I would have been content if he would play, [Night.] The sable mantle of the silent night [Pastoral Employments.] But since her stay was long: for fear the sun [The Syren's Song.] [From the Inner Temple Masque."] Steer hither, steer your winged pines, Here lie undiscover'd mines A prey to passengers; Nor any to oppose you save our lips; Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, The compass, love shall hourly sing, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. FRANCIS QUARLES. The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592-1644) are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex, educated at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused the cause of Charles I., and was so harassed by the opposite party, who injured his property, and plundered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that his death was attributed to the affliction and ill health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have molsist of various pieces-Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, lified the rage of his persecutors. His poems conThe History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The Divine Emblems. The latter were published in 1645, and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium still holds good to some extent, for the Divine Emblems, with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages of our peasants. After the Restoration, when everything sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ribald jests, Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, had he read him, must have relished his lively fancy and poetical expression, notices only his bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant taste of modern times has admitted the divine emblemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at least sure of his due measure of homage and attention. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and religion, had been tried with success by Peacham and Wither. Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, his model, and from the 'Pia Desideria' of this author, copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting the most outré and ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts. Stanzas. As when a lady, walking Flora's bower, The Shortness of Life. And what's a life?-a weary pilgrimage, Read on this dial, how the shades devour To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile. Mors Tua. Can he be fair, that withers at a blast! The Vanity of the World. : False world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st I love (and have some cause to love) the earth; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee! I love the air her dainty sweets refresh But what's the air or all the sweets that she : I love the sea she is my fellow-creature, But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, To heaven's high city I direct my journey, But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee! With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, The highest honours that the world can boast, thou ly'st. With man; vain man! that thou rely'st Are subjects far too low for my desire; The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Decay of Life. The day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath made And the descending damp doth now prepare To uncurl bright Titan's hair ; Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou lyʼst. | Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms. Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, The boxbill ouzle, and the dappled thrush, To cobweb every green; And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear The sapless branches doff their summer suits, And wain their winter fruits; And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy friezc. Our wasted taper now hath brought her light To the next door to night; Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains, And in a silent language bids her guest Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest. Now careful age hath pitch'd her painful plough And snowy blasts of discontented care Suspicious envy mix'd with jealous spite Disturbs his weary night: He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was. Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last : Those hasty wings that hurried them away The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire Until her works expire: That blast that nipp'd thy youth will ruin thee; the tree. To Chastity. Oh, Chastity!-the flower of the soul, GEORGE HERBERT. GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1632) was of noble birth, though chiefly known as a pious country clergyman-holy George Herbert,' who The lowliest duties on himself did lay. His father was descended from the earls of Pembroke, and lived in Montgomery Castle, Wales, where the Lord Herbert of Cherbury. George was educated at Cambridge, and in the year 1619 was chosen orator for the university. Herbert was the intimate friend of Sir Henry Wotton and Dr Donne; and Lord Bacon is said to have entertained such a high regard for his learning and judgment, that he sub George Herbert. mitted his works to him before publication. The poet was also in favour with King James, who gave him a sinecure office worth £120 per annum, which Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to Sir Philip Sidney. With this,' says Izaak Walton, and his annuity, and the advantages of his college, and of his oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humour for clothes and court-like company, and seldom looked towards Cambridge unless the king were there, but then he never failed.' The death of the king and of two powerful friends, the Duke of Richmond and Marquis of Hamilton, destroyed Herbert's court hopes, and he entered into sacred orders. He was first prebend of Layton Ecclesia (the church of which he rebuilt), and afterwards was made rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire, where he passed the remainder of his life. After describing the poet's marriage on the third day after his first interview with the lady, old Izaak Walton relates, with characteristic simplicity and minuteness, a matrimonial scene preparatory to their removal to Bemerton :The third day after he was made rector of Bemerton, and had changed his sword and silk clothes into regularly at Layton Ecclesia), he returned so habited a canonical habit (he had probably never done duty with his friend Mr Woodnot to Bainton; and immediately after he had seen and saluted his wife, he must now so far forget your father's house as not to said to her, "You are now a minister's wife, and claim a precedence of any of your parishioners; for you are to know that a priest's wife can challenge no precedence or place but that which she purchases by her obliging humility; and I am sure places so purchased do best become them. And let me tell you, I am so good a herald as to assure you that this is truth." And she was so meek a wife, as to assure him it was no vexing news to her, and that he should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness.' Herbert discharged his clerical duties with saint*The rectory of Bemerton is now held by another poet, the poet was born. His elder brother was the celebrated | Rev. W. Lisle Bowles. like zeal and purity, but his strength was not equal to his self-imposed tasks, and he died at the early age of thirty-nine. His principal production is entitled, The Temple, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations. It was not printed till the year after his death, but was so well received, that Walton says twenty thousand copies were sold in a few years after the first impression. The lines on Virtue Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, are the best in the collection; but even in them we find, what mars all the poetry of Herbert, ridiculous conceits or coarse unpleasant similes. His taste was very inferior to his genius. The most sacred subject could not repress his love of fantastic imagery, or keep him for half a dozen verses in a serious and natural strain. Herbert was a musician, and sang his own hymns to the lute or viol; and indications of this may be found in his poems, which have sometimes a musical flow and harmonious cadence. It may be safely said, however, that Herbert's poetry alone would not have preserved his name, and that he is indebted for the reputation he enjoys, to his excellent and amiable character, embalmed in the pages of good old Walton, to his prose work, the Country Parson, and to the warm and fervent piety which gave a charm to his life and breathes through all his writings. 'For if I should,' said he, Yet let him keep the rest- Matin Hymn. I cannot ope mine eyes But thou art ready there to catch Then we must needs for that day make a match. Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things, or all of them in one? My God, what is a heart? That thou should'st it so eye and woo, As if that thou hadst nothing else to do Indeed, man's whole estate Amounts (and richly) to serve thee; He did not heaven and earth create, That this new light which now I see Sunday. O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone The which he doth not fill. On which heaven's palace arched lies: Which parts their ranks and orders. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; More plentiful than hope. This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his ; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those Who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Whose drops of blood paid the full price, Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week-days trail on ground, Mortification. How soon doth man decay! When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way: They are like little winding-sheets, When boys go first to bed, Sleep binds them fast; only their breath Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death. When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath In company; That music summons to the knell, Which shall befriend him at the house of death. When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move That dumb enclosure maketh love When age grows low and weak, Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath When he would speak; A chair or litter shows the bier, Which shall convey him to the house of death. Man, ere he is aware, Hath put together a solemnity, And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die, WILLIAM HABINGTON. WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1654) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. He tells us himself (in his preface) that, if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment, he says finely, that when love builds upon the rock of chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. Twenty years before his death, he published his poems, consisting of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled descriptionplacid, tender, and often elegant-but studded with conceits to show his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if [Epistle to a Friend.] [Addressed' to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq.'] I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet 9 |