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I would have been content if he would play,
The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592–1644) Unwillingly have ask'd some other song :
are more like those of a divine, or contemplative So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well
recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held A many hours, but as few minutes tell,
various public situations, and died at the age of Yet, lest mine own delight might injure you,
fifty-two. Quarles was a native of Essex, educated (Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.
at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was successively cup-bearer to Elizabeth,
Queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, [Night.)
and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused
the cause of Charles I., and was so harassed by the The sable mantle of the silent night
opposite party, who injured his property, and plunShut from the world the ever-joysome light.
dered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that Care filed away, and softest slumbers please
his death was attributed to the affliction and ill To leave the court for lowly cottages.
health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,
his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a tinge of And sleightful otters left the purling rills;
Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have molRooks to their nests in high woods now were flung,
lified the rage of his persecutors. His poems conAnd with their spread wings shield their naked young. sist of various pieces —Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir, And terror frights the lonely passenger ;
The History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, When nought was heard but now and then the howl
The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The
Divine Emblems. The latter were published in 1645, Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl.
and were so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles 'the darling of our plebeian judg
ments.' The eulogium still holds good to some ex[Pastoral Employments.]
tent, for the Divine Emblems, with their quaint and
grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages But since her stay was long: for fear the sun of our peasants. After the Restoration, when everyShould find them idle, some of them begun
thing sacred and serious was either neglected or To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar,
made the subject of ribald jests, Quarles seems to Some from the company removed are
have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, To meditate the songs they meant to play,
who, had he read him, must have relished his lively Or make a new round for next holiday;
fancy and poetical expression, notices only his Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told;
bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold.
taste of modern times has admitted the divine em. This, all alone, was mending of his pipe;
blemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at Here (from the rest), a lovely shepherd's boy
least sure of his due measure of homage and atten. Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy
tion. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and Would still endure, or else that age's frost
poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of morality and reShould never make him think what he had lost,
ligion, had been tried with success by Peacham and Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs,
Wither. Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Her hands still keeping time to what she sings ;
Jesuit, his model, and from the ‘Pia Desideria' of this Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands Were comforted in working. Near the sands
author, copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. Of some sweet river, sits a musing lad,
His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, That moans the loss of what he sometime had,
often extravagant in conception, and presenting the His love by death bereft : when fast by him
most outré and ridiculous combinations. There is An aged swain takes place, as near the brim
strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true Of 's grave as of the river.
wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered
the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts. [The Syren's Song.)
Stanzas. [From the ‘Inner Temple Masque']
As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Picks here a pink, and there a gilly-flower,
Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead, A prey to passengers;
There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy, Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy, Which make the phonix urn and pest;
This on her arms, and that she lists to wear Fear not your ships,
Upon the borders of her curious hair;
At length a rose-bud (passing all the rest)
She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast.
The Shortness of Life.
And what's a life!-a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life the flourishing array
Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
What mean dull souls, in this high measure, My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour ;
To haberdash Alas ! the total's but from eight to four.
In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
Is dross and trash! Fair copies of my life, and open laid
The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash ? To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade !
Are these the goods that thou supply’st Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ; Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st! My non-aged day already points to noon;
Can these bring cordial peace ? false world, thou ly’st. How simple is my suit !--how small my boon! Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile
Delight in God Only.
She is my Maker's creature ; therefore good :
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ;
She is my tender nurse—she gives me food; Can he be fair, that withers at a blast!
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee! Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast !
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me!
I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh
Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh, So fair is man, that death (a parting blast)
And with their polyphonian notes delight me: Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;
But what's the air or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee!
My careful purveyor; she provides me store :
She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater; So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid)
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid;
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me!
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky :
But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee!
Without thy presence heaven 's no heaven to me. False world, thou ly’st : thou canst not lend The least delight:
Without thy presence earth gives no refection ;
Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ;
Without thy presence air 's a rank infection ;
Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure : To please at night:
If not possess’d, if not enjoy'd in thee, Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me! And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven ; fond earth, thou boasts ; false world, The highest honours that the world can boast, thou ly’st.
Are subjects far too low for my desire ;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire :
The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.
Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares ;
Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet-sadness :
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness ; Alas ! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou lyóst. Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compared with thee. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say !
In having all things, and not thee, what have I ! Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Not having thee, what have my labours got !
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I !
And having thee alone, what have I not !
I wish nor sea nor land ; nor would I be
Possess'd of hcaren, heaven unposgess'd of thee.
Decay of Life.
The day grows old, the low-pitch'd lamp hath mado A paradise, that has no stint,
No less than treble shade,
And the descending damp doth now prepare
To uncurl bright Titan's hair ;
Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Her purples, fringed with gold, With man; vain man! that thou rely'st
To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms.
* 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 nature
So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest
But keep them, with repining restlessnese Let him be rich and weary; that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.'
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.
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 1 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 1 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.
Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
For thou must die.
And thou must die. Sweet spring ! full of sweet days and roses ; A box where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes ;
And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
Religion. All may of thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean, Which, with this tincture, for thy sake,
Will not grow bright and clean. This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold, For that which God doth touch and own,
Cannot for less be told.
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 orden.
The Sundays of man's life,
(Stanzas.) [Oddly called by Herbert • The Pulley.'! When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, Let us,' said he, 'pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.' So strength first made away; Then beauty low'd; then wisdom, honour,
pleasure; When almost all was out, God made a stay; Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.
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 Gun. powder 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 deatlı, 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.
This day my Saviour rose,
Who want herbs for their wound.
The rest of our creation
The brightness of that day
And fit for paradise.
Thou art a day of mirth :
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 :
When boys go first to bed,
Makes them not dead :
Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.
When youth is frank and free,
All day exchanging mirth and breath
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,
Man, ere he is aware,
And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath
As yet to spare.
Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,
[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,