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Another Mary then arose,

And did rigorous laws impose ;

A mighty tyrant she !
Long, alas ! should I have been
Under that iron-scepter'd queen,

Had not Rebecca set me free.
When fair Rebecca set me free,

'Twas then a golden time with me.

But soon those pleasures filed;
For the gracious princess died
In ber youth and beauty's pride,

And Judith reigned in her stead.
One month, three days, and half an hour,

Judith held the sovereign power.

Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit,

And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came,

Arm’d with a resistless flame,

And th' artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out,

She beat out Susan by the bye. But in her place I then obey'd

Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid,

To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worse passions then possest The interregnum of my breast :

Bless me from such an anarchy! Gentle Henrietta then,

And a third Mary next began,

Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria,
And then a pretty Thomasine,
And then another Catherine,

And then a long et cetera.'
But should I now to you relate

The strength and riches of their state,

The powder, patches, and the pins,
The ribbons, jewels, and the rings,
The lace, the paint, and warlike things

That make up all their magazines :
If I should tell the politic arts

To take and keep men's hearts ;

The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries,

Numberless, nameless mysteries; And all the little lime-twigs laid

By Machiavel, the waiting-maid ;

I'more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell)

Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be,

Since few of them were long with me.

A higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o'th' name,

Whom God grant long to reign !

Did on the very border stand
Of the blest promis'd land,
And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,
Saw it himself, and show'd us it.
But life did never to one man allow
Time to discover worlds and conquer too;
Nor can so short a line sufficient be,
To fathom the vast depths of nature's sea :
The work he did we ought t'admire,
And we're unjust if we should more require
From his few years, divided 'twixt the excess
Of low affliction and high happiness
For who on things remote can fix his sight,
That's always in a triumph or a fight?

Ode on the Death of Mr William Harvey.
It was a dismal and a fearful night,
Scarce could the mom drive on th’ unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,

By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever, and my life to moan?

O thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony

Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. My dearest friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do,

If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day,

As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by

Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas, my treasure's gone! why do I stay?
He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth.
Nor did we envy the most sounding name

By friendship given of old to fame.
None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew,

Whom the kind youth preferred to me;

And ev’n in that we did agree,
For much above myself I loved them too.
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights!
Till the Ledæan stars, so fam'd for love,

Wonder'd at us from above.
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine,

But search of deep philosophy,

Wit, eloquence, and poetry ; Arts which 'I lov’d, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about, which did not know

The love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;

Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shade, combine; Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

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(Lord Bacon.] (From Ode to the Royal Society. ] From these and all long errors of the way, In which our wandering predecessors went, And like th' old Hebrews many years did stray In deserts but of small extent, Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last; The barren wilderness he pass'd

To him my muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new, and warm yet from the brain. He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and like a friend

Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my muse, thou canst not me delight;

Be this my latest verse,

With which I now adorn his hearse; And this my grief, without thy help shall write.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;

And sees a long posterity of boys.
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, About the spacious world let others roam :
Retir'd and gave to them their due.

The voyage, life, is longest made at home.
For the

rich help of books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before

Was so with notions written o'er,
As if wise nature had made that her book.

HENRY VAUGHAN (1614–1695) published in 1651

& volume of miscellaneous poems, evincing considerWith as much zeal, devotion, piety,

able strength and originality of thought and copious He always lir'd as other saints do die;

imagery, though tinged with a gloomy sectarianism Still with his soul severe account he kept,

and marred by crabbed rhymes. Mr Campbell Weeping all debts out ere he slept.

scarcely does justice to Vaughan, in styling hini Then down in peace and innocence he lay,

one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the Like the sun's laborious light,

school of conceit,' though he admits that he has Which still in water sets at night,

some few scattered thoughts that meet our eye Unsullied with his journey of the day.

amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren

heath.' As a sacred poet, Vaughan has an intenWondrous young man, why wert thou made so good, sity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He was a To be snatcht hence ere better understood ?

Welshman (born in Brecknockshire), and had a dash Snatcht before half enough of thee was seen!

of Celtic enthusiasm. He first followed the profesThou ripe, and yet thy life but green ! sion of the law, but afterwards adopted that of a Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell,

physician. He does not seem to have attained to a But danger and infectious death,

competence in either, for he complains much of the Maliciously seized on that breath Where life, spirit, pleasure, always used to dwell.

proverbial poverty and suffering of poets

As they were merely thrown upon the stage,

The mirth of fools, and legends of the age.
Epitaph on the Living Author.

In his latter days Vaughan grew deeply serious and Here, stranger, in this humble nest,

devout, and published a volume of religious poetry, Here Cowley sleeps ; here lies,

containing his happiest effusions. The poet was not Scaped all the toils that life molest,

without hopes of renown, and he wished the river of And its superfluous joys.

his native vale to share in the distinctionHere, in no sordid poverty,

When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, And no inglorious ease, He braves the world, and can defy

And my sun sets where first it sprang in beams,

I'll leave behind me such a large kind light Its frowns and flatteries.

As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
The little earth, he asks, survey:

And in these vows which (living yet) I pay,
Is he not dead, indeed ?

Shed such a precious and enduring ray, •Light lie that earth,' good stranger, pray,

As shall from age to age thy fair name lead
•Nor thorn upon it breed !

Till rivers leave to run, and men to read !
With flowers, fit emblem of his fame,
Compass your poet round;

Early Rising and Prayer.
With flowers of every fragrant name,

(From • Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems. ] Be his warm ashes crown'd!

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave

To do the like; our bodies but forerun
Claudian's Old Man of Verona.

The spirit's duty : true hearts spread and heave

Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun :
Happy the man who his whole time doth bound
Within the enclosure of his little ground.

Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep

Him company all day, and in him sleep. Happy the man whom the same humble place (The hereditary cottage of his race)

Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should From his first rising infancy has known,

Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours And by degrees sees gently bending down,

'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good With natural propension, to that earth

After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers : Which both preserv'd his life, and gave him birth. Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, Him no false distant lights, by fortune set,

And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Could ever into foolish wanderings get.

Walk with thy fellow-creatures ; note the hush He never dangers either saw or feard :

And whisperings amongst them.' Not a spring The dreadful storms at sea he never heard.

Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush He never heard the shrill alarms of war,

And oak doth know I AM.

Canst thou not sing! Or the worse noises of the lawyers' bar.

O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way,
No change of consuls mark to him the year; And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
The change of seasons is his calendar.
The cold and heat winter and summer snows;

Serve God before the world ; let him not go
Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers he knows.

Until thou hast a blessing; then resign He measures time by land-marks, and has found

The whole unto him, and remember who For the whole day the dial of his ground.

Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine; A neighbouring wood, born with himself, he sees,

Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, And loves his old contemporary trees.

Then journey on, and have an eye to hear'n. He has only heard of near Verona's name,

Momings are mysteries ; the first, the world's youth, And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame ;

Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Does with a like concernment notice take

Shroud in their births; the crown of life

, light

, truth, Of the Red Sca, and of Benacus' lake.

Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food :


Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay ;
Despatch pecessities ; life hath a load
Which must be carried on, and safely may;
Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.

Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In the same piece find scatter'd philosophy,
And hidden, dispers’d truths, that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory,
So neatly wear'd, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould,
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Less mutable, and lasting as their star;
And while there is a people, or a sun,
Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

The Rainbow.

(From the same.) Still young and fine, but what is still in view We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnish'd flaming arch did first descry ; When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair; Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distinct, and low, I can in thine see him, Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.

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THOMAS STANLEY. THOMAS STANLEY, the learned editor of Æschylus, and author of a History of Philosophy, appears early in this period as a poet, having published a volume of his verses in 1651. The only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knight, of Camberlow-Green, in Hertfordshire, he was educated at Pembroke college, Oxford; spent part of his youth in travelling; and afterwards lived in the Middle Temple. His poems, whether original or translated, are remarkable for a rich style of thought and expression, though deformed to some extent by the conceits of his age.

The Story of Endymion.
[Written after reading M. Gombauld's Romance

of • Endymion.')
I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen
The amours and courtship of the silent queen ;
Her stol'n descents to earth, and what did move her
To juggle first with heav'n, then with a lover;
With Latmos' louder rescue, and (alas !)
To find her out, a hue and cry in brass ;
Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad
Noctural pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad
In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass
Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass
In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard
Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena led thee through ; with thy proud flight
O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night
Near fair Eurotas' banks ; what solemn green
The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen
In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty-the severe contempt
They have of man--their privilege to live
A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume: with the sad vale
Of Diophania; and the mournful tale
Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle : these and more,
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays
Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
Of style of matter; just as I have known
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To the next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in louder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channel, till
At last, swoll'n with increase, she glides along
The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng

The Tomb. 'When, cruel fair one, I am slain

By thy disdain, And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne, Thy fetters must their power


To those of Death;
Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn :
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove
There is more liberty in Death than Love.
And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,

And (as a victor) proud,
To view the spoils thy beauty made,

Press near my shade,
Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.
But if cold earth, or marble, must

Conceal my dust,
Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I,

Dumb and forgotten, lie, The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me; And they who should attest thy glory, Will, or forget, or not believe this story. Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest, Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.

The Exequies.
Draw near,
You lovers that complain

Of Fortune or Disdain,
And to my ashes lend a tear;
Melt the hard marble with your groans,

And soften the relentless stones,
Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide,
Of all love's cruelties and beauty's pride!

No verse,
No epicedium bring,

Nor peaceful requiem sing,
To charm the terrors of my hearse;
No profane numbers must flow near

The sacred silence that dwells here.
Vast griefs are dumb; softly, oh, softly mourn,
Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.

Yet strew
Upon my dismal grave

Such offerings as you have
Forsaken cypress and sad yew;
For kinder flowers can take no birth,
Or growth, from such unhappy earth.
Weep only o'er my dust, and say, Here lies
To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice.

The Loss.
Yet ere I go,
Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be

So wretched as to know
What joys thou fling'st away with me.

A faith so bright,
As Time or Fortune could not rust;

So firm, that lovers might
Have read thy story in my dust,
And crown

wn'd thy name With laurel verdant as thy youth,

Whilst the shrill voice of Fame
Spread wide thy beauty and my truth.

This thou hast lost,
For all true lovers, when they find

That my just aims were crost,
Will speak thee lighter than the wind.

And none will lay
Any oblation on thy shrine,

But such as would betray
Thy faith to faiths as false as thine.

Yet, if thou choose
On such thy freedom to bestow,

Affection may excuse,
For love from sympathy doth flow.

See, the rain soaks to the skin,
Make it rain as well within.
Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh,
All night revel, rant, and quaff ;
Till the morn stealing behind us,
At the table sleepless find us.
When our bones (alas !) shall have
A cold lodging in the grave;
When swift death shall overtake us,
We shall sleep and none can wake us.
Drink we then the juice o' the vine
Make our breasts Lyæus' shrine;
Bacchus, our debauch beholding,
By thy image I am moulding,
Whilst my brains I do replenish
With this draught of unmix'd Rhenish;
By thy full-branch'd ivy twine;
By this sparkling glass of wine ;
By thy Thyrsus so renown'd ;
By the healths with which th' art crown'd;
By the feasts which thou dost prize;
By thy numerous victories ;
By the howls by Monads made ;
By this haut-gout carbonade;
By thy colours red and white;
By the tavern, thy delight;
By the sound thy orgies spread ;
By the shine of noses red;
By thy table free for all ;
By the jovial carnival ;
By thy language cabalistic ;
By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick ;
By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up;
By thy sighs, the broken hiccup;
By thy mystic set of ranters;
By thy never-tamed panthers;
By this sweet, this fresh and free air;
By thy goat, as chaste as we are ;
By thy fulsome Cretan lass;
By the old man on the ass ;
By thy cousins in mix'd shapes ;
By the flower of fairest grapes ;
By thy bisks fam'd far and wide ;
By thy store of neats’-tongues dry'd ;
By thy incense, Indian smoke;
By the joys thou dost provoke ;
By this salt Westphalia gammon ;
By these sausages that inflame one ;
By thy tall majestic flaggons ;
By mass, tope, and thy flap-dragons ;
By this olive's unctuous savour ;
By this orange, the wines' favour;
By this cheese o'errun with mites ;
By thy dearest favourites ;
To thy frolic order call us,
Knights of the deep bowl install us ;
And to show thyself divine,
Never let it want for wine.

Note on Anacreon. (The following piece is a translation by Stanley from a poem by St Amant, in which that writer had employed his utmost genius to expand and enforce one of the over-free sentiments of the bard of Teios.]

Let's not rhyme the hours away;
Friends! we must no longer play:
Prisk Lycus-see !-invites
To more ravishing delights.
Let's give o'er this fool Apollo,
Nor his fiddle longer follow:
Fie upon his forked hill,
With his fiddle-stick and quill;
And the Muses, though they're gamesome,
They are neither young nor handsome;
And their freaks in sober sadness
Are a mere poetic madness :
Pegasus is but a horse ;
He that follows him is worse.

Note to Moschus. [Stanley here translates a poem of Marino, in which that writer had in his eye the second idyl of Moschus]

Along the mead Europa walks,

To choose the fairest of its gems,
Which, plucking from their slender stalks,

She weaves in fragrant diadems.
Where'er the beauteous virgin treade,

The common people of the field,
To kiss her feet bowing their heads,

Homage as to their goddess yield.
'Twixt whom ambitious wars arise,

Which to the queen shall first present
A gift Arabian spice outvies,

The votive offering of their scent.

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When deathless Amaranth, this strife,

on seeing one of his pieces, that when men are Greedy by dying to decide,

young, and have little else to do, they may vent the Begs she would her green thread of life,

overflowings of their fancy in that way; but when As love's fair destiny, divide.

they are thought fit for more serious employPliant Acanthus now the vine

ments, if they still persisted in that course, it looked And ivy enviously beholds,

as if they minded not the way to any better.' The Wishing her odorous arms might twine

poet stood corrected and bridled in his muse. In About this fair in such strict folds.

1648 Denham conveyed the Duke of York to France,

and resided in that country some time. His estate The Violet, by her foot opprest,

was sold by the Long Parliament; but the RestoraDoth from that touch enamour'd rise,

tion revived his fallen dignity and fortunes. He But, losing straight what made her blest,

was made surveyor of the king's buildings, and a Hangs down her head, looks pale, and dies.

knight of the bath. In domestic life the poet does Clitia, to new devotion won,

not seem to have been happy. He had freed him. Doth now her former faith deny,

self from his early excesses and follies, but an unforSees in her face a double sun,

tunate marriage darkened his closing years, which And glories in apostacy.

were unhappily visited by insanity. He recovered, The Gillyflower, which mocks the skies,

to receive the congratulations of Butler, his fellow(The meadow's painted rainbow) seeks

poet, and to commemorate the death of Cowley, in A brighter lustre from her eyes,

one of his happiest effusions. And richer scarlet from her cheeks.

Cooper's Hill, the poem by which Denham is now

best known, consists of between three and four hunThe jocund flower-de-luce appears,

dred lines, written in the heroic couplet. The deBecause neglected, discontent;

scriptions are interspersed with sentimental digresThe morning furnish'd her with tears;

sions, suggested by the objects around—the river Her sighs expiring odours vent.

Thames, a ruined abbey, Windsor forest, and the Narcissus in her eyes, once more,

field of Runnymede. The view from Cooper's Hill Seems his own beauty to admire ;

is rich and luxuriant, but the muse of Denham was In water not so clear before,

more reflective than descriptive. Dr Johnson assigns As represented now in fire.

to this poet the praise of being the author of a The Crocus, who would gladly claim

species of composition that may be denominated A privilege above the rest,

local poetry, of which the fundamental subject is Begs with his triple tongue of flame,

some particular landscape, to be poetically described, To be transplanted to her breast.

with the addition of such embellishments as may be

supplied by historical retrospection or incidental The Hyacinth, in whose pale leaves

meditation. Ben Jonson's fine poem on Penshurst The hand of Nature writ his fate,

may dispute the palm of originality on this point With a glad smile his sigh deceives

with the Cooper's Hill,' but Jonson could not have In hopes to be more fortunate.

written with such correctness, or with such intense His head the drowsy Poppy rais'd,

and pointed expression, as Denham. The versificaAwak’d by this approaching morn,

tion of this poet is generally smooth and flowing, And view'd her purple light amaz’d,

but he had no pretensions to the genius of Cowley, Though his, alas ! was but her scorn.

or to the depth and delicacy of feeling possessed by None of this aromatic crowd,

the old dramatists, or the poets of the Elizabethan

period. But for their kind death humbly call,

He reasoned fluently in verse, without

glaring faults of style, and hence obtained the approCourting her hand, like martyrs proud,

bation of Dr Johnson far above his deserts. Denham By so divine a fate to fall.

could not, like his contemporary, Chamberlayne, The royal maid th' applause disdains

have described the beauty of a summer morningOf vulgar flowers, and only chose The bashful glory of the plains,

The morning hath not lost her virgin blush,
Sweet daughter of the spring, the Rose. Nor step, but mine, soil'd the earth's tinsell'd robe.

How full of heaven this solitude appears,
She, like herself, a queen appears,

This healthful comfort of the happy swain ;
Rais'd on a verdant thorny throne,

Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up, Guarded by amorous winds, and wears

In's morning exercise saluted is
A purple robe, a golden crown.

By a full quire of feather'd choristers,

Wedding their notes to the enamour'd air !

Here nature in her unaffected dress SIR JOAN DENHAM (1615–1668) was the son of the Plaited with valleys, and emboss'd with hills chief baron of exchequer in Ireland, but was educated Enchas'd with silver streams, and fring'd with woods, at Oxford, then the chief resort of all the poetical Sits lovely in her native russet.* and high-spirited cavaliers. Denham was wild and Chamberlayne is comparatively unknown, and has dissolute in his youth, and squandered away great never been included in any edition of the poets, yet part of his patrimony at the gaming-table. He was every reader of taste or sensibility must feel that the made governor of Farnham castle by Charles I.; above picture far transcends the cold sketches of | and after the monarch had been delivered into the Denham, and is imbued with a poetical spirit to which hands of the army, his secret correspondence was he was a stranger. “That Sir John Denham began a partly carried on by Denham, who was furnished reformation in our verse,' says Southey, 'is one of with nine several ciphers for the purpose. Charles the most groundless assertions that ever obtained had a respect for literature, as well as the arts; and belief in literature. More thought and more skill Milton records of him that he made Shakspeare's had been exercised before his time in the construcplays the closet-companion of his solitude. It would tion of English metre than he ever bestowed on the appear, however, that the king wished to keep poetry apart from state affairs : for he told Denham,

* Chamberlayne's 'Love's Victory.'



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