ANDREW MARVELL.

ANDREW MARVELL was born at Hull, in 1620. He received a good education, and, after travelling for improvement, was appointed secretary to the English embassy at Constantinople. It is probable that he also assisted Milton as Latin Secretary to Cromwell. After the Restoration, he was elected a member of Parliament; and such was his simplicity of manners and integrity, that no offers could turn him aside from the exactest path of duty. His poetry is remarkable for warmth of feeling and for elegance. He died in 1678.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received their song.

"What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own.

Where He the huge sea-monster racks,

That lift the deep upon their backs ;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage.

He gives us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us, in care,
On daily visits through the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranate close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land.

He cast of which we rather boast-
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.

Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which, thence perhaps rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,
Round it itself encloses;

And in its little globe's extent
Frames as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies!

But, gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light;

Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere,

Restless it rolls and insecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;

And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,

Every way it turns away!

To the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day;
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!

How girt and ready to ascend!

Moving but on a point below,

In all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congealed and chill— Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

HENRY VAUGHAN, styled "the Silurist" by his contemporaries, from being of the Silures, a people of South Wales, was descended from the ancient Cambrian kings, and was born in Brecknockshire, in 1621. In his seventeenth year he was entered of Jesus College, Oxford, whence after two years he was removed to London. He was intended for the bar, but at the commencement of the civil war he relinquished it, and became eminent both as a poet and a physician. His sacred poems are remarkable for originality and picturesque grace, though it must be confessed they are sullied with many conceits unworthy of the theme. He died in 1695. He wrote "Silex Scintillans," "Sacred Poems," and "Private Ejaculations," of which a fine edition was published in London by Pickering, in 1847.

LORD! what a busy, restless thing
Hast thou made man!

Each day and hour he is on wing,
Rests not a span.

Then having lost the sun and light,
By clouds surprised,

He keeps a commerce in the night
With air disguised.

Hadst thou given to this active dust
A state untired,

The lost son had not left the husk,
Nor home desired.

That was thy secret, and it is

Thy mercy too;

For when all fails to bring to bliss,

Then this must do.

Ah! Lord! and what a purchase will that be,

To take us sick, that sound would not take thee!

THOU art not Truth! for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lies.
Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
"Tis but the bait of policy;

Which like a viper lodged in flowers,
Its venom through that sweetness pours;
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fading paint, the shortlived bliss
Of air and humor, out and in,
Like colors in a dolphin's skin:
But must not live beyond one day,

Or for convenience, then away.

Thou art not Riches! for that trash,

Which one age hoards, the next doth wash,
And so severely sweep away,

That few remember where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them have at their command;

And shifting channels here restore,

There break down, what they banked before.
Thou art not Honor! for those gay
Feathers will wear and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Give new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not Pleasure! For thy rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose,

Which, if not cropped, will quickly shed,
But soon as cropped grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,

And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
And, swallow-like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone.