If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I choose,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you, too, shall adore:

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

ON LELY'S PORTRAIT OF CHARLES THE FIRST.

See what an humble bravery doth shine,
And grief triumphant breaking through each line,
How it commands the face! So sweet a scorn
Never did happy misery adorn!

So sacred a contempt that others show

To this (o' the height of all the wheel) below;
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book
May copy out their proudest, richest look.

An elegant and accurate critic, Sir Egerton Brydges, has pointed out a singular coincidence between an illustration employed by Lovelace and a line for which Lord Byron has been, as it seems to me, unjustly censured in the "Bride of Abydos." The noble poet says of his heroine

"The mind, the music breathing from her face;"

and he vindicated the expression on the obvious

ground of its clearness and truth. Lovelace, in a Song of Orpheus, lamenting the death of his wife, uses the same words in nearly the same sense. Lord Byron had probably never seen the poem, or, if he had, the illustration had perhaps remained in his mind to be unconsciously reproduced by that strange process of amalgamation which so often combines memory with invention. These are the lines sung by Orpheus, who works out the idea too far :

Oh, could you view the melody,

Of every grace,

And music of her face,

You'd drop a tear,

Seeing more harmony

In her bright eye

Than now you hear.

The poem of "Loyalty confined" is supposed to have been written by Sir Roger L'Estrange, while imprisoned on account of his adherence to Charles the First. On a first reading, these terse and vigorous stanzas seem too much like a paraphrase of Lovelace's fine address "To Althea from Prison;" but there is so much that is original, both in thought and expression, that we cannot but admit that the apparent imitation is the result of similarity of sentiment in a similar situation. These imprisoned cavaliers think and feel alike, and must needs speak the same language:

Beat on, proud billows. Boreas, blow;

Swell-curled waves, high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest-proof;

Though truly heroes frown, my thoughts are calm;
Then strike affliction, for my wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me;

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty;
Locks, bars, and solitude together met
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wish'd to be retir'd,

Into this private room was turn'd, As if their wisdoms had conspired

The Salamander should be burn'd;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, Even constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness,

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus : Contentment cannot smart. Stoics we see Make torments easy to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
And for to keep my ankles warm

I have some iron shackles there;
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lock'd up

Like some high-priced marguerite;
Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,
Am cloister'd up from public sight.
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin, for want of food, must starve
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in;
Malice of late's grown charitable, sure;
I'm not committed, but am kept secure.
VOL. II.

с

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking to have made his purpose sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure.

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by the event.

When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rough a path,
Sweet patience I can learn from him.
Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart;
When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my King,

Neither in person nor in coin,

Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not mine.

My King from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

Have you not seen the nightingale
A prisoner-like coop'd in a cage;
How she doth chaunt her morbid tale
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even then her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird whom they contrive
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corpse confine,
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free.

And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King!

My soul is free as ambient air,
Although my baser part's immew'd;
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To accompany my solitude.
Although rebellion do my body bind,
My King alone can captivate my mind.

The following lines were written by the Marquis of Montrose upon the execution of Charles the First. He shut himself up for three days, and when Dr. Wishart, his chaplain, and the elegant historian of his wars, was admitted to him, he found these verses, which probably were intended as a sort of vow, on his table. We all know how that vow was redeemed.

Great, good, and just! could I but rate

My grief to thy too rigid fate,

I'd weep the world to such a strain

As it should deluge once again;

But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes,

I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.

LOVE VERSES, BY THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

Sometimes the jargon of the different governments of the day, and sometimes the technical phrases of warfare, are made strange use of in these verses; yet some of the lines are so noble, and many so original, that we forgive this soldierly mode of wooing in favour of its frankness. It is to be presumed the lady did the same.

My dear and only love, I pray
This noble world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest monarchy.
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.