In the same easy vein, our poet has translated Metrum VI.:

"When the crab's fierce constellation
Burns with the beams of the bright sun,
Then he that will go out to sow
Shall never reap where he did plough,
But, instead of corn, may rather
(The old world's diet) acorns gather.
Who the violet doth love,

Must seek her in the flow'ry grove;
But never when the North's cold wind
The russet fields with frost doth bind.
If in the spring-time (to no end)
The tender vine for grapes we bend,
We shall find none, for only still
Autumn doth the wine-press fill.
Thus for all things, in the world's prime,
The wise God seal'd their proper time,
Nor will permit those seasons, he
Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be.
Then whose wild actions out of season,
Cross to nature and her reason,
Would by new ways old orders rend,
Shall never find a happy end."

He has been equally happy in turning the following little moral ode, which forms the Third Metrum of Boëtius's Second Book.

When the sun from his rosy bed
The dawning light begins to shed,
The drowsy sky uncurtains round,

And the (but now bright) stars all drown'd
In one great light, look dull and tame,
And homage his victorious flame.
Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
The earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
Straight she her various store discloses
And purples ev'ry grove with roses;
But if the South's tempestuous, breath
Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
Oft in a quiet sky the deep
With unmov'd waves seem fast asleep,
And oft again the blust'ring North,
In angry heaps provokes them forth.

If then this world, which holds all nations,
Suffers itself such alterations,

That not this mighty, massy frame,
Nor any part of it can claim

One certain course, why should man prate
Or censure the designs of fate?

Why from frail honours, and goods lent,
Should he expect things permanent?
Since 'tis enacted by divine decree

That nothing mortal shall eternal be.

We must, however, conclude our extracts from the poems of our "Iscanian swan," with this pleasant description of the Golden Age, which is turned with equal faithfulness and felicity:

Happy that first white age! when we

Lived by the earth's mere charity;
No soft luxurious diet then

Had effeminated men ;

No other meat, nor wine had any,
Than the coarse mast, or simple honey;
And by the parents' care laid up
Cheap berries did the children sup.
No pompous wear was in those days
Of gummy silks, or scarlet baise.
Their beds were on some flow'ry brink,
And clear spring water was their drink.
The shady pine in the sun's heat
Was their cool and known retreat,
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
The youth and glory of the wood.
The daring sailor with his slaves
Then had not cut the swelling waves,
Nor for desire of foreign store
Seen any but his native shore.
No stirring drum had scar'd that age,
Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage;
No wounds by bitter hatred made
With warm blood soil'd the shining blade;
For how could hostile madness arm
An age of love to public harm?
When common justice none withstood,
Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.
O that at length our age would raise
Into the temper of those days!

But (worse than Ætna's fires!) debate
And avarice inflame our state.

Alas, who was it that first found
Gold hid of purpose under ground;
That sought out pearls, and div'd to find
Such precious perils for mankind.

To the poems and translations in verse are added some versions in prose, consisting of two treatises by Plutarch; the one on the "Benefit we may get by our enemies," the other "On the diseases of the mind and body;" and another, on the same subject, by Maximus Tyrius; and the last, in praise of a country life, from the Spanish of Guevara. These translations are written with considerable force and freedom, and prove our author to have had as masterly a pen in the composition of prose as of verse. We will finish this article, devoted to revive the_memory of a man whose genius and accomplishments have been long unfamiliarized with the light, by quoting one or two passages from "The praise of a country life." Comparing the life of a citizen with that of a countryman, he says,

"The day itself (in my opinion) seems of more length and beauty in the country, and can be better enjoyed, than any where else. There the years pass away calmly; and one day gently drives on the other, insomuch, that a man may be sensible of a certain satiety and pleasure from every hour, and may be said to feed upon time itself, which devours all other things. And although those that are employed in the managing and ordering of their own estates in the country have otherwise, namely, by that very employment, much more pleasure and delights than a citizen can possibly have, yet verily so it is, that one day spent in the recess and privacy of the country, seems more pleasant and lasting than a whole year at court. Justly, then, and most deservingly, shall we account them most happy with whom the sun stays longest, and lends a larger day. The husbandman is always up and drest with the morning, whose dawning light, at the same instant of time, breaks over all the fields, and chaseth away the darkness (which would hinder his early labours) from every valley. If his day's task keep him late in the fields, yet night comes not so suddenly upon him, but he can return home with the evening-star. Whereas, in towns and populous cities, neither the day, nor the sun, nor a star, nor the season of the year, can be well perceived. All which, in the country, are manifestly seen, and occasion a more exact care and observation of seasons, that their labours may be in their appointed time, and their rewards accordingly."

He soon after adds the following beautiful piece of prose writing :

"This privilege also, above others, makes the countryman happy,

that he hath always something at hand which is both useful and pleasant; a blessing which has never been granted, either to a courtier, or a citizen: they have enemies enough, but few friends that deserve their love, or that they dare trust to, either for counsel or action. O who can ever fully express the pleasures and happiness of the country-life; with the various and delightful sports of fishing, hunting, and fowling, with guns, greyhounds, spaniels, and several sorts of nets! What oblectation and refreshment it is to behold the green shades, the beauty and majesty of the tall and ancient groves; to be skilled in planting and dressing of orchards, flowers, and pot-herbs; to temper and allay these harmless employments with some innocent, merry song; to ascend sometimes to the fresh and healthful hills; to descend into the bosom of the vallies, and the fragrant, dewy meadows; to hear the music of birds, the murmurs of bees, the falling of springs, and the pleasant discourses of the old ploughmen; where, without any impediment or trouble, a man may walk, and (as Cato Censorinus used to say) discourse with the dead, that is, read the pious works of learned men, who, departing this life, left behind them their noble thoughts for the benefit of posterity, and the preservation of their own worthy names; where the Christian pious countryman may walk with the learned religious minister of his parish, or converse with his familiar faithful friends, avoiding the dissimulation and windiness of those that are blown up with the spirit, and, under the pretence of religion, commit all villanies. These are the blessings which only a countryman is ordained to, and are in vain wished for by citizens and courtiers."

This is not the only production of Henry Vaughan. There is likewise by him a larger volume consisting of religious poetry, entitled Silex Scintillans, the second edition of which bears date 1655. Of this curious little book we have just been favoured with the loan, and hope at no distant period to give our readers farther specimens of our author, in a different vein. It seems, that in the interval between the two publications, the poet's mind had undergone a most important change. He had met with the works of "that blessed man, Mr. George Herbert," to which he attributes his happy conversion. One would think, that in such poems as we have been quoting, there was little food for bitter repentance, yet this author conceived it his duty to condemn them in a sweeping censure of all other vicious verse,' and deems his guilt to be expiated alone by his own special sorrows, and the blood of his Redeemer. The preface to the Hymns, which form part of the Silex Scintillans, contains a fierce denunciation of the idle verse-makers of the times, of whom he had unhappily been one.

"That this kingdom hath abounded with those ingenious persons, which in the late notion are termed wits, is too well known. Many of them having cast away all their fair portion of time, in no better employments than a deliberate search, or excogitation of idle words, and a most vain, insatiable desire

to be reputed poets: leaving behind them no other monuments of those excellent abilities conferred upon them, but such as they may (with a predecessor of theirs) term Parricides, and a soul-killing issue, for that is the Beaßov and laureate crown, which idle poems will certainly bring to their unrelenting authors. And well it were for them if those willingly studied and wilfully published vanities could defile no spirits but their own; but the case is far worse. These vipers survive their parents, and for many ages after (like epidemic diseases) infect whole generations, corrupting always, and unhallowing the best gifted souls, and the most capable vessels."

He proceeds with his denunciation, which, if it serve no other purpose, indicates the favorite study of the times.

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Nay, the more acute the author is, there is so much the more danger and death in the work. Where the sun is busy upon a dunghill, the issue is always some unclean vermine. Divers persons of eminent piety and learning (I meddle not with the seditious and schismatical) have long, before my time, taken notice of this malady; for the complaint against vicious verse, even by peaceful and obedient spirits, is of some antiquity in this kingdom. And yet, as if the evil consequence attending this inveterate error, were but a small thing; there is sprung very lately another prosperous device, to assist it in the subversion of souls. Those that want the genius of verse, fall to translating; and the people are (every term) plentifully furnished with various foreign vanities, so that the most lascivious compositions of France and Italy are here naturalized, and made English: and this (as it is sadly observed) with so much favor and success, that nothing takes (as they rightly phrase it) like a romance. And very frequently (if that character be not an ivy bush) the buyer receives this lewd ware from persons of honor, who want not reason to forbear: much private misfortune having sprung from no other seed, at first, than some infectious and dissolving legend. To continue (after years of discretion) in this vanity, is an inexcusable desertion of pious sobriety; and to persist so to the end, is a wilful despising of God's sacred exhortations, by a constant, sensual volutation or wallowing in impure thoughts and scurrilous conceits, which both defile their authors, and as many more as they are communicated to."

He thus puts the guilt incurred by the author of immoral writings in a point of view, which, probably, is not always present to the eyes of those who indulge a warm temperament in the composition of that glowing and meretricious kind of poetry, which is but too common, we are sorry to say, in our days, as in those of Vaughan.