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Marble, hew'd for the temples of the gods,
The great work ended, were dismiss'd, and fed
At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found
Their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel,
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave;
Since pride stepp'd in and riot, and o'erturn'd
This goodly frame of concord, teaching masters
To glory in the abuse of such as are
[ful,
Brought under their command; who, grown unuse-
Are less esteem'd than beasts.-This you have
practised,

Practised on us with rigour; this hath forced us
To shake our heavy yokes off; and, if redress
Of these just grievances be not granted us,
We'll right ourselves, and by strong hand defend
What we are now possess'd of.

LEOSTHENES'S RETURN TO CLEORA. FROM THE SAME.

Timandra (the attendant of Cleora).
welcome, sir.

Leost. Thou givest it in a heavy tone.
Timand. Alas! sir,

We have so long fed on the bread of sorrow,
Drinking the bitter water of afflictions,
Made loathsome too by our continued fears,
Comfort 's a stranger to us.

You are

Timand. Pray you, do not bring, sir, In the chimeras of your jealous fears, New monsters to affright us. Leost. O, Timandra,

Leost. Fears! your sufferings:-
For which I am so overgone with grief,

I dare not ask, without compassionate tears,
The villain's name that robb'd thee of thy honour:
For being train'd up in chastity's cold school,
And taught by such a mistress as Cleora,
"Twere impious in me to think Timandra
Fell with her own consent.

Timand. How mean you, fell, sir?
I understand you not.

Leost. I would thou didst not,

Or that I could not read upon thy face,
In blushing characters, the story of
Libidinous rape : confess it, for you stand not
Accountable for a sin, against whose strength
Your o'ermatch'd innocence could make no resist-
Under which odds, I know, Cleora fell too, [ance;
Heaven's help in vain invoked; the amazed sun
Hiding his face behind a mask of clouds,
Not daring to look on it! In her sufferings
All sorrow 's comprehended: what Timandra,
Or the city, has endured, her loss consider'd,
Deserves not to be named.

That I had faith enough but to believe thee!
I should receive it with a joy beyond
Assurance of Elysian shades hereafter,
Or all the blessings, in this life, a mother
Could wish her children crown'd with ;-but I
Credit impossibilities; yet I strive [must not

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

NOT to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side;
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

*

When now th' incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam:, When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out ; Not any pike in that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can ; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all : His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell. But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew : And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstacy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love. You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Show us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die : And though you thank God that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat : And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall

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The controverse of life and death Is arbitrated by his breath.

Thus spoke Jehovah Jacob's seed I will from Bashan bring again,

And through the bottom of the main,
That dogs may lap their enemies' blood,
And they wade through a crimson flood.
We, in thy sanctuary late,
My God, my King, beheld thy state;
The sacred singers march'd before,
Who instruments of music bore,
In order follow'd-every maid
Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd.
His praise in your assemblies sing,
You who from Israel's fountain spring,
Nor little Benjamin alone,

But Judah, from his mountain-throne ; The far-removed Zebulon,

And Napthali, that borders on

Old Jordan, where his stream dilates,
Join'd all their powers and potentates.
For us his winged soldiers fought;
Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath wrought!
He that supports a diadem

To thee, divine Jerusalem!

Shall in devotion treasure bring,
To build the temple of his King.

Far off from sun-burnt Meroë,
From falling Nilus, from the sea
Which beats on the Egyptian shore,
Shall princes come, and here adore.
Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd,
Sing to the Lord, his praise resound;
He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides,
And on her aged shoulders rides ;
Whose voice the clouds asunder rends,
In thunder terrible descends.

O praise his strength, whose majesty
In Israel shines-his power on high !
He from his sanctuary throws

A trembling horror on his foes,
While us his power and strength invest;
O Israel, praise the ever-blest !

THERE dwells a people on the earth,
That reckons true allegiance treason,
That makes sad war a holy mirth,
Calls madness zeal, and nonsense reason;
That finds no freedom but in slavery,
That makes lies truth, religion knavery,

That rob and cheat with yea and nay:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?

[Mr. Campb l's extract, selected to show the strength of Sandys, gives no idea of his greatest merit, the effect his taste and knowledge of our language had in harmonising the numbers of our couplet verse. Dryden, who allows him but slender talents as a translator, calls him, however, "the ingenious and learned Sandys, the best versifier of the former age." His versification is his chief excellence; he studied the well-placing of words for the sweetness of pronunciation, and gave us Ovid in smoothsliding verse:

ANONYMOUS.

They hate the flesh, yet kiss their dames,
That make kings great by curbing crowns,
That quench the fire by kindling flames,
That settle peace by plund'ring towns,
That govern with implicit votes,
That 'stablish truth by cutting throats,
That kiss their master and betray:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?

With so much sweetness and unusual grace, that if he does not deserve the whole eulogy of Drayton, he merits his epithet of dainty, which, when said of his heroic verse, is not only poetical but appropriate.]

THE OXFORD RIDDLE ON THE PURITANS.

FROM A SINGLE SHEET PRINTED AT OXFORD IN 1643.

That make Heaven speak by their commission,
That stop God's peace and boast his power,
That teach bold blasphemy and sedition,
And pray high treason by the hour,
That damn all saints but such as they are,
That wish all common, except prayer,

That idolize Pym, Brooks, and Say:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?

That to enrich the commonwealth,
Transport large gold to foreign parts;
That house't in Amsterdam by stealth,
Yet lord it here within our gates;
That are staid men, yet only stay
For a light night to run away;

That borrow to lend, and rob to pay :
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?

FRANCIS QUARLES.

[Born, 1592. Died, 1644.]

THIS voluminous saint was bred at Cambridge and Lincoln's-inn, and was appointed cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Electress of Bohemia, after quitting whose service he went to Ireland, and was secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the breaking out of the rebellion in that kingdom he was a considerable sufferer, and was obliged to fly, for safety, to England. He had already been pensioned by Charles, and made Chronologer to the city of London; but in the general ruin of the royal cause his property was confiscated, and his books and manuscripts, which he valued more, were plundered. This reverse of fortune is supposed to have accelerated his death.

The charitable criticism of the present age has

FAITH.

THE proudest pitch of that victorious spirit
Was but to win the world, whereby t' inherit
The airy purchase of a transitory
And glozing title of an age's glory;
Would'st thou by conquest win more fame than he,
Subdue thyself! thyself's a world to thee.
Earth's but a ball, that heaven hath quilted o'er
With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floor
Of fickle Fortune's false and slippery court,
Sent for a toy, to make us children sport,
Man's satiate spirits with fresh delights supplying,
To still the fondlings of the world from crying;
And he, whose merit mounts to such a joy,
Gains but the honour of a mighty toy.

But would'st thou conquer, have thy conquest crown'd

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done justice to Quarles, in contrasting his merits with his acknowledged deformities. That his perfect specimens of the bathos should have been laughed at in the age of Pope, is not surprising'. His "Emblems," whimsical as they are, have not the merit of originality, being imitated from Herman Hugo. A considerable resemblance to Young may be traced in the blended strength and extravagance, and ill-assorted wit and devotion of Quarles. Like Young, he wrote vigorous prose-witness his Enchiridion. In the parallel, however, it is due to the purity of Young to acknowledge, that he never was guilty of such indecency as that which disgraces the "Argalus and Parthenia" of our pious author.

By hands of Seraphims, triumph'd with the sound
Of heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestial choir, recorded with a quill
Pluck'd from the pinion of an angel's wing,
Confirm'd with joy by heaven's eternal King;
Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel,
And chase those false affections that rebel.
Hath heaven despoil'd what his full hand hath
given thee?

Nipp'd thy succeeding blossoms? or bereaven thee
Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend?
Doth sad Despair deny these griefs an end?
Despair's a whisp'ring rebel, that within thee,
Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again' thee:
Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee:
Advance thy shield of Patience to thy head,
And when Grief strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead.
In adverse fortunes, be thou strong and stout,
And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out

1.

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Man is a tennis-court, his flesh the wall,

The gamesters God and Satan,-the heart 's the ball;
The higher and the lower hazards are

Too bold presumption and too base despair:
The rackets which our restless balls make fly,
Adversity and sweet prosperity.

The angels keep the court, and mark the place
Where the ball falls, and chalk out every chase.
The line's a civil life we often cross,

O'er which the ball, not flying, makes a loss.
Detractors are like standers-by, and bet
With charitable men, our life's the set.
Lord, in these conflicts, in these fierce assaults,
Laborious Satan makes a world of faults.
Forgive them, Lord, although he ne'er implore
For favour, they'll be set upon our score.
O take the ball before it come to the ground,
For this base court has many a false rebound;
Strike, and strike hard, and strike above the line,
Strike where thou please, so as the set be thine.

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