My rival-image will be then thought blest, And laugh at me as dispossest;

But thou, who (if I know thee right)

I'th' substance dost not much delight,

Wilt rather send again for me,

Who then shall but my picture's picture be.

Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
To be like one of you?

But you have climbed the mountain's top, there st
On the calm flourishing head of it,
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go.
See us, and clouds, below.

TENTANDA EST VIA.

What shall I do to be forever known,

And make the age to come my own?

I shall, like beasts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy;

Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labor, not their own.

In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this so high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myself it must be strook.

Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear;

It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
Raise up the buried man.

Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of roses in the way!

Hence, the desire of honors or estate,

And all that is not above Fate!

Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days,
Which intercepts my coming praise.

Come, my best friends, my books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone.

Welcome, great Stagyrite!' and teach me now
All I was born to know;

Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo;

He conquered th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and

wit

Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he

Who best can praise thee next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise!

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage.

1 Aristotle was born at Stagyra, in Macedonia, near the mouth of the Strymon. He was the instructor of Alexander the Great.

A HAPPY LIFE.

PARAPHRASE FROM MARTIAL, BOOK X.

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see
A true receipt of happiness from me,
These are the chief ingredients, if not all:
Take an estate neither too great nor small,
Which quantum sufficit the doctors call;
Let this estate from parents' care descend,
The getting it too much of life does spend.
Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be
A fair encouragement for industry;
Let constant fires the winter's fury tame,
And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame:
Thee to the town let never suit at law,
And rarely, very rarely, business draw;
Thy active mind in equal temper keep,
In undisturbed peace, yet not in sleep:
Let exercise a vigorous health maintain,
Without which all the composition's vain.
In the same weight prudence and innocence take.
Ana of each does the just mixture make.
But a few friendships wear, and let them be
By nature and by fortune fit for thee;
Instead of art and luxury in food,

Let mirth and freedom make thy table good.
If any cares into thy daytime creep,
At night, without wine's opium, let them sleep;
Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed,
And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed.
Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art,
Act cheerfully and well th' allotted part,
Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past,
And neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of the

last.

MARK THAT SWIFT ARROW. Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, How it outruns thy following eye! Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back or stay it there, That way it went; but thou shalt find No track is left behind.

Long did the Muses, banished slaves, abide,

And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;

Andrew Marvell.

The friend of Milton, and his assistant in the Latin Secretaryship, Marvell (1620-1678) was born in Lincolnshire, and educated at Cambridge. His education was superior. He wrote both poetry and prose, and was Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible integrity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic religion, and as a political pamphleteer took a high rank. Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died sud

stand)

Hast brought them nobly home, back to their
Holy Land.

Ab, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now,
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,

Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old:
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.

is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they reveal the genuine, high-hearted thinker. His Latin poems are his best. The familiar poem, "The Spacious Firmament on High," is confidently attributed by many to Marvell. That he was equal to it is evident; but the proofs are insufficient to authorize us to take from Addison what has so long been ascribed to him. The simplicity and directness of the style are Addisonian rather than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously in the Spectator, edited by Addison. The Spectator was begun in 1711, and Marvell died in 1678. If the piece was from his pen, what good reason was there, after his death, for withholding his name? It was in no spirit of boasting that, in a letter to one of his correspondents, Marvell wrote:

"Disce, puer, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem ;
Fortunam ex aliis."

FROM "THE WISH."

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honor I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known;
Rumor can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.'

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean's bosom unespied,

Emigrants supposed to be driven to expatriate themselves by the government of Charles I.

From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this 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-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage

Safe from the storms and prelate's rage.

He gave us this eternal spring

Which here enamels everything,
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 pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet,
But apples plants of such a price
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his haud
From Lebanon, he stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
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
"Til it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which, then, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

Thus sung 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.

COURAGE, MY SOUL!

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE RESOLVED SOUL AND
CREATED PLEASURE.

Courage, my soul! now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield;
Close on thy head thy helmet bright;
Balance thy sword against the fight;
See where an army, strong as fair,
With silken banners spread the air!
Now, if thou be'st that thing divine,
In this day's combat let it shine,

And show that nature wants an art To conquer one resolvéd heart. Pleasure. Welcome, the creation's guest,

Soul.

Lord of earth, and heaven's heir!
Lay aside that warlike crest,
And of nature's banquet share,
Where the souls of fruits and flowers
Stand prepared to heighten yours.

I sup above, and cannot stay
To bait so long upon the way.
Pleasure. On these downy pillows lie,
Whose soft plumes will thither fly;
On these roses, strewed so plain
Lest one leaf thy side should strain.
My gentler rest is on a thought,
Conscious of doing what I ought.
Pleasure. If thou be'st with perfumes pleased
Such as oft the gods appeased,

Soul.

Soul.

Soul.

Thon in fragrant clouds shalt show
Like another god below.

A soul that knows not to presume
Is Heaven's and its own perfume.
Pleasure. Everything does seem to vie
Which should first attract thine eye;
But since none deserves that grace,
In this crystal view thy face.
When the Creator's skill is prized,
The rest is all but earth disguised.
Pleasure. Hark how music then prepares
For thy stay these charming airs,
Which the posting winds recall,
And suspend the river's fall.
Had I but any time to lose,

Soul.

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 in itself incloses;

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

How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce tonching 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 unsecure,
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; So 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,

It 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.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.'

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their incessant labors see
Crowned from single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow :
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

1 This poem is printed as a translation in Marvell's works; but the original Latin is obviously his own. Here is a speci

men of it:

"Alma Quies, teneo te! et te germana Quietis
Simplicitas! vos ergo din per templa, per urbes
Quæsivi, regum perque alta palatia frustra:
Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe
Celarunt plantæ virides, et concolor umbra."

When we have run our passion's heat
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so

Only that she might laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melous, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall ou grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness:
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate;
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew,
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, the industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!

Thomas Stanley.

Stanley (1625–1678) edited schylus, wrote a creditable "History of Philosophy," and, in 1651, published a volume of verse. He was educated at Oxford, and spent part of his youth in travelling. His poems, though deformed by the conceits fashionable at the time, give signs of a rich and genuine poetical vein.

THE DEPOSITION.

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair Thou art no longer so;

Those glories, all the pride they wear,

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.

Charles Cotton.

The friend of good old Izaak Walton, Cotton (16301687) was a cheerful, witty, and accomplished man, but improvident in worldly matters. His father, Sir George, left him the encumbered estate of Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove. Cotton was thenceforth always in money difficulties, and died insolvent. To get money, he translated several works from the French and Italian, and among them Montaigne's Essays. He made a discreditable travesty of Virgil, remarkable only for its obscenity. But some of his verses show a genuine vein.

NO ILLS BUT WHAT WE MAKE.

FROM "CONTENTATION: DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER AND MOST
WORTHY FRIEND, MR. IZAAK WALTON."

There are no ills but what we make
By giving shapes and names to things;
Which is the dangerous mistake

That causes all our sufferings.