And he doth trace the height

Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams.

"He towers those golden bounds
He did to Sun bequeath;

The higher wandering rounds
Are found his feet beneath:
The milky-way comes near,
Heaven's axle seems to bend,
Above each turning sphere

That, robed in glory, Heaven's King may ascend.

"O Well-spring of this all!

Thy Father's image vive;

Word, that from nought did call

What is, doth reason, live!
The soul's eternal food,

Earth's joy, delight of Heaven,
All truth, love, beauty, good,
To Thee, to Thee, be praises ever given.

"What was dismarshall'd late
In this thy noble frame,
And lost the prime estate,
Hath re-obtain'd the same,
Is now most perfect seen;
Streams, which diverted were

(And, troubled, stray'd, unclean)

From their first source, by thee home turned are.

"By thee, that blemish old
Of Eden's leprous prince,
Which on his race took hold,
And him exiled from thence,
Now put away is far;
With sword, in ireful guise,
No cherub more shall bar

Poor man the entrance into Paradise.

"Now each ethereal gate

To him hath open'd been ;

And Glory's King in state
His palace enters in:

Now come is this High Priest
In the most holy place,

Not without blood addrest,

With glory Heaven, the Earth to crown with grace.

Stars, which all eyes were late,

And did with wonder burn,

His name to celebrate,

In flaming tongues them turn;
Their orby crystals move
More active than before,

And entheate from above,

Their sovereign prince laud, glorify, adore.

"The choirs of happy souls,

Waked with that music sweet,
Whose descant care controls,
Their Lord in triumph meet;
The spotless spirits of light
His trophies do extol,

And, arch'd in squadrons bright,
Greet their great Victor in his capitol.

"O glory of the Heaven!

O sole delight of Earth!
To Thee all power be given,
God's uncreated birth;
Of mankind lover true,
Endurer of his wrong,

Who dost the world renew,

Still be thou our salvation, and our song."

From top of Olivet such notes did rise,

When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies.

Robert Herrick.

Born 1591.

Died 1674.

BORN in London in 1591. He was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire by Charles I. During the civil wars he was ejected by Cromwell, but at the Restoration was again replaced in his vicarage, where he died in 1674. The poetical works of Herrick were neglected for many years after his death, but since then some of his short lyrical pieces have been set to music, and are still sung, such as "Cherry Ripe," "Gather the Rosebuds. He is also the author of some Hymns.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do you fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO PRIMROSES.

Filled with Morning Dew.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,

Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

FOR COMFORT IN DEATH.

In the hour of my distresse,
When temptations me oppresse,
And when I my sins confesse;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts disquieted;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep;
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the Furies, in a shoal,

Come to fright my parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When, God knowes, I'm tost about,
Either with despair or doubt,

Yet before the glasse be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the Tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half-damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd,
When to Thee I have appeal'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

Francis Quarles.

{

Born 1592.

Died 1644.

BORN near Romford, Essex; was cup bearer to Elizabeth of Bohemia; afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland, where he lost most of his wealth in the Rebellion of 1641. He joined Charles in the civil wars; and having had all his property sequestrated by Parliament, and his MS. plundered, he took the matter so much to heart that it hastened his death, which took place in 1644. He is chiefly known by his "Emblems."

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.
FALSE world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend
The least delight:

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

With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:

There's none can want where thou supply'st:

There's none can give where thou deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vyʼst ;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'sť:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coined treasure;