No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read

'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth

TO CORINNA, TO GO A MAYING.

Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangled herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,

Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come and receive them while the light

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street,1 each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,

An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;

As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street,

And open fields, and we not see't?

Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey

The proclamation made for May:

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,

But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

1 Herrick here alludes to the multitudes which were to be seen roaming in the fields on May morning; he afterward refers to the appearance of the towns and villages bedecked with evergreens.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with white thorn laden home.
Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream

Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plight'd troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:

Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;

Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the key's betraying

This night, and locks pick'd; yet w' are not a Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.

The worts, the parslain, and the mess
Of water cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send
Me for this end:

That I should render for my part

A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign
As wholly thine:

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

JOSEPH HALL, Bishop of Norwich, though much more distinguished as a prose writer than as a poet, is yet allowed to be the first English author who wrote satirical verse with any degree of elegance. His satires refer to general objects, and present some just pictures of the more remarkable anomalies in human character: they are also written in a style of greater polish and volubility than most of the compositions of that age. Of these satires we present the following as a specimen :

THE DOMESTIC TUTOR.

A gentle squire would gladly entertain

Into his house some trencher-chapelain:

Some willing man that might instruct his sons,

And that would stand to good conditions.

First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

While his young master lieth o'er his head.

Second, that he do, on no default,

Ever presume to sit above the salt.

Third, that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth, that he use all common courtesies;

Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.

Last, that he never his young master beat,

But he must ask his mother to define,

How many jerks he would his breech should line.

All these observed, he could contented be,

To give five marks and winter livery.

Lecture the Centh.

JOHN CHALKHILL-WILLIAM HABINGTON-THOMAS RANDOLPH-SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT-SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE-SIR JOHN SUCKLING-WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT -JOHN CLEVELAND-RICHARD LOVELACE-RICHARD CRASHAW.

WE

E have long lingered with the English miscellaneous poets of the age of Elizabeth, James, and Charles the First, and yet our task is not done; for there still remain to be noticed and illustrated, Chalkhill, Habington, Randolph, Davenant, Fanshawe, Suckling, and a number of others of equal eminence.

JOHN CHALKHILL was born about the year 1600, but of his life comparatively little is known. Izaak Walton, who published, in 1683, a pastoral romance entitled Thealma and Clearchus by Chalkhill, remarks, 'that the author was, in his time, a man generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging in his behaviour; a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent; and, indeed, his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.'. Chalkhill died in 1679, and was buried in Winchester Cathedral, upon the walls of which, his tombstone of black marble is still to be seen.

The scene of ‘Thealma and Clearchus'is laid in Arcadia, and the author, like the ancient poets, describes the golden age and all its charms, which were succeeded by an iron age, in the introduction of ambition, avarice, and tyranny. The plot is complicated and obscure, and the characters are deficient in individuality; the poem must, therefore, be read, like the Faery Queen, for its romantic description and its occasional felicity of language. The versification is that of the heroic couplet, varied, like Milton's Lycidas, by breaks and pauses in the middle of the line. The following brief extracts will sufficiently illustrate these remarks:

THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA.

Within a little silent grove hard by,
Upon a small ascent he might espy
A stately chapel, richly gilt without,
Beset with shady sycamores about: