To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,

The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God;

A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he !

But as I did their madness so discuss

One whisper'd thus,

'This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, But for His bride.'

BEYOND THE VEIL.

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,

Shining no where, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust;

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg'd birds' nest, may know

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a tomb,

The captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room,
She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under Thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective-still-as they pass:

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

[SHIRLEY was born in London about the year 1596, and lived through the Civil War and Commonwealth into the Restoration, dying in 1667. His copious dramatic activity began in 1625, in which year he produced the comedy entitled Love's Tricks. Before this, in 1618, he had published an imitation of Venus and Adonis under the title of Echo. His plays were produced in rapid succession up to 1641. In 1646 he published a volume of poems, chiefly erotic, and two small volumes of Masques etc. in 1653 and 1659.]

Shirley was essentially an imitative not an original genius. His claim to a place among the great poets of his age rests solely upon his wonderful manipulative dexterity, his power of assimilating and reshaping the creations of his great predecessors. Towards the close of a grand period, perhaps even while its leading spirits are in full creative swing, two distinct tendencies manifest themselves. Men of independent mind separate themselves from the main current, and cast about for fields which the masters have left unoccupied. Men of more pliant and docile intellect follow humbly in the footsteps of the masters, and seize freely upon the wealth which they have accumulated. Shirley belonged to the latter class. He did not try to invent new types, or to say what had not been said before; but stored his mind with the thoughts and the imagery of his predecessors, and reproduced them with joyous facility. We may admire the fluency, the elegance, and the force of Shirley's verse, the ease and naturalness of his dramatic situations, but the attentive reader of his predecessors is never called upon to admire anything new. Fletcher was his chief model and exemplar, but he laid them all freely under contribution. The chief critical pleasure in reading him is the pleasure of memory.

W. MINTO.

A LULLABY.

[From The Triumph of Beauty, a Masque, 1646.]

Cease, warring thoughts, and let his brain.
No more discord entertain,

But be smooth and calm again.

Ye crystal rivers that are nigh,
As your streams are passing by
Teach your murmurs harmony.
Ye winds that wait upon the Spring
And perfumes to flowers do bring,
Let your amorous whispers here
Breathe soft music to his ear.
Ye warbling nightingales repair
From every wood, to charm this air,
And with the wonders of your breast

Each striving to excel the rest,

When it is time to wake him, close your parts,

And drop down from the tree with broken hearts.

THE GARDEN.

[From Poems, 1646.]

This garden does not take my eyes,
Though here you show how art of men
Can purchase nature at such price

Would stock old Paradise again.

These glories while you dote upon,
I envy not your spring nor pride;
Nay boast the summer all your own,
My thoughts with less are satisfied.
Give me a little plot of ground,
Where might I with the sun agree,
Though every day he walk the round
My garden he should seldom see.

Those tulips that such wealth display

To court my eye, shall lose their name,
Though now they listen, as if they
Expected I should praise their flame.
But I would see myself appear
Within the violet's drooping head,
On which a melancholy tear
The discontented morn hath shed.
Within their buds let roses sleep
And virgin lilies on their stem,
Till sighs from lovers glide and creep
Into their leaves to open them.

I' th' centre of my ground compose
Of bays and yew my summer-room,
Which may, so oft as I repose,
Present my arbour and my tomb.

No woman here shall find me out,
Or if a chance do bring one hither,
I'll be secure, for round about
I'll moat it with my eyes' foul weather.

No birds shall live within my pale,
To charm me with their shames of art,
Unless some wandering nightingale
Come here to sing and break her heart;

Upon whose death I'll try to write
An epitaph, in some funeral stone,
So sad and true, it may invite
Myself to die, and prove mine own.

THE MIGHT OF DEATH.

[From Cupid and Death, a Masque, 1653.]

Victorious men of earth, no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind in every shore,
And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,