainly for his spirited war-song, and for such pointed lines in his satire on Edward Howard, the notorious author of 'British Princes,' as the following:--

'They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion; Thy stumbling, foundered jade can trot as high As any other Pegasus can fly. So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud Than all the swift-finned racers of the flood. As skilful divers to the bottom fall Sooner than those who cannot swim at all, So in this way of writing without thinking, Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.'

This last line has not only become proverbial, but forms the distinct germ of 'The Dunciad.'

SONG.

WRITTEN AT SEA, IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT.

1 To all you ladies now at land, We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write; The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you, With a fa, la, la, la, la.

2 For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain; Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea. With a fa, &c.

3 Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, By Dutchmen, or by wind; Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The tide shall bring them twice a-day. With a fa, &c.

4 The king, with wonder and surprise, Will swear the seas grow bold; Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they used of old: But let him know, it is our tears Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. With a fa, &c.

5 Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story, The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree: For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? With a fa, &c.

6 Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, &c.

7 To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main; Or else at serious ombre play: But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue? We were undone when we left you. With a fa, &c.

8 But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away; Whilst you, regardless of our woe, Sit careless at a play: Perhaps, permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. With a fa, &c.

9 When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note, As if it sighed with each man's care, For being so remote, Think how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were played. With a fa, &c.

10 In justice you can not refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honour lose Our certain happiness; All those designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. With a fa, &c.

11 And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity from your tears; Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. With a fa, la, la, la, la.

JOHN PHILIPS.

Bampton in Oxfordshire was the birthplace of this poet. He was born on the 30th of December 1676. His father, Dr Stephen Philips, was archdeacon of Salop, as well as minister of Bampton. John, after some preliminary training at home, was sent to Winchester, where he distinguished himself by diligence and good-nature, and enjoyed two great luxuries,--the reading of Milton, and the having his head combed by some one while he sat still and in rapture for hours together. This pleasure he shared with Vossius, and with humbler persons of our acquaintance; the combing of whose hair, they tell us,

'Dissolves them into ecstasies, And brings all heaven before their eyes.'

In 1694, he entered Christ Church, Cambridge. His intention was to prosecute the study of medicine, and he took great delight in the cognate pursuits of natural history and botany. His chief friend was Edmund Smith, (Rag Smith, as he was generally called,) a kind of minor Savage, well known in these times as the author of 'Phaedra and Hippolytus,' and for his cureless dissipation. In 1703, Philips produced 'The Splendid Shilling,' which proved a hit, and seems to have diverted his aspirations from the domains of Aesculapius to those of Apollo. Bolingbroke sought him out, and employed him, after the battle of Blenheim, to sing it in opposition to Addison, the laureate of the Whigs. At the house of the magnificent but unprincipled St John, Philips wrote his 'Blenheim,' which was published in 1705. The year after, his 'Cider,' a poem in two books, appeared, and was received with great applause. Encouraged by this, he projected a poem on the Last Day, which all who are aware of the difficulties of the subject, and the limitations of the author's genius, must rejoice that he never wrote. Consumption and asthma removed him prematurely on the 15th of February 1708, ere he had completed his thirty-third year. He was buried in Hereford Cathedral, and Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor, erected a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

Bulwer somewhere records a story of John Martin in his early days. He was, on one occasion, reduced to his last shilling. He had kept it, out of a heap, from a partiality to its appearance. It was very bright. He was compelled, at last, to part with it. He went out to a baker's shop to purchase a loaf with his favourite shilling. He had got the loaf into his hands, when the baker discovered that the shilling was a bad one, and poor Martin had to resign the loaf, and take back his dear, bright, bad shilling once more. Length of time and cold criticism in like manner have reduced John Philips to his solitary 'Splendid Shilling.' But, though bright, it is far from bad. It is one of the cleverest of parodies, and is perpetrated against one of those colossal works which the smiles of a thousand caricatures were unable to injure. No great or good poem was ever hurt by its parody:--the 'Paradise Lost' was not by 'The Splendid Shilling'--'The Last Man' of Campbell was not by 'The Last Man' of Hood--nor the 'Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore' by their witty, well-known caricature; and if 'The Vision of Judgment' by Southey was laughed into oblivion by Byron's poem with the same title, it was because Southey's original was neither good nor great. Philip's poem, too, is the first of the kind; and surely we should be thankful to the author of the earliest effort in a style which has created so much innocent amusement. Dr Johnson speaks as if the pleasure arising from such productions implied a malignant 'momentary triumph over that grandeur which had hitherto held its captives in admiration.' We think, on the contrary, that it springs from our deep interest in the original production, making us alive to the strange resemblance the caricature bears to it. It is our love that provokes our laughter, and hence the admirers of the parodied poem are more delighted than its enemies. At all events, it is by 'The Splendid Shilling' alone--and that principally from its connexion with Milton's great work--that Philips is memorable. His 'Cider' has soured with age, and the loud echo of his Blenheim battle-piece has long since died away.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING.

"... Sing, heavenly Muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimeras dire.

Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent! Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern.

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, With force incredible, and magic charms, Erst have endued; if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.

So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea; in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700.

We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.'

SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first canto of the poem.

THE DISPENSARY.

Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; And why physicans were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to the Elysian plain Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. Not far from that most celebrated place, Where angry Justice shows her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as noble as its frame; Nor did the learn'd society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degrees to harden into bone; While the more loose flow from the vital urn, And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; To how minute an origin we owe Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, And why chill virgins redden into flame; Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; How matter, by the varied shape of pores, Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impassive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the passions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will. With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie.

But now no grand inquiries are descried, Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, And for important nothings show a zeal: The drooping sciences neglected pine, And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. No readers here with hectic looks are found, Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; The lonely edifice in sweats complains That nothing there but sullen silence reigns.

This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, The god of sloth for his asylum chose; Upon a couch of down in these abodes, Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: The poppy and each numbing plant dispense Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; No passions interrupt his easy reign, No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' 'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end.

We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor Sir Richard:--

VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS.

See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; Praised great Eliza in God's anger, Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; Mauled human wit in one thick satire, Next in three books spoiled human nature; Undid Creation at a jerk, And of Redemption made ---- work; Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her Full in the middle of the Scripture; What wonders there the man grown old did, Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; Made David seem so mad and freakish, All thought him just what thought King Achish; No mortal read his Solomon But judged Reboam his own son; Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, And Deborah as she Sisera; Made Jeremy full sore to cry, And Job himself curse God and die.

What punishment all this must follow? Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? Shall David as Uriah slay him? Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? Or shall Eliza lay a plot To treat him like her sister Scot? No, none of these; Heaven save his life, But send him, honest Job, thy wife!

CREATION.

No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; I meditate to soar above the skies, To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; I would the Eternal from his works assert, And sing the wonders of creating art. While I this unexampled task essay, Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. Thou dost the full extent of nature see, And the wide realms of vast immensity; Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! Thou with Almighty energy didst move On the wild waves, incumbent didst display Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. Order from thee, from thee distinction came, And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. See, through this vast extended theatre Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! Creating power is all around expressed, The God discovered, and his care confessed. Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; By every feature we the parent know. The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! Magnificent with stars and globes of light, The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, The fluctuating fields of liquid air, With all the curious meteors hovering there, And the wide regions of the land, proclaim The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. What things soe'er are to an end referred, And in their motions still that end regard, Always the fitness of the means respect, These as conducive choose, and those reject, Must by a judgment foreign and unknown Be guided to their end, or by their own; For to design an end, and to pursue That end by means, and have it still in view, Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; That can deliberate, means elect, and find Their due connexion with the end designed. And since the world's wide frame does not include A cause with such capacities endued, Some other cause o'er nature must preside, Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; And here behold the cause, which God we name, The source of beings, and the mind supreme; Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare.

ELIJAH FENTON.

This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in 1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716.

1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, At length the lusty Spring prevails; And swift to meet the smiling May, Is wafted by the western gales. Around him dance the rosy Hours, And damasking the ground with flowers, With ambient sweets perfume the morn; With shadowy verdure flourished high, A sudden youth the groves enjoy; Where Philomel laments forlorn.

2 By her awaked, the woodland choir To hail the coming god prepares; And tempts me to resume the lyre, Soft warbling to the vernal airs. Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign For me, the meanest of your train, Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: Where Horace wantons at your spring, And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat.

3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; Thither, indulgent to my prayer, Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, To swell the notes I feebly raise: So with aspiring ardours warmed May Gower's propitious ear be charmed To listen to my lays.

4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] To dint of sword defies the foe; In fight unknowing to recede: From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar Leads forth his furry troops to war; Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; But soon, the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly.

5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, winged with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires.

6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: There secret in her sapphire cell, He with the Nais wont to dwell; Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: And where her mazy waters flow He gave the mantling vine to grow, A trophy to his love.

7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, With blind opinion for his guide; And, rebel to her rightful sway, Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? Fool! Time no change of motion knows; With equal speed the torrent flows, To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: The past is all by death possessed; And frugal fate that guards the rest, By giving, bids him live To-Day.

8 O Gower! through all the destined space, What breath the Powers allot to me Shall sing the virtues of thy race, United and complete in thee. O flower of ancient English faith! Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, In which confirmed thy father shone: The light his fair example gives, Already from thy dawn receives A lustre equal to its own.

9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard And clouds of incense all the void perfume. There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, With Falkland seated near his side, Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; Prophetic of thy happier fame, She, to receive thy radiant name, Selects a whiter space.

[1] Charles XII.

ROBERT CRAWFORD.

Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.'

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her; At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her.

2 That day she smiled and made me glad, No maid seemed ever kinder; I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her; I tried to soothe my amorous flame, In words that I thought tender; If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- I meant not to offend her.

3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, The fields we then frequented; If e'er we meet she shows disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, Its sweets I'll aye remember; But now her frowns make it decay-- It fades as in December.

4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me? Oh, make her partner in my pains, Then let her smiles relieve me! If not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender; I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- To lonely wilds I'll wander.

THOMAS TICKELL.

Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740.

His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste would have approved.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON.

If, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave? How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid: And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, My grief be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallowed mould belew; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints, who taught and led the way to heaven; Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation came a nobler guest; Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assigned, What new employments please the embodied mind? A winged Virtue, through the ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. If business calls, or crowded courts invite, The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: There patient showed us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frowned, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in the unfinished song!

These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, To thee, O Craggs! the expiring sage conveyed, Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell! Farewell! whom, joined in fame, in friendship tried, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

JAMES HAMMOND.

This elegiast was the second son of Anthony Hammond, a brother-in-law of Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of some note in his day. He was born in 1710; educated at Westminster school; became equerry to the Prince of Wales; fell in love with a lady named Dashwood, who rejected him, and drove him to temporary derangement, and then to elegy-writing; entered parliament for Truro, in Cornwall, in 1741; and died the next year. His elegies were published after his death, and, although abounding in pedantic allusions and frigid conceits, became very popular.

ELEGY XIII.

He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, they are retired into the country.

1 Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned, Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

2 While calmly poor I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire.

3 With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

4 If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

5 What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!

6 Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And with my Delia, walking side by side, Hear how they murmur as they glide away!

7 What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

8 Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem, I live for Delia and myself alone.

* * * * *

9 Hers be the care of all my little train, While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguished from the rest.

10 For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock:

11 Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

12 Delia alone can please, and never tire, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows through every night:

13 Beauty and worth in her alike contend, To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason joined.

14 On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er, And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-- Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

15 Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:

16 Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:

17 Let them, extended on the decent bier, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Through all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

We may here mention Dr George Sewell, author of a Life of Sir Walter Haleigh, a few papers in the _Spectator_, and some rather affecting verses written on consumption, where he says, in reference to his garden--

'Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green, (For vanity's in little seen,) All must be left when death appears, In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; Not one of all thy plants that grow, But rosemary, will with thee go;'--

Sir John Vanbrugh, best known as an architect, but who also wrote poetry;--Edward Ward (more commonly called Ned Ward), a poetical publican, who wrote ten thick volumes, chiefly in Hudibrastic verse, displaying a good deal of coarse cleverness;--Barton Booth, the famous actor, author of a song which closes thus--

'Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, Twin-born, from heaven together came; Love will the universe control, When dying seasons lose their name. Divine abodes shall own his power, When time and death shall be no more;'--

Oldmixon, one of the heroes of the 'Dunciad,' famous in his day as a party historian;--Richard West, a youth of high promise, the friend of Gray, and who died in his twenty-sixth year;--James Eyre Weekes, an Irishman, author of a clever copy of love verses, called 'The Five Traitors;'--Bramston, an Oxford man, who wrote a poem called 'The Man of Taste;'--and William Meston, an Aberdonian, author of a set of burlesque poems entitled 'Mother Grim's Tales.'

RICHARD SAVAGE.

The extreme excellence, fulness, and popularity of Johnson's Life of Savage must excuse our doing more than mentioning the leading dates of his history. He was the son of the Earl of Rivers and the Countess of Macclesfield, and was born in London, 1698. His mother, who had begot him in adultery after having openly avowed her criminality, in order to obtain a divorce from her husband, placed the boy under the care of a poor woman, who brought him up as her son. His maternal grandmother, Lady Mason, however, took an interest him and placed him at a grammar school at St Alban's. He was afterwards apprenticed to a shoemaker. On the death of his nurse, he found some letters which led to the discovery of his real parent. He applied to her, accordingly, to be acknowledged as her son; but she repulsed his every advance, and persecuted him with unrelenting barbarity. He found, however, some influential friends, such as Steele, Fielding, Aaron Hill, Pope, and Lord Tyrconnell. He was, however, his own worst enemy, and contracted habits of the most irregular description. In a tavern brawl he killed one James Sinclair, and was condemned to die; but, notwithstanding his mother's interference to prevent the exercise of the royal clemency, he was pardoned by the queen, who afterwards gave him a pension of L50 a-year. He supported himself in a precarious way by writing poetical pieces. Lord Tyrconnell took him for a while into his house, and allowed him L200 a-year, but he soon quarrelled with him, and left. When the queen died he lost his pension, but his friends made it up by an annuity to the same amount. He went away to reside at Swansea, but on occasion of a visit he made to Bristol he was arrested for a small debt, and in the prison he sickened, and died on the 1st of August 1743. He was only forty-five years of age.

After all, Savage, in Johnson's Life, is just a dung-fly preserved in amber. His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine excellence in character. We love and admire, even while we deeply blame, such men as Burns; but for Savage our feeling is a curious compost of sympathy with his misfortunes, contempt for his folly, and abhorrence for the ingratitude, licentiousness, and other coarse and savage sins which characterised and prematurely destroyed him.

THE BASTARD.

INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS BRETT, ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD.

In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: 'Blest be the Bastard's birth! through wondrous ways, He shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! He! stamped in nature's mint of ecstasy! He lives to build, not boast a generous race: No tenth transmitter of a foolish face: His daring hope no sire's example bounds; His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. He, kindling from within, requires no flame; He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.

'Born to himself, by no possession led, In freedom fostered, and by fortune fed; Nor guides, nor rules his sovereign choice control, His body independent as his soul; Loosed to the world's wide range, enjoined no aim, Prescribed no duty, and assigned no name: Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, His heart unbiased, and his mind his own.

'O mother, yet no mother! 'tis to you My thanks for such distinguished claims are due; You, unenslaved to Nature's narrow laws, Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause, From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, From ties maternal, moral, and divine, Discharged my grasping soul; pushed me from shore, And launched me into life without an oar.

'What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, By nature hating, yet by vows confined, Untaught the matrimonial bonds to slight, And coldly conscious of a husband's right, You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, A lawful lump of life by force your own! Then, while your backward will retrenched desire, And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, I had been born your dull, domestic heir, Load of your life, and motive of your care; Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great, The slave of pomp, a cipher in the state; Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, And slumbering in a seat by chance my own.

'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot! Strong as necessity, he starts away, Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.' Thus unprophetic, lately misinspired, I sung: gay fluttering hope my fancy fired: Inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill, Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will, Rashly deceived, I saw no pits to shun, But thought to purpose and to act were one; Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; But now exposed, and shrinking from distress, I fly to shelter while the tempests press; My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone, The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.

O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! Thou actor of our passions o'er again! Why didst thou aggravate the wretch's woe? Why add continuous smart to every blow? Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not; While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall, Yet thou repeat'st and multipli'st them all.

Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, For mischief never meant; must ever smart? Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died.

Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way? He might have lived till folly died in shame, Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all.

O fate of late repentance! always vain: Thy remedies but lull undying pain. Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, First to advance, then screen from future harm? Am I returned from death to live in pain? Or would imperial Pity save in vain? Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?

Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, This sad reflection yet may force one tear: All I was wretched by to you I owed, Alone from strangers every comfort flowed!

Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, And now adopted, who was doomed before; New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, But dare not whisper her immortal name; Supremely lovely, and serenely great! Majestic mother of a kneeling state! Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! One contest yet remains in this desire, Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER.

The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the following

VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.

From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls, Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls, To my low cot, from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return, unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens; Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill; Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells, Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers, And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;-- At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

This seems sweet and simple poetry.

AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE.

FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake: But let me oft thy charms review, Thy glittering scales, and golden hue; From these a chaplet shall be wove, To grace the youth I dearest love.

Then ages hence, when thou no more Shalt creep along the sunny shore, Thy copied beauties shall be seen; Thy red and azure mixed with green, In mimic folds thou shalt display;-- Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

In contemplating the lives and works of the preceding poets in this third volume of 'Specimens,' we have been impressed with a sense, if not of their absolute, yet of their comparative mediocrity. Beside such neglected giants as Henry More, Joseph Beaumont, and Andrew Marvell, the Pomfrets, Sedleys, Blackmores, and Savages sink into insignificance. But when we come to the name of Swift, we feel ourselves again approaching an Alpine region. The air of a stern mountain-summit breathes chill around our temples, and we feel that if we have no amiability to melt, we have altitude at least to measure, and strange profound secrets of nature, like the ravines of lofty hills, to explore. The men of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may be compared to Lebanon, or Snowdown, or Benlomond towering grandly over fertile valleys, on which they smile--Swift to the tremendous Romsdale Horn in Norway, shedding abroad, from a brow of four thousand feet high, what seems a scowl of settled indignation, as if resolved not to rejoice even over the wide- stretching deserts which, and nothing but which, it everlastingly beholds. Mountains all of them, but what a difference between such a mountain as Shakspeare, and such a mountain as Swift!

Instead of going minutely over a path so long since trodden to mire as the life of Swift, let us expend a page or two in seeking to form some estimate of his character and genius. It is refreshing to come upon a new thing in the world, even though it be a strange or even a bad thing; and certainly, in any age and country, such a being as Swift must have appeared an anomaly, not for his transcendent goodness, not for his utter badness, but because the elements of good and evil were mixed in him into a medley so astounding, and in proportions respectively so large, yet unequal, that the analysis of the two seemed to many competent only to the Great Chymist, Death, and that a sense of the disproportion seems to have moved the man himself to inextinguishable laughter,--a laughter which, radiating out of his own singular heart as a centre, swept over the circumference of all beings within his reach, and returned crying, 'Give, give,' as if he were demanding a universal sphere for the exercise of the savage scorn which dwelt within him, and as if he laughed not more 'consumedly' at others than he did at himself.

Ere speaking of Swift as a man, let us say something about his genius. That, like his character, was intensely peculiar. It was a compound of infinite ingenuity, with very little poetical imagination--of gigantic strength, with a propensity to incessant trifling--of passionate purpose, with the clearest and coldest expression, as though a furnace were fuelled with snow. A Brobdignagian by size, he was for ever toying with Lilliputian slings and small craft. One of the most violent of party men, and often fierce as a demoniac in temper, his favourite motto was _Vive la bagatelle_. The creator of entire new worlds, we doubt if his works contain more than two or three lines of genuine poetry. He may be compared to one of the locusts of the Apocalypse, in that he had a tail like unto a scorpion, and a sting in his tail; but his 'face is not as the face of man, his hair is not as the hair of women, and on his head there is no crown like gold.' All Swift's creations are more or less disgusting. Not one of them is beautiful. His Lilliputians are amazingly life-like, but compare them to Shakspeare's fairies, such as Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Mustardseed; his Brobdignagians are excrescences like enormous warts; and his Yahoos might have been spawned in the nightmare of a drunken butcher. The same coarseness characterises his poems and his 'Tale of a Tub.' He might well, however, in his old age, exclaim, in reference to the latter, 'Good God! what a genius I had when I wrote that book!' It is the wildest, wittiest, wickedest, wealthiest book of its size in the English language. Thoughts and figures swarm in every corner of its pages, till you think of a disturbed nest of angry ants, for all the figures and thoughts are black and bitter. One would imagine the book to have issued from a mind that had been gathering gall as well as sense in an antenatal state of being.

Swift, in all his writings--sermons, political tracts, poems, and fictions--is essentially a satirist. He consisted originally of three principal parts,--sense, an intense feeling of the ludicrous, and selfish passion; and these were sure, in certain circumstances, to ferment into a spirit of satire, 'strong as death, and cruel as the grave.' Born with not very much natural benevolence, with little purely poetic feeling, with furious passions and unbounded ambition, he was entirely dependent for his peace of mind upon success. Had he become, as by his talents he was entitled to be, the prime minister of his day, he would have figured as a greater tyrant in the cabinet than even Chatham. But as he was prevented from being the first statesman, he became the first satirist of his time. From vain efforts to grasp supremacy for himself and his party, he retired growling to his Dublin den; and there, as Haman thought scorn to lay his hand on Mordecai, but extended his murderous purpose to all the people of the Jews,--and as Nero wished that Rome had one neck, that he might destroy it at a blow,--so Swift was stung by his personal disappointment to hurl out scorn at man and suspicion at his Maker. It was not, it must be noticed, the evil which was in man which excited his hatred and contempt; it was man himself. He was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the truth,--'The devil is an ass.' His was the very madness of Manichaeism. That heresy held that the devil was one of two aboriginal creative powers, but Swift seemed to believe at times that he was the only God. From a Yahoo man, it was difficult to avoid the inference of a demon deity. It is very laughable to find writers in _Blackwood_ and elsewhere striving to prove Swift a Christian, as if, whatever were his professions, and however sincere he might be often in these, the whole tendency of his writings, his perpetual and unlimited abuse of man's body and soul, his denial of every human virtue, the filth he pours upon every phase of human nature, and the doctrine he insinuates--that man has fallen indeed, but fallen, not from the angel, but from the animal, or, rather, is just a bungled brute,--were not enough to shew that either his notions were grossly erroneous and perverted, or that he himself deserved, like another Nebuchadnezzar, to be driven from men, and to have a beast's heart given unto him. Sometimes he reminds us of an impure angel, who has surprised man naked and asleep, looked at him with microscopic eyes, ignored all his peculiar marks of fallen dignity and incipient godhood, and in heartless rhymes reported accordingly.

Swift belonged to the same school as Pope, although the feminine element which was in the latter modified and mellowed his feelings. Pope was a more successful and a happier man than Swift. He was much smaller, too, in soul as well as in body, and his gall-organ was proportionably less. Pope's feeling to humanity was a tiny malice; Swift's became, at length, a black malignity. Pope always reminds us of an injured and pouting hero of Lilliput, 'doing well to be angry' under the gourd of a pocket-flap, or squealing out his griefs from the centre of an empty snuff-box; Swift is a man, nay, monster of misanthropy. In minute and microscopic vision of human infirmities, Pope excels even Swift; but then you always conceive Swift leaning down a giant, though gnarled, stature to behold them, while Pope is on their level, and has only to look straight before him. Pope's wrath is always measured; Swift's, as in the 'Legion-Club' is a whirlwind of 'black fire and horror,' in the breath of which no flesh can live, and against which genius and virtue themselves furnish no shield.

After all, Swift might, perhaps, have put in the plea of Byron--

'All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know.'

There was a black spot of madness in his brain, and another black spot in his heart; and the two at last met, and closed up his destiny in night. Let human nature forgive its most determined and systematic reviler, for the sake of the wretchedness in which he was involved all his life long. He was born (in 1667) a posthumous child; he was brought up an object of charity; he spent much of his youth in dependence; he had to leave his Irish college without a degree; he was flattered with hopes from King William and the Whigs, which were not fulfilled; he was condemned to spend a great part of his life in Ireland, a country he detested; he was involved--partly, no doubt, through his own blame--in a succession of fruitless and miserable intrigues, alike of love and politics; he was soured by want of success in England, and spoiled by enormous popularity in Ireland; he was tried by a kind of religious doubts, which would not go out to prayer or fasting; he was haunted by the fear of the dreadful calamity which at last befell him; his senses and his soul left him one by one; he became first giddy, then deaf, and then mad; his madness was of the most terrible sort--it was a 'silent rage;' for a year or two he lay dumb; and at last, on the 19th of October 1745,

'Swift expired, a driveller and a show,'

leaving his money to found a lunatic asylum, and his works as a many- volumed legacy of curse to mankind.

[Note: It has been asserted that there were circumstances in extenuation of Swift's conduct, particularly in reference to the ladies whose names were connected with his, which _cannot be publicly brought forward_.]

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits went To a small village down in Kent, Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village passed, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amazed, And often on each other gazed; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry,--'What art!' Then softly turned aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't, Told them their calling, and their errand: 'Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints,' the hermits said; 'No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drowned; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climbed slowly after.

The chimney widened, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist; But with the upside down, to show Its inclination for below; In vain; for a superior force, Applied at bottom, stops its course: Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increased by new intestine wheels; And, what exalts the wonder more The number made the motion slower; The flier, though't had leaden feet, Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; But, slackened by some secret power, Now hardly moves an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered; And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon declares, Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll, Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The little Children in the Wood, Now seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter; And, high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead, of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees; The hermits then desired their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused a while, Returned them thanks in homely style; Then said, 'My house is grown so fine, Methinks I still would call it mine; I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please.'

He spoke, and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels: He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-sleeve; His waistcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue; But, being old, continued just As threadbare, and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues; He smoked his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamped in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wished women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrowed last; Against Dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine; Found his head filled with many a system; But classic authors,--he ne'er missed 'em.

Thus, having furbished up a parson, Dame Baucis next they played their farce on; Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen; Her petticoat, transformed apace, Became black satin flounced with lace. Plain 'Goody' would no longer down; 'Twas 'Madam' in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes, Amazed to see her look so prim; And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing on old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, 'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' 'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And, really, yours is budding too; Nay, now I cannot stir my foot-- It feels as if 'twere taking root.'

Description would but tire my Muse; In short, they both were turned to yews.

Old Goodman Dobson of the green Remembers he the trees has seen; He'll talk of them from noon till night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening-prayer, He gathers all the parish there, Points out the place of either yew: 'Here Baucis, there Philemon grew; Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn cut Baucis down. At which 'tis hard to be believed How much the other tree was grieved, Grew scrubby, died atop, was stunted; So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.'

ON POETRY.

All human race would fain be wits, And millions miss for one that hits. Young's Universal Passion, pride, Was never known to spread so wide. Say, Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most? Our chilling climate hardly bears A sprig of bays in fifty years; While every fool his claim alleges, As if it grew in common hedges. What reason can there be assigned For this perverseness in the mind? Brutes find out where their talents lie: A bear will not attempt to fly; A foundered horse will oft debate Before he tries a five-barred gate; A dog by instinct turns aside, Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;-- But man we find the only creature, Who, led by folly, combats nature; Who, when she loudly cries, Forbear, With obstinacy fixes there; And, where his genius least inclines, Absurdly bends his whole designs.

Not empire to the rising sun By valour, conduct, fortune won; Not highest wisdom in debates For framing laws to govern states; Not skill in sciences profound So large to grasp the circle round, Such heavenly influence require, As how to strike the Muse's lyre.

Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges Of gipsies littering under hedges, Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Hath blasted with poetic fire. What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware? Where you have nothing to produce For private life or public use? Court, city, country, want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot. For poets, law makes no provision; The wealthy have you in derision; Of state affairs you cannot smatter, Are awkward when you try to flatter; Your portion, taking Britain round, Was just one annual hundred pound; Now not so much as in remainder, Since Gibber brought in an attainder, For ever fixed by right divine, (A monarch's right,) on Grub Street line.

Poor starveling bard, how small thy gains! How unproportioned to thy pains! And here a simile comes pat in: Though chickens take a month to fatten, The guests in less than half an hour Will more than half a score devour. So, after toiling twenty days To earn a stock of pence and praise, Thy labours, grown the critic's prey, Are swallowed o'er a dish of tea; Gone to be never heard of more, Gone where the chickens went before. How shall a new attempter learn Of different spirits to discern, And how distinguish which is which, The poet's vein, or scribbling itch? Then hear an old experienced sinner Instructing thus a young beginner: Consult yourself; and if you find A powerful impulse urge your mind, Impartial judge within your breast What subject you can manage best; Whether your genius most inclines To satire, praise, or humorous lines, To elegies in mournful tone, Or prologues sent from hand unknown; Then, rising with Aurora's light, The Muse invoked, sit down to write; Blot out, correct, insert, refine, Enlarge, diminish, interline; Be mindful, when invention fails, To scratch your head, and bite your nails.

Your poem finished, next your care Is needful to transcribe it fair. In modern wit, all printed trash is Set off with numerous breaks and dashes.

To statesmen would you give a wipe, You print it in italic type; When letters are in vulgar shapes, 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes; But when in capitals expressed, The dullest reader smokes the jest; Or else, perhaps, he may invent A better than the poet meant; As learned commentators view In Homer, more than Homer knew.

Your poem in its modish dress, Correctly fitted for the press, Convey by penny-post to Lintot; But let no friend alive look into 't. If Lintot thinks 'twill quit the cost, You need not fear your labour lost: And how agreeably surprised Are you to see it advertised! The hawker shows you one in print, As fresh as farthings from a mint: The product of your toil and sweating, A bastard of your own begetting.

Be sure at Will's the following day, Lie snug, and hear what critics say; And if you find the general vogue Pronounces you a stupid rogue, Damns all your thoughts as low and little, Sit still, and swallow down your spittle; Be silent as a politician, For talking may beget suspicion; Or praise the judgment of the town, And help yourself to run it down; Give up your fond paternal pride, Nor argue on the weaker side; For poems read without a name We justly praise, or justly blame; And critics have no partial views, Except they know whom they abuse; And since you ne'er provoked their spite, Depend upon 't, their judgment's right. But if you blab, you are undone: Consider what a risk you run: You lose your credit all at once; The town will mark you for a dunce; The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends Will pass for yours with foes and friends; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.

Your secret kept, your poem sunk, And sent in quires to line a trunk, If still you be disposed to rhyme, Go try your hand a second time. Again you fail: yet safe's the word; Take courage, and attempt a third. But just with care employ your thoughts, Where critics marked your former faults; The trivial turns, the borrowed wit, The similes that nothing fit; The cant which every fool repeats, Town jests and coffee-house conceits; Descriptions tedious, flat, and dry, And introduced the Lord knows why: Or where we find your fury set Against the harmless alphabet; On A's and B's your malice vent, While readers wonder what you meant: A public or a private robber, A statesman, or a South-Sea jobber; A prelate who no God believes; A parliament, or den of thieves; A pick-purse at the bar or bench; A duchess, or a suburb wench: Or oft, when epithets you link In gaping lines to fill a chink; Like stepping-stones to save a stride, In streets where kennels are too wide; Or like a heel-piece, to support A cripple with one foot too short; Or like a bridge, that joins a marish To moorland of a different parish; So have I seen ill-coupled hounds Drag different ways in miry grounds; So geographers in Afric maps With savage pictures fill their gaps, And o'er unhabitable downs Place elephants, for want of towns.

But though you miss your third essay, You need not throw your pen away. Lay now aside all thoughts of fame, To spring more profitable game. From party-merit seek support-- The vilest verse thrives best at court. And may you ever have the luck, To rhyme almost as ill as Duck; And though you never learnt to scan verse, Come out with some lampoon on D'Anvers. A pamphlet in Sir Bob's defence Will never fail to bring in pence: Nor be concerned about the sale-- He pays his workmen on the nail. Display the blessings of the nation, And praise the whole administration: Extol the bench of Bishops round; Who at them rail, bid----confound: To Bishop-haters answer thus, (The only logic used by us,) 'What though they don't believe in----, Deny them Protestants,--thou liest.'

A prince, the moment he is crowned, Inherits every virtue round, As emblems of the sovereign power, Like other baubles in the Tower; Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, And so continues till he dies: His humble senate this professes In all their speeches, votes, addresses. But once you fix him in a tomb, His virtues fade, his vices bloom, And each perfection, wrong imputed, Is fully at his death confuted. The loads of poems in his praise Ascending, make one funeral blaze. As soon as you can hear his knell This god on earth turns devil in hell; And lo! his ministers of state, Transformed to imps, his levee wait, Where, in the scenes of endless woe, They ply their former arts below; And as they sail in Charon's boat, Contrive to bribe the judge's vote; To Cerberus they give a sop, His triple-barking mouth to stop; Or in the ivory gate of dreams Project Excise and South-Sea schemes, Or hire their party pamphleteers To set Elysium by the ears.

Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, Employ your Muse on kings alive; With prudence gather up a cluster Of all the virtues you can muster, Which, formed into a garland sweet, Lay humbly at your monarch's feet, Who, as the odours reach his throne, Will smile and think them all his own; For law and gospel both determine All virtues lodge in royal ermine, (I mean the oracles of both, Who shall depose it upon oath.) Your garland in the following reign, Change but the names, will do again.

But, if you think this trade too base, (Which seldom is the dunce's case,) Put on the critic's brow, and sit At Will's the puny judge of wit. A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, With caution used, may serve a while. Proceed on further in your part, Before you learn the terms of art; For you can never be too far gone In all our modern critics' jargon; Then talk with more authentic face Of unities, in time, and place; Get scraps of Horace from your friends, And have them at your fingers' ends; Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, And at all hazards boldly quote; Judicious Rymer oft review, Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- For these our critics much confide in, (Though merely writ at first for filling, To raise the volume's price a shilling.)

A forward critic often dupes us With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_. And if we have not read Longinus, Will magisterially outshine us. Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, Procure the book for love or money, Translated from Boileau's translation, And quote quotation on quotation.

At Will's you hear a poem read, Where Battus from the table-head, Reclining on his elbow-chair, Gives judgment with decisive air; To whom the tribes of circling wits As to an oracle submits. He gives directions to the town, To cry it up, or run it down; Like courtiers, when they send a note, Instructing members how to vote. He sets the stamp of bad and good, Though not a word he understood. Your lesson learned, you'll be secure To get the name of connoisseur: And, when your merits once are known, Procure disciples of your own. For poets, (you can never want 'em,) Spread through Augusta Trinobantum, Computing by their pecks of coals, Amount to just nine thousand souls. These o'er their proper districts govern, Of wit and humour judges sovereign. In every street a city-bard Rules, like an alderman, his ward; His undisputed rights extend Through all the lane, from end to end; The neighbours round admire his shrewdness For songs of loyalty and lewdness; Outdone by none in rhyming well, Although he never learned to spell. Two bordering wits contend for glory; And one is Whig, and one is Tory: And this for epics claims the bays, And that for elegiac lays: Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; And some as justly Fame extols For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. Bavius in Wapping gains renown, And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: Harmonious Cibber entertains The court with annual birth-day strains; Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; Where Pope will never show his face; Where Young must torture his invention To flatter knaves, or lose his pension.

But these are not a thousandth part Of jobbers in the poet's art; Attending each his proper station, And all in due subordination, Through every alley to be found, In garrets high, or under ground; And when they join their pericranies, Out skips a book of miscellanies. Hobbes clearly proves that every creature Lives in a state of war by nature; The greater for the smallest watch, But meddle seldom with their match. A whale of moderate size will draw A shoal of herrings down his maw; A fox with geese his belly crams; A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: But search among the rhyming race, The brave are worried by the base. If on Parnassus' top you sit, You rarely bite, are always bit. Each poet of inferior size On you shall rail and criticise, And strive to tear you limb from limb; While others do as much for him.

The vermin only tease and pinch Their foes superior by an inch: So, naturalists observe, a flea Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, And so proceed _ad infinitum_. Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of whores, Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors out-sung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.

O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! Their filial piety forgot, Deny their country like a Scot; Though by their idiom and grimace, They soon betray their native place. Yet thou hast greater cause to be Ashamed of them, than they of thee, Degenerate from their ancient brood Since first the court allowed them food.

Remains a difficulty still, To purchase fame by writing ill. From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, How few have reached the low sublime! For when our high-born Howard died, Blackmore alone his place supplied; And lest a chasm should intervene, When death had finished Blackmore's reign, The leaden crown devolved to thee, Great poet of the Hollow Tree. But ah! how unsecure thy throne! A thousand bards thy right disown; They plot to turn, in factious zeal, Duncenia to a commonweal; And with rebellious arms pretend An equal privilege to defend.

In bulk there are not more degrees From elephants to mites in cheese, Than what a curious eye may trace In creatures of the rhyming race. From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; But who can reach the worst of all? For though in nature, depth and height Are equally held infinite; In poetry, the height we know; 'Tis only infinite below. For instance, when you rashly think No rhymer can like Welsted sink, His merits balanced, you shall find The laureate leaves him far behind; Concannen, more aspiring bard, Soars downwards deeper by a yard; Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; The rest pursue as thick as hops. With heads to point, the gulf they enter, Linked perpendicular to the centre; And, as their heels elated rise, Their heads attempt the nether skies.

Oh, what indignity and shame, To prostitute the Muse's name, By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed The plagues and scourges of mankind; Bred up in ignorance and sloth, And every vice that nurses both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, Whose virtues bear the strictest test; Whom never faction could bespatter, Nor minister nor poet flatter; What justice in rewarding merit! What magnanimity of spirit! What lineaments divine we trace Through all his figure, mien, and face! Though peace with olive bind his hands, Confessed the conquering hero stands. Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, Dread from his hand impending changes; From him the Tartar and the Chinese, Short by the knees, entreat for peace. The comfort of his throne and bed, A perfect goddess born and bred; Appointed sovereign judge to sit On learning, eloquence and wit. Our eldest hope, divine Iuelus, (Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) What early manhood has he shown, Before his downy beard was grown! Then think what wonders will be done, By going on as he begun, An heir for Britain to secure As long as sun and moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood Comes pouring on me like a flood: Bright goddesses, in number five; Duke William, sweetest prince alive!

Now sings the minister of state, Who shines alone without a mate. Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court, Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius, by delay. Thou great vicegerent of the king, Thy praises every Muse shall sing! In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector; Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care. Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock! You raise the honour of your peerage, Proud to attend you at the steerage; You dignify the noble race, Content yourself with humbler place. Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, To titles give the sole pretence. St George beheld thee with delight Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, When on thy breasts and sides herculean He fixed the star and string cerulean.

Say, poet, in what other nation, Shone ever such a constellation! Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strew your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side. Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile. On Louis all his bards bestowed Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied. Yet what the world refused to Louis, Applied to George, exactly true is. Exactly true! invidious poet! 'Tis fifty thousand times below it.

Translate me now some lines, if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. They could all power in heaven divide, And do no wrong on either side; They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share. Yet why should we be laced so strait? I'll give my monarch butter weight; And reason good, for many a year Jove never intermeddled here: Nor, though his priests be duly paid, Did ever we desire his aid: We now can better do without him, Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.

ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT.

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.'

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true:

They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: 'In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes Our equals raised above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low? I love my friend as well as you: But why should he obstruct my view? Then let me have the higher post; Suppose it but an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion killed, or trophy won; Rather than thus be over-topped, Would you not wish his laurels cropped? Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies racked with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan! How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he? But, rather than they should excel, Would wish his rivals all in hell?

Her end when emulation misses, She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: The strongest friendship yields to pride, Unless the odds be on our side. Vain human-kind! fantastic race! Thy various follies who can trace? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, 'Tis all on me an usurpation. I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line, But, with a sigh, I wish it mine: When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six, It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, 'Pox take him and his wit!' I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own humorous, biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce, Refined at first, and showed its use. St John, as well as Pultney, knows That I had some repute for prose; And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside; If with such talents Heaven hath blest 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts; but never to my friend: I tamely can endure the first; But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem; Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: And, though 'tis hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: 'See how the Dean begins to break! Poor gentleman, he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Forgets the place where last he dined; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found.

'For poetry, he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;-- But there's no talking to some men!'

And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: 'He's older than he would be reckoned, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring!' They hug themselves, and reason thus: 'It is not yet so bad with us!'

In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'ye's come of course, And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') Would please them better, than to tell, That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' Then he who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: 'You know I always feared the worst, And often told you so at first.' He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain; How many a message would he send! What hearty prayers that I should mend! Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept; And more lament when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive! 'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead.

Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. 'Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir?' 'I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' 'To public uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all--but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood!'

Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; With elegies the town is cloyed: Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. 'We must confess, his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years: For, when we opened him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.'

From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; then let him rot. I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promised him, I own; but when? I only was the princess then; But now, as consort of the king, You know,'tis quite another thing.'

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: 'Why, if he died without his shoes,' Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: Oh, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will! Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!'

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters; Revive the libels born to die: Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 'I'm sorry--but we all must die!'

Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt! When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortured with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approached, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: 'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend.' 'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; And he's engaged to-morrow night: My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come; he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place.'

Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past; a different scene! No further mention of the Dean, Who now, alas! no more is missed, Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo? Departed:--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; He died a year ago.'--'The same.' He searches all the shop in vain. 'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff; But spick and span I have enough. Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet; Your honour please to buy a set?

'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country-members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down: You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour who can read, Are taught to use them for their creed. The reverend author's good intention Hath been rewarded with a pension: He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor; That all his miracles were cheats, Performed as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he hath not got a mitre!'

Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws:

'The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill received at court, Although, ironically grave, He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own.'

'Sir, I have heard another story; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.'

'Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'--

'He should have left them for his betters; We had a hundred abler men, Nor need depend upon his pen.-- Say what you will about his reading, You never can defend his breeding; Who, in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet; Attacking, when he took the whim, Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- But why would he, except he slobbered, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sovereign power To save the nation every hour! What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels, Not sparing his own clergy cloth, But eats into it, like a moth!'

'Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein, And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lashed the vice, but spared the name.

No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant: His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorred the senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe: He spared a hump or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True genuine dulness moved his pity, Unless it offered to be witty. Those who their ignorance confessed He ne'er offended with a jest; But laughed to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learned by rote. Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. If you resent it, who's to blame? He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a dukel? His friendships, still to few confined, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed: Where titles give no right or power, And peerage is a withered flower; He would have deemed it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain: * * * * * * * squires to market brought, Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, To rob the church, their tenants rack; Go snacks with * * * * * justices, And keep the peace to pick up fees; In every job to have a share, A gaol or turnpike to repair; And turn * * * * * * * to public roads Commodious to their own abodes.

'He never thought an honour done him, Because a peer was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; And scorn the tools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs, He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succoured virtue in distress, And seldom failed of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.

'He kept with princes due decorum; Yet never stood in awe before 'em. He followed David's lesson just, In princes never put his trust: And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in power. The Irish senate if you named, With what impatience he declaimed! Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; For her he stood prepared to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft exposed his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found, To sell him for six hundred pound.

'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, He might have rose like other men: But power was never in his thought, And wealth he valued not a groat: Ingratitude he often found, And pitied those who meant to wound; But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human-kind; Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He laboured many a fruitless hour, To reconcile his friends in power; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursued each other's ruin. But, finding vain was all his care, He left the court in mere despair.

'And, oh! how short are human schemes! Here ended all our golden dreams. What St John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent, Was all destroyed by one event. Too soon that precious life was ended, On which alone our weal depended. When up a dangerous faction starts, With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; By solemn league and covenant bound, To ruin, slaughter, and confound; To turn religion to a fable, And make the government a Babel; Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; To sacrifice old England's glory, And make her infamous in story: When such a tempest shook the land, How could unguarded virtue stand!

'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: His friends in exile, or the Tower, Himself within the frown of power; Pursued by base envenomed pens, Far to the land of S---- and fens; A servile race in folly nursed, Who truckle most, when treated worst.

'By innocence and resolution, He bore continual persecution; While numbers to preferment rose, Whose merit was to be his foes; When even his own familiar friends, Intent upon their private ends, Like renegadoes now he feels, Against him lifting up their heels.

'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat An infamous destructive cheat; Taught fools their interest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow. Envy hath owned it was his doing, To save that hapless land from ruin; While they who at the steerage stood, And reaped the profit, sought his blood.

'To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench, Whose fury blood could never quench; As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; Who long all justice had discarded, Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent: But Heaven his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends; Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, Prevail to bring him in convict.

'In exile, with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.'

'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope. This into general odium drew him, Which if he liked, much good may't do him. His zeal was not to lash our crimes, But discontent against the times: For, had we made him timely offers To raise his post, or fill his coffers, Perhaps he might have truckled down, Like other brethren of his gown; For party he would scarce have bled:-- I say no more--because he's dead.-- What writings has he left behind?'

'I hear they're of a different kind: A few in verse; but most in prose--'

'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, As never favouring the Pretender: Or libels yet concealed from sight, Against the court to show his spite: Perhaps his travels, part the third; A lie at every second word-- Offensive to a loyal ear:-- But--not one sermon, you may swear.'

'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying-day; And friends would let him have his way.

'As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought them; But this I know, all people bought them, As with a moral view designed, To please and to reform mankind: And, if he often missed his aim, The world must own it to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methinks you may forgive his ashes.'

A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION-CLUB. 1736.

As I stroll the city, oft I See a building large and lofty, Not a bow-shot from the college; Half the globe from sense and knowledge: By the prudent architect, Placed against the church direct, Making good thy grandame's jest, 'Near the church'--you know the rest.

Tell us what the pile contains? Many a head that holds no brains. These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion-Club. Such assemblies, you might swear, Meet when butchers bait a bear; Such a noise, and such haranguing, When a brother thief is hanging: Such a rout and such a rabble Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; Such a crowd their ordure throws On a far less villain's nose.

Could I from the building's top Hear the rattling thunder drop, While the devil upon the roof (If the devil be thunder-proof) Should with poker fiery red Crack the stones, and melt the lead; Drive them down on every skull, While the den of thieves is full; Quite destroy the harpies' nest; How might then our isle be blest! For divines allow that God Sometimes makes the devil his rod; And the gospel will inform us, He can punish sins enormous.

Yet should Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools, With a rood or two of land, I allow the pile may stand. You perhaps will ask me, Why so? But it is with this proviso: Since the house is like to last, Let the royal grant be passed, That the club have right to dwell Each within his proper cell, With a passage left to creep in, And a hole above for peeping. Let them when they once get in, Sell the nation for a pin; While they sit a-picking straws, Let them rave at making laws; While they never hold their tongue, Let them dabble in their dung; Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city; Let them stare, and storm, and frown, When they see a clergy gown; Let them, ere they crack a louse, Call for the orders of the house; Let them, with their gosling quills, Scribble senseless heads of bills. We may, while they strain their throats, Wipe our a--s with their votes. Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, Stuff his guts with flax and grass; But, before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, Sprung from Papist regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about your hole.

Come, assist me, muse obedient! Let us try some new expedient; Shift the scene for half an hour, Time and place are in thy power. Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; I shall ask, and you instruct me.

See the muse unbars the gate! Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!

All ye gods who rule the soul! Styx, through hell whose waters roll! Let me be allowed to tell What I heard in yonder cell.

Near the door an entrance gapes, Crowded round with antic shapes, Poverty, and Grief, and Care, Causeless Joy, and true Despair; Discord periwigged with snakes, See the dreadful strides she takes!

By this odious crew beset, I began to rage and fret, And resolved to break their pates, Ere we entered at the gates; Had not Clio in the nick Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' What, said I, is this the mad-house? These, she answered, are but shadows, Phantoms bodiless and vain, Empty visions of the brain.'

In the porch Briareus stands, Shows a bribe in all his hands; Briareus, the secretary, But we mortals call him Carey. When the rogues their country fleece, They may hope for pence a-piece.

Clio, who had been so wise To put on a fool's disguise, To bespeak some approbation, And be thought a near relation, When she saw three hundred brutes All involved in wild disputes, Roaring till their lungs were spent, 'Privilege of Parliament.' Now a new misfortune feels, Dreading to be laid by the heels. Never durst the muse before Enter that infernal door; Clio, stifled with the smell, Into spleen and vapours fell, By the Stygian steams that flew From the dire infectious crew. Not the stench of Lake Avernus Could have more offended her nose; Had she flown but o'er the top, She had felt her pinions drop, And by exhalations dire, Though a goddess, must expire. In a fright she crept away; Bravely I resolved to stay.

When I saw the keeper frown, Tipping him with half-a-crown, Now, said I, we are alone, Name your heroes one by one.

Who is that hell-featured brawler? Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. In what figure can a bard dress Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are hell and murther; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murdered T----p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks; By their lantern jaws and leathern, You might swear they both are brethren: Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, Old acquaintance, are you there? Dear companions, hug and kiss, Toast Old Glorious in your piss: Tie them, keeper, in a tether, Let them starve and stink together; Both are apt to be unruly, Lash them daily, lash them duly; Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.

Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, Sweetly snoring in his cloak; Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, Half encompassed by his kin: There observe the tribe of Bingham, For he never fails to bring 'em; While he sleeps the whole debate, They submissive round him wait; Yet would gladly see the hunks In his grave, and search his trunks. See, they gently twitch his coat, Just to yawn and give his vote, Always firm in his vocation, For the court, against the nation.

Those are A----s Jack and Bob, First in every wicked job, Son and brother to a queer Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. We must give them better quarter, For their ancestor trod mortar, And at H----th, to boast his fame, On a chimney cut his name.

There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, How they swagger from their garrison! Such a triplet could you tell Where to find on this side hell? Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, Keeper, see they have their payments; Every mischief's in their hearts; If they fail, 'tis want of parts.

Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! Chairman to yon damned committee! Yet I look on thee with pity. Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? For thy horrid looks I own, Half convert me to a stone, Hast thou been so long at school, Now to turn a factious tool? Alma Mater was thy mother, Every young divine thy brother. Thou a disobedient varlet, Treat thy mother like a harlot! Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, Who are all grown reverend preachers! Morgan, would it not surprise one! Turn thy nourishment to poison! When you walk among your books, They reproach you with your looks. Bind them fast, or from their shelves They will come and right themselves; Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, All in arms prepare to back us. Soon repent, or put to slaughter Every Greek and Roman author. Will you, in your faction's phrase, Send the clergy all to graze, And, to make your project pass, Leave them not a blade of grass? How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, Were but you and I acquainted, Every monster should be painted: You should try your graving-tools On this odious group of fools: Draw the beasts as I describe them From their features, while I gibe them; Draw them like; for I assure you, You will need no _car'catura;_ Draw them so, that we may trace All the soul in every face. Keeper, I must now retire, You have done what I desire: But I feel my spirits spent With the noise, the sight, the scent.

'Pray be patient; you shall find Half the best are still behind: You have hardly seen a score; I can show two hundred more.' Keeper, I have seen enough.-- Taking then a pinch of snuff, I concluded, looking round them, 'May their god, the devil, confound them. Take them, Satan, as your due, All except the Fifty-two.'

[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor.

ISAAC WATTS.

We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part of his small income of L100 a-year, and writing for the other his inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the 25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and worthy man expired.

If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs, Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares.

2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains, As custom leads the way: If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, And be as blest as they.

3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move: So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love.

4 Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy: On Aetna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed, To improve the burning joy.

5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like stoic souls, With osiers for their bands.

6 Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless: As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass.

7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind, For love abhors the sight: Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight.

9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves.

THE SLUGGARD.

1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;' Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.'

THE ROSE.

1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day.

2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field: When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; Time kills them as fast as he goes.

4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade: But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.

A CRADLE HYMN.

1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied.

3 How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee!

4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birthplace was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.

5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?

6 Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly Stranger! Did they thus affront their Lord?

7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, { nurse that } And her arms shall be thy guard.

8 Yet to read the shameful story, How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

9 See the kinder shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought him, where they found him, With his virgin mother by.

10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how he smiled! When he wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, Where the horned oxen fed: Peace, my darling, here's no danger, Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans, and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him, all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near him, See his face, and sing his praise!

14 I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend.

BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

The beauty of my native land Immortal love inspires; I burn, I burn with strong desires, And sigh and wait the high command. There glides the moon her shining way, And shoots my heart through with a silver ray. Upward my heart aspires: A thousand lamps of golden light, Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, And wink and beckon with their amorous fires. O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, Where all the happy minds resort! When will my Father's chariot come? Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, For ever see the mourner lie An exile of the sky, A prisoner of the ground? Descend, some shining servants from on high, Build me a hasty tomb; A grassy turf will raise my head; The neighbouring lilies dress my bed, And shed a sweet perfume. Here I put off the chains of death, My soul too long has worn: Friends, I forbid one groaning breath, Or tear to wet my urn. Raphael, behold me all undressed; Here gently lay this flesh to rest, Then mount and lead the path unknown. Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE.

Great man, permit the muse to climb, And seat her at thy feet; Bid her attempt a thought sublime, And consecrate her wit. I feel, I feel the attractive force Of thy superior soul: My chariot flies her upward course, The wheels divinely roll. Now let me chide the mean affairs And mighty toil of men: How they grow gray in trifling cares, Or waste the motion of the spheres Upon delights as vain! A puff of honour fills the mind, And yellow dust is solid good;

Thus, like the ass of savage kind, We snuff the breezes of the wind, Or steal the serpent's food. Could all the choirs That charm the poles But strike one doleful sound, 'Twould be employed to mourn our souls, Souls that were framed of sprightly fires, In floods of folly drowned. Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy; How they disclaim their heavenly birth, Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth, And hate to be refined from that impure alloy.

Oft has thy genius roused us hence With elevated song, Bid us renounce this world of sense, Bid us divide the immortal prize With the seraphic throng: 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' But flesh, the unmanageable beast, Resists the pity of thine eyes, And music of thy tongue. Then let the worms of grovelling mind Round the short joys of earthly kind In restless windings roam; Howe hath an ample orb of soul, Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, Where love, the centre and the pole, Completes the heaven at home.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his lodgings at Vauxhall.

His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, 'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by Addison.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport tossed, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754.

Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung in the words--

'The grace of forest charms decayed And pastoral melancholy.'

It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.'

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.

15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lued thee better.

16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?

18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover.

19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But e'er the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my love, and left me mourning.

22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My lover nailed in his coffin.

24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me; My lover's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover.

26 But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow.

28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! No youth lay ever there before thee.

29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts; No youth shall ever lie there after.

30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day --giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce --honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion with them and with his father.

Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He 'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely to die!

A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:--

'It is an isle under Ionian skies, Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; And for the harbours are not safe and good, The land would have remained a solitude, But for some pastoral people, native there, Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, Simple and generous, innocent and bold.

* * * * *

The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, From whence the fields and woods ever renew Their green and golden immortality.'

Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the 'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _denouement_ of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.'

Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been adequately sung by other minstrels.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.

1 The last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me; Ye powers! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me! Soon as the ruddy morn displayed The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for wooing.

2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting; We kissed and promised time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, E'en kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me.

3 Should I be called where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses.

4 In all my soul there's not one place To let a rival enter; Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her.

5 The next time I go o'er the moor, She shall a lover find me; And that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind me: Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom; There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom.

FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.'