Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"”
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his
state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will ruu
On smoother till Favonius reinspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATH-
ERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND,
DECEASED DECEMBER 16TH, 1646.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Followed thee up to joy and bliss forever.
Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best,
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

SONG: ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

Cyriac, this three-years-day these eyes, though

clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou

ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

FROM THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE IN "COMUS.”

To the ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky.
There I suck the liquid air,

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crispéd shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring:
The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours
Thither all their bounties bring;
There eternal Summer dwells,
And west-winds, with musky wing,
About the cedarn alleys fling

Nard and cassia's balmy smells.

But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free;
She can teach you how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or, if Virtue feeble were,

Heaven itself would stoop to her.

Richard Crashaw.

Crashaw (about 1610-1650) was educated at Cambridge, and took holy orders. In France he became a Roman Catholic. His religious poetry and his translations from Latin and Italian are of a high order, though marred by the affectations fashionable in his day. In the same year that he graduated he published a volume of poems, chiefly religious, in Latin. They contain one memorable line. Referring to Christ's miracle of turning water into wine, he wrote:

"Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit."
(The modest water saw its God, and blushed.)

A soul whose intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy steams?
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer's day?

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Would'st see a man whose well-warmed blood Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man whose tunéd humors be

A seat of rarest harmony?

Would'st see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile
Age? Would'st see December smile?
Would'st see a nest of roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In sum, would'st see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;

And, when life's sweet fable ends,

Soul and body part like friends :-
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;

A kiss, a sigh, and so away?

This rare one, reader, would'st thou see?
Hark, hither! and-thyself be he!

IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S' RULE OF HEALTH.

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark, hither, reader! would'st thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Would'st see a man all his own wealth,
His own physic, his own health?
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well—
Her garments, that upon her sit,

As garments should do, close and fit;

A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed,
Nor choked with what she should be dressed;

A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine;
As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aërial veil, is drawn

O'er Beauty's face, seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;

Leonard Lessins was not a physician, but a famous Jesuit. He was born near Antwerp in 1554, taught philosophy and theology at Lonvain, and died in 1623. Among his works was one on the True Rule of Health, in which he recommends hygienic remedies, and disapproves of drugs.

FROM "WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS."

Whoe'er she be,

That not impossible she,

That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie,

Locked up from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth

Of studied fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps to our earth:

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be ye called my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty,

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tie ;

Scotland, but his little invading army was routed, and he was seized, conveyed to Edinburgh, and there hung and quartered, May 21st, 1650, after the barbarous fashion of the times. Of the following spirited poem there are several corrupt versions.

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray

That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy: For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe:
But 'gainst my batteries if I find

Thou storm, or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,

If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to share with me,-
Or com'mittees if thou erect,

Or go on such a score,

I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if no faithless action stain

Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword:
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more."

Sir John Suckling.

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Suckling (1609-1641) was born at Witham, in Middlescx. His father was Secretary of State to James I. The young poet went abroad, and served under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Returning to England, he attempted with others to deliver Strafford from the Tow. er; for this he was ordered to appear at the bar of the House of Commons, whereupon he set out for France. While stopping at an inn, he was robbed by a servant, who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife inside his master's boot, and when Suckling, in haste, tried to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he died.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

Sir John Denham.

Denham (1615-1668), son of the Chief-baron of Exchequer in Ireland, was born at Dublin. He was made Governor of Farnham Castle by Charles I., who told him, on seeing one of his poems, "that when men are young, and have little else to do, they may vent the overflowings of their fancy in that way; but when they are thought fit for more serious employments, if they still persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not the way to any better." The poet stood corrected, and his Muse was dumb for a time. His marriage was an unhappy one, and his closing years were darkened by insanity, from which, however, he recovered. His principal poem is "Cooper's Hill," which was highly praised for a few generations, but would hardly have escaped oblivion if produced in these days; but Dryden said of it: "For the majesty of the style it is, and ever will be, the exact standard of good writing;" and Pope extolled it. We quote the well-known passage descriptive of the Thames: it is far above anything else in the poem.

DESCRIPTION OF THE THAMES.

FROM "COOPER'S HILL."

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays:
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs;
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold;
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay;
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil;
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;
First loves to do, then loves the good he docs.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind,-
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying tours
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants.

So that to us no thing, no place, is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange.
Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not

dull;

Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full!

Samuel Butler.

The son of a Worcestershire farmer, Samuel Butler (1612-1680) is not known to have had a university education. Having lost his wife's fortune through bad inrestments, he became an author, and published in 1663 the first part of his "Hudibras," a satire launched at the Puritan party. It is indebted for much of its celebrity to public sympathy with its partisan hits. It had a large success, and has been praised as "the best burlesque poem in the English language"-which is not saying much for it. It now has few readers. But it contains several epigrammatic expressions which have become proverbial, and it is rich in wit and wisdom. Butler

died obscurely in his sixty-eighth year, having suffered deeply from that hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.

THE LEARNING OF HUDIBRAS.

He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skilled in analytic.

He could distinguish and divide

A hair 'twixt south and south-west side:
On either which he could dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument,-a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;

A calf an alderman; a goose a justice;
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:
All this by syllogism, true

In mood and figure, he would do.
For rhetoric-he could not ope
His mouth but out there flew a trope.
And when he happened to break off
I' the middle of his speech, or cough,
He'd hard words ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talked like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools.

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech, In loftiness of sound was rich;

A Babylonish dialect,

Which learned pedants much affect.

It was a party-colored dress

Of patched and piebald languages.

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin.
It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if he'd talked three parts in one.
Which made some think when he did gabble
They'd heard three laborers of Babel,
Or Cerberus himself pronounce
A leash of languages at once.

FROM "MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS." Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes Than all the magazines of daggers, ropes, And other ammunitions of despair, Were ever able to despatch by fear.