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So, in this diff'ring key, though I could well
A many hours, but as few minutes tell,
Yet, lest mine own delight might injure you,
(Though loath so soon) I take my song anew.
NIGHT.

The sable mantle of the silent night
Shut from the world the ever-joysome light,
Care fled away, and softest slumbers please

To leave the court for lowly cottages.

Wild beasts forsook their dens on woody hills,

And sleightful otters left the purling rills;

Rooks to their nests in high woods now were flung
And with their spread wings shield their naked young.
When thieves from thickets to the cross-ways stir,

And terror frights the lonely passenger;

When nought was heard but now and then the howl
Of some vile cur, or whooping of the owl.

HENRY KING, better known as a divine than as a poet, was the son of Doctor John King, chaplain to Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards bishop of London. He was born at Wornall, in January 1591, and after preparing for the university at Westminster school, was elected student of Christ's Church College, Oxford. Having taken his degrees, and entered into orders, he became chaplain to James the First, soon after which he was made archdeacon of Colchester. In 1625, he received the degree of doctor of divinity, and became chaplain to Charles the First; and though strongly suspected of inclining to the Puritanical party, he remained in that relation to the king for many years. In 1641, doctor King, as a conciliatory step toward the Puritans, was raised to the see of Chichester; but no sooner had the civil war broken out, and the dissolution of Episcopacy taken place, than he was treated by the very party whom he had been elevated to conciliate, with the utmost severity. At the Restoration, however, he was restored to his bishopric, and Wood informs us that, 'he was esteemed by his diocese and neighborhood, the epitome of all honors, virtues, and generous nobleness, and a person never to be forgotten by his tenants and the poor. He died on the first of October 1669, in his seventy-ninth year.

Bishop King was emphatically a religious poet, and besides composing many sacred songs, elegies, and sonnets, in all of which his language and imagery are chaste and refined, he turned the Psalms of David also into metre. His poems afford little variety, however, as literary performances, and the following specimen will, therefore, be sufficient to exhibit his style and manner:—

A DIRGE.

What is the existence of man's life,

But open war or slumber'd strife;
Where sickness to his sense presents

The combat of the elements;

And never feels a perfect peace

Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm-where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loose passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower--which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep;
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream-whose seeming truth
Is moraliz'd in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share,
As wandering as his fancies are:
Till in a mist of dark decay,
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial-which points out
The sunset, as it moves about;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of Time's flight;
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
His body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude—

Which doth short joys, long woes, include;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hopes and varied fears;

The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

FRANCIS QUARLES was born at Stewards, in Essex, in 1592. His father was clerk of the green-cloth, and purveyor to Queen Elizabeth, and as the son was early designed for a court life, he was educated with reference to that object. He entered Christ's College, Cambridge, but seems to have left the university without a degree, soon after which he became a member of Lincoln's Inn, London. He was afterward cup-bearer to Eliza beth, daughter of James the First, Electress Palatine and Queen of Bo hemia; but upon the ruin of the elector's affairs, he quitted the queen's service, and went to Ireland, where he became secretary to Archbishop Usher. In this situation he remained until the breaking out of the Irish rebellion of 1641, when, after having suffered very severe pecuniary losses, he was obliged to fly for safety into England. In England, however, he did not realize the repose he had anticipated, for one of his productions, the Royal Convert, having given offense to the prevailing party, they stripped him of what remained of his possessions, and even seized his books and some valuable manuscripts, which he had prepared for the press. This last blow was more than his mental strength was sufficient to bear, and he died of a broken heart, in September, 1644.

The writings of Quarles are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. His principal poems are Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, The History of Queen Esther, The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The Divine Emblems. The latter was published the year after the writer's death, and was so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium, to some extent, is still appropriate, for the 'Divine Emblems,' with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, may be found, even at the present day, in the cottages of many of the English peasantry.

6

Quarles' style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting frequently the most ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit intermingled with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's 'Night Thoughts.' The following pieces sufficiently exhibit all the peculiarities of this author's manner, to which we have alluded :

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
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
Fair copies of my life, and open laid

To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;

My non-aged day already points to noon;

How simple is my suit!-how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile

My time away, or falsely to beguile

My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend
The least delight:

Thy favours can not gain a friend,

They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:

There's none can want where thou supply'st:

There's none can give where thou deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou can'st not play:

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st;

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure

To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with? are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

DELIGHT IN GOD ALONE.

I love, (and have some cause to love,) the earth
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;

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?

Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea: she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store:

She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore :
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee.
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Where spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
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.
Without thy presence earth gives no reflection;
Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ;
Without thy presence air 's a rank infection;
Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure :
If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honours that the world can boast,
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 mighty glow-worms if compared to thee.

Without thy presence wealth is bag of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness :
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compared with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?
Not having thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what farther care I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.

Herbert and Herrick, with a passing glance at Hall, will close the list of poets to be embraced within the present lecture.

GEORGE HERBERT was of the ancient and honorable family of Pembroke, and was born at Montgomery Castle, Wales, on the third of April, 1598. His early studies were pursued at Westminster school, where he was eminently distinguished for both genius and application. In 1608, he was elected as King's scholar to Trinity College, Cambridge, and having there taken both his degrees, he soon after obtained a fellowship, and, in 1619, became orator of the university. Herbert was the intimate friend of Sir Henry Wotton, and Doctor Donne; and Lord Bacon is said to have entertained so high regard for his learning and judgment, that he usually submitted his works to him before their publication. The poet was also in favor with King James, who gave him a sinecure office worth one hundred

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