Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak 't and grief;
Ah, that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right;
And I myself a Catholic will be,

So far, at least, great saint, to pray to thee.
Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below,

Opposed by our old enemy, adverse chance,
Attacked by envy and by ignorance,
Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires,

Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires;
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies!

Heaven and Hell.-From the Davideis.

Sleep on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take,
For though thou sleep'st thyself, thy God's awake.
Above the subtle foldings of the sky,
Above the well-set orbs' soft harmony;
Above those petty lamps that gild the night,
There is a place o'erflown with hallowed light;
Where heaven, as if it left itself behind,

Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds can find:
Here peaceful flames swell up the sacred place,

Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space.

For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray
Glimmers upon the pure and native day.

No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear,
Or with dim taper scatters darkness there.
On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide,
No circling motion doth swift time divide;
Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal Now does always last.

Beneath the silent chambers of the earth,
Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth,
Where he the growth of fatal gold does see-
Gold which above more influence has than he-
Beneath the dens where unfledged tempests lie,
And infant winds their tender voices try;
Beneath the mighty ocean's wealthy caves;
Beneath the eternal fountain of all waves,
Where their vast court the mother-waters keep,
And, undisturbed by moons, in silence sleep,
There is a place, deep, wondrous deep below,
Which genuine Night and Horror does o'erflow:
No bound controls the unwearied space but hell,
Endless as those dire pains that in it dwell.
Here no dear glimpse of the sun's lovely face
Strikes through the solid darkness of the place;
No dawning morn does her kind red display;

One slight weak beam would here be thought the

'And roared at his first plunge into the flame.
Myriads of spirits fell wounded round him there;
With dropping lights thick shone the singed air.
A dreadful silence filled the hollow place,
Doubling the native terror of hell's face;
Rivers of flaming brimstone, which before
So loudly raged, crept softly by the shore;

No hiss of snakes, no clank of chains was known,
The souls amidst their tortures durst not groan.

To Pyrrha.

In imitation of Horace's Ode, lib. i. od. 5.

To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind?
To what heart-ravished lover
Dost thou thy golden locks unbind,
Thy hidden sweets discover,

And, with large bounty, open set All the bright stores of thy rich cabinet?

Ah, simple youth! how oft will he
Of thy changed faith complain!
And his own fortunes find to be

So airy and so vain ;

Of so chameleon-like an hue, That still their colour changes with it too!

How oft, alas, will he admire

The blackness of the skies; Trembling to hear the winds sound higher, And see the billows rise!

Poor unexperienced he,

Who ne'er, alas, had been before at sea!

He enjoys thy calmy sunshine now,
And no breath stirring hears;

In the clear heaven of thy brow

No smallest cloud appears.

He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May.

Unhappy, thrice unhappy he,

To whom thou untried dost shine! But there's no danger now for me,

Since o'er Loretto's shrine,

In witness of the shipwreck past, My consecrated vessel hangs at last.

Anacreontics;

Or some copies of verses translated paraphrastically out of Anacreon.

Drinking.

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun-and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less-
Drinks up the sea, and when he has done,
The moon and stars drink up
the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I;
Why, men of morals, tell me why?
The Epicure.

Fill the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully a while,
Like the wine and roses smile.
Crowned with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.

To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish at least with us to stay.
Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.

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!

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 passed,
Did on the very border stand
Of the blest promised land,

And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,
Saw it himself, and shewed 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?

From the Elegy On the Death of Mr William Hervey
It was a dismal and a fearful night,
Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
By something liker death possessed.
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 joined 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 even 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 famed for love,
Wondered 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 loved, 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 shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid!

The Wish.

Well, then, I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy

Does of all meats the soonest cloy.
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah! yet ere I descend to th' grave,
May I a small house and large garden have,
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,

Only beloved, and loving me!

O fountains! when in you shall I

Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?

O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood, Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coined and stamped for good.

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetched metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,

And nought but Echo flatter.

The gods, when they descended hither From heaven, did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say,

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I,

And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear,
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.

Epitaph on the Living Author.
Here, stranger, in this humble nest,
Here Cowley sleeps; here lies,
'Scaped all the toils that life molest,
And its superfluous joys.

HENRY VAUGHAN (1621-1695) was author of a volume of poems published by a friend' in 1651, and entitled Olor Iscanus; a collection of some select Poems and Translations, by Mr Henry Vaughan, Silurist. Vaughan, it appears, called himself a Silurist from being resident in the rocky region of Wales inhabited of old by the Silures, a tribe of ancient Britons. He wrote also Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, in two parts, 1650-55; Flores Solitudinia, 1654; Thalia Rediviva, 1678, &c. The poems of Vaughan evince considerable strength and originality of thought and copious imagery, though tinged with a gloomy sectarianism, and marred by crabbed rhymes. Campbell scarcely does justice to Vaughan in styling him 'one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit,' though he admits that he has 'some few scattered thoughts that meet our eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild-flowers on a barren heath.' As a sacred poet, Vaughan has an intensity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He was born in Brecknockshire, and had a dash of Celtic enthusiasm. He first followed the profession of the law, but afterwards adopted that of a physician. He does not seem to have attained to a competence in either, for he complains much of the proverbial poverty and suffering of poets:

As they were merely thrown upon the stage, The mirth of fools, and legends of the age. In his latter days, Vaughan grew deeply serious and devout, and published his Sacred Poems, which contain his happiest effusions. The poet was not without hopes of renown, and he wished the river of his native vale to share in the distinction:

When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,
And my sun sets where first it sprang in beams,
I'll leave behind me such a large kind light
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
And in these vows which-living yet-I pay,
Shed such a precious and enduring ray,
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead
Till rivers leave to run, and men to read!

Early Rising and Prayer.

From Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems.
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun :

Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.

Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours
'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sunrising; far day sullies flowers:

Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut.

Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn; each bush
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing?
O leave thy cares and follies!
Go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.

Serve God before the world; let Him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto Him, and remember who
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine;
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven.

Mornings are mysteries; the first, the world's youth,
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
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 necessities; 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.

The Rainbow.-From the same.

Still young and fine, but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye
Thy burnished 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.

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 stolen descents to earth, and what did move her
To juggle first with heaven, 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
Nocturnal 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-shaped 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-heeled 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 or matter; just as I have known

Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Derived 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, swollen with increase, she glides along
The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In the same piece find scattered philosophy,
And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory,
So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould,
Cast that commended mixture wished 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.

Timber.

Sure thou didst flourish once, and many springs, Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings Which now are dead, lodged in thy living towers.

And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,

While the low violet thrives at their root.

THOMAS STANLEY.

THOMAS STANLEY (1625-1678), the editor of Eschylus, and author of a History of Philosophy, published a volume of verse in 1651. The only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knight, of CamberlowGreen, 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 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 bequeath 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, devoured 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.

Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine,
And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye
Do now with mine expire;
Thy brightest graces fade and die
At once with my desire.

Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more

To be implored or wooed;

Since by thy scorn thou dost restore

The wealth my love bestowed;

And thy despised disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind.