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His father, of whose writings an account is given in the tenth volume of the Censura Literaria, was a preacher at the Temple church, London. His son, the poet, was born in London, but at what time is uncertain. He was educated at the Charter-house through the bounty of two friends, Sir Henry Yelverton, and Sir Francis Crew. From thence he removed to Cambridge, where he became a fellow, and took a degree of master of arts. There he published his Latin poems, in one of which is the epigram from a scripture passage, ending with the line, so well known,

" Lympha pudica Deum videt et erubuit."

“ The modest water saw its God and blushed.” And also his pious effusions, called “ Steps to the Temple.” The title of the latter work was in allusion to the church at Cambridge; near his residence, where he almost constantly spent his time. When the covenant, in 1644, was offered to the universities, he preferred ejection and poverty to subscribing it. Already he had been distinguished as a popular and powerful preacher. He soon after embraced the catholic religion, and repaired to France. In austerity of devotion he had no great transition to make to catholicism ; and his abhorrence at the religious innovations he had witnessed, together with his admiration of the works of the canonized St. Teresa of Spain, still more easily account for his conversion. Cowley found him at Paris in deplorable poverty, and recommended him to his exiled queen, Henrietta Maria. Her majesty gave him letters of recommendation to Italy, where he became a secretary to one of the Roman cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. Soon after the laiter appointment he died, about the year 1650.

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RICHARD CRASHAW.

SOSPETTO D' HERODE.

LIBRO PRIMO,

ARGOMENTO.

Casting the times with their strong signs,
Death's master his own death divines;
Struggling for help, his best hope is,
Herod's suspicion may heal his ;
Therefore he sends a fiend to wake,
The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake,
Who fears (in vain) that he whose birth
Means Heav'n, should meddle with his earth.

Muse, now the servant of soft loves no more,
Hate is thy theam, and Heroil, whose unblest
Hand (O what dares not jealous greatness ?) tore
A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast,
Vol. V.

R

The blooms of martyrdom. O be a door
Of language to my infant lips, ye best
Of confessors : whose throats, answering his

swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for

words,

Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,
Thou mighty branch of emperors and kings,
The beauties of whose dawn what eye can bide
Which with the Sun himself weighs equal wings,
May of heroic worth! whom far and wide
To the believing world fame boldly sings:

Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows,
To be the sacred honour of thy brows.

Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flow'rs
Other than what their own blest beauties bring,
They were the smiling sons of those sweet bow'rs,
That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring,
Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean frost deflow'rs:
From whence heav'n-labouring bees with busy

wing, Suck hidden sweets, which well digested proves Immortal honey for the hive of loves.

Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent

worth Holds high the rein of fair Parthenope, That neither Rome, nor Athens can bring forth A name in noble deeds rival to thee! [Earth. Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient Far more than matter for my Muse and me.

The Tyrrhene seas and shores sound all the same,

And in their murmurs keep thy mighty name.
Below the bottom of the great abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things,
The worlds profound heart pants; there placed is
Mischief's old master, close about him clings
A curld knot of embracing snakes, that kiss
His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings

Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

The judge of torments, and the king of tears :
He fills a burnish'd throne of quenchless fire :
And for his old fair robes of light, he wears
A gloomy mantle of dark flames, the tire
That crowns his hated head on high appears ;
Where sev’n tall horns (his empire's pride) aspire

And to make up Hell's majesty, each horn
Sey'n crested hydras horribly adorn.
His

eyes the sullen dens of death and night,
Startle the dull air with a dismal red :
Such his fell glances as the fatal light
Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead.
From his black nostrils, and blue lips, in spight
Of Hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread.
His breath Hell's lightning is: and each deep

groan Disdains to think that Heav’n thunders alone.

His flaming eyes dire exhalation,
Unto a dreadful pile gives'fiery breath ;
Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon
The never-dying life, of a long death.

In this sad house of slow destruction
(His shop of fames) he fries himself, beneath

A mass of woes, his teeth for torment gnash,
While his steel sides sound with his tail's strong

lash,
Three rigorous virgins waiting still behind,
Assist the throne of th” iron-sceptered king :
With whips of thorns and knotty vipers twin'd
They rouse him, when his rank thoughts need a

sting:
Their locks are beds of uncomb'd snakes that wind
About their shady brows in wanton rings.
Thus reigns the wrathful king, and while he

reigns,
His sceptre and himself both he disdains.
Disdainful wretch ! how hath one bold sin cost
Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes?
How hath one black eclipse cancellid and crost
The glories that did gild thee in thy rise?
Proud morning of a perverse day! how lost
Art thou unto thy self, thou too self-wise

Narcissus ? foolish Phaeton ? who for all
Thy high-aim'd hopes, gain’dst but a flaming

fall.
From death's sad shades to the life-breathing air,
This mortal enemy to mankind's good,
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair
The fields of Palestine, with so pure a food,

There does he fix his eyes : and there detect
New matter, to make good his great suspect.

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