like zeal and purity, but his strength was not equal to his self-imposed tasks, and he died at the early age of thirty-nine. His principal production is entitled, The Temple, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations. It was not printed till the year after his death, but was so well received, that Walton says twenty thousand copies were sold in a few years after the first impression. The lines on Virtue

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

are the best in the collection; but even in them we find, what mars all the poetry of Herbert, ridiculous conceits or coarse unpleasant similes. His taste was very inferior to his genius. The most sacred subject could not repress his love of fantastic imagery, or keep him for half a dozen verses in a serious and natural strain. Herbert was a musician, and sang his own hymns to the lute or viol; and indications of this may be found in his poems, which have sometimes a musical flow and harmonious cadence. It may be safely said, however, that Herbert's poetry alone would not have preserved his name, and that he is indebted for the reputation he enjoys, to his excellent and amiable character, embalmed in the pages of good old Walton, to his prose work, the Country Parson, and to the warm and fervent piety which gave a charm to his life and breathes through all his writings.

'For if I should,' said he, 'Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in nature, not the God of natureSo both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest

But keep them, with repining restlessnessLet him be rich and weary; that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.'

Matin Hymn.

I cannot ope mine eyes

But thou art ready there to catch
My mourning soul and sacrifice,

Then we must needs for that day make a match.
My God, what is a heart?

Silver, or gold, or precious stone,

Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one

My God, what is a heart?

That thou should'st it so eye and woo,
Pouring upon it all thy art,

As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?

Indeed, man's whole estate

Amounts (and richly) to serve thee;

He did not heaven and earth create,
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.
Teach me thy love to know;

That this new light which now I see ⚫
May both the work and workman show;
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.

Sunday.

O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this the next world's bud, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,

The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.

On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife-

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at his expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth :

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

Mortification.

How soon doth man decay!

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way:

They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead :

Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free,

And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell,

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,

Getting a house and home, where he may move Within the circle of his breath,

Schooling his eyes;

That dumb enclosure maketh love Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak, Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier, Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath
As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,
That all these dyings may be life in death.

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

WILLIAM HABINGTON (1605-1654) had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional and frequently studied licentiousness. He tells us himself (in his preface) that, if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment, he says finely, that when love builds upon the rock of chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's life presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara. Twenty years before his death, he published his poems, consisting of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled descriptionplacid, tender, and often elegant-but studded with conceits to show his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if

Heaven were

Blackfriars, and each star a confectioner

we are astonished to find one who could ridicule the 'madness of quaint oaths,' and the 'fine rhetoric of clothes,' in the gallants of his day, and whose sentiments on love were so pure and noble, fall into such absurd and tasteless puerilities.

[Epistle to a Friend.]

[Addressed to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq.']

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell.
The cross, or prosperous fate, of princes, they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Machiavel.
O busy folly! Why do I my brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,

Or quick designs of France! Why not repair
To the pure innocence o' th' country air,

And neighbour thee, dear friend who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;
And, by the aid of leisure, so control
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?
Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when
We study mysteries of other men,
And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade
(Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid,
Kind nature's housewifery) contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthral

The world to his great master, and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory: Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And, juggler-like, works o' th' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied only wise: for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.

Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bend us toward earth, let's in our mind
Create new youth; and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care
O' th' town make us to think, where now we are
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we number'd not.

Description of Castara.

Like the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd,

For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.
Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.

Folly boasts a glorious blood,
She is noblest, being good.
Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;
In her silence eloquent :

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill
She nor acts, nor understands:
Women's feet run still astray,
If once to ill they know the way.
She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft honour splits her mast;
And retir'dness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthron'd for wit.
She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without masque, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:

O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.

She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie:
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1608-1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-day

Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm.

He dreamt of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state to James L., and comptroller of the household to Charles I. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy; and at sixteen he had entered on public life! His first appearance was as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served one campaign. On his return, he entered warmly into the cause of Charles I., and raised a troop of horse in his support. He intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Strafford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial, he fled to France, but a fatal accident took place by the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling, learning the circumstance, drew on his boots hurriedly, to pursue him; a rusty nail, or (according to another account) the blade of a knife, had been concealed in the boot, which wounded him, and produced mortification, of which he died. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some private letters. poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier, Suckling has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes too voluptuous, but are rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It has touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. One well-known verse has never been excelled

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light;

But oh! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight !*

His

* Herrick, who had no occasion to steal, has taken this image from Suckling, and spoiled it in the theft

Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep
A little out.

Like Sir Fretful Plagiary, Herrick had not skill to steal with taste. Wycherley also purloined Herrick's simile for one of his plays. The allusion to Easter-day is founded upon a beautiful old superstition of the English peasantry, that the sun dances upon that morning.

[SONG.-'Tis now, since I sat down before.]

Tis now, since I sat down before

That foolish fort, a heart,

(Time strangely spent!) a year, and more;
And still I did my part,-

Made my approaches, from her hand
Unto her lip did rise;
And did already understand

The language of her eyes;

Proceeded on with no less art,
My tongue was engineer;

I thought to undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.

When this did nothing, I brought down
Great cannon-oaths, and shot

A thousand thousand to the town,
And still it yielded not.

I then resolv'd to starve the place
By cutting off all kisses,
Praising and gazing on her face,
And all such little blisses.

To draw her out, and from her strength,
I drew all batteries in:
And brought myself to lie at length,
As if no siege had been.

When I had done what man could do,
And thought the place mine own,

The enemy lay quiet too,

And smil'd at all was done.

I sent to know from whence, and where,
These hopes, and this relief?

A spy inform'd, Honour was there,
And did command in chief.

March, march (quoth I); the word straight give,
Let's lose no time, but leave her ;

That giant upon air will live,

And hold it out for ever.

To such a place our camp remove
As will no siege abide;

I hate a fool that starves for love,
Only to feed her pride.

A Ballad upon a Wedding.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair,

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest :

Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest.

But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid : Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance, as did the maid.

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a maid no Whitsun-alel
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:

And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get:

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

*

Passion, oh me! how I run on !
There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the bride:

The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be intreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick ;
And when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick!?

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,
And ev'ry man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride:

But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

Constancy.

Out upon it, I have lov'd

Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;

Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen in her place.

Song.

I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain ;

For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together!
Oh love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she has mine.

Song.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover!

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute!

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.

The Careless Lover.

Never believe me if I love,

Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove ;
And yet in faith 1 lie, I do,

And she's extremely handsome too;

She's fair, she's wond'rous fair,
But I care not who knows it,
Eer I'll die for love,

I fairly will forego it.

This heat of hope, or cold of fear,
My foolish heart could never bear:
One sigh imprison'd ruins more
Than earthquakes have done heretofore :
She's fair, &c.

When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place:
She's fair, &c.

A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
To this and t'other friend I drink ;
And if 'tis nam'd another's health,
I never make it her's by stealth:
She's fair, &c.

Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains or a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much as love:
She's fair, &c.

I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day;
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool:
She's fair, &c.

Song.

Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tost it!

Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crost it?
Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping,
Or the foxes sleeping?

Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride,
Or the dove by his bride,

Oh! so fickle; oh! so vain ; oh! so false, so false is she!

Detraction Execrated.

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate!
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou, base dull aid,
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence from earth!
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:
Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move;
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale;
No briny tear has furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail,
That had her love; for what else could he seek!
We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstacy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity.