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"Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness.
Let him be rich and weary; that, at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast."

George Wither, a cotemporary poet of little power, has some true poetical feeling and expression. He was born in 1588, and died 1667. His fame as a poet is derived chiefly from his early productions, written before he had become a Puritan. During the struggles of that period he was made prisoner by the Royalists, and his life was, it is said, only saved by a joke of his brother bard, Denham, who interfered in his behalf, alleging that as long as Wither lived he (Denham) would not be considered the worst poet in England. Wither is sometimes harsh and obscure, and often affected. It must have been before he imbibed the sectarian gloom of the Puritans that he wrote,

"Hang sorrow! Care will kill a cat,
And therefore let's be merry."

Francis Quarles is a religious poet of this time. He was born in 1592, and died 1644. His Divine Emblems" were published in 1645, and may still be seen in the cottages of the English peasantry, among whom they were exceedingly popular. He was in his day for this reason called " the darling of our plebeian judgments." Quarles is an ascetic poet, and some of his homilies in verse, on the "Shortness of Life," and the "Vanity of the World," etc., suggest dyspepsia. His style is marred by the most absurd conceits, but he has some true wit and poetic conception. This little poem, on the "Decay of Life," is a specimen of his style, and is one of his best.

"The day grows old, the low-pitched lamp hath made

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,

To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms
Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms.

"Nature now calls to supper, to refresh

The spirits of all flesh.

The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams
To taste the slippery streams:

The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts
His hungry whining guests:

The box-bill ousel and the dappled thrush

Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush."

William Habington, born in 1605, of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Worcester, is one of the most graceful of the minor poets of the time. His poems consist of "The Mistress," "The Wife," and "The Holy Man." These titles each include several copies of verses. Habington's poetry is studded with the conceits of the metaphysical school of his day, and is deficient in power and pathos, yet these faults are redeemed by a delicacy of expression uncommon at that time. He is said to have been entirely untainted by the prevailing licentiousness, and his sentiments on love are pure and noble. Habington claims for himself the honor of being the first conjugal poet in the language. He married Lucy Powis, a grand-daughter of the Duke of Northumberland, whom he celebrates as "Mistress" and "Wife," under the name of Castara. Habington gives us this sweet picture of his Lucy;

"Such her beauty as no arts

Have enriched with borrowed grace;

Her high birth no pride imparts
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood;
She is noblest being good!

"She her throne makes reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie.
And each article of time

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly :
All her vows religious be,

And her love she vows to me."

His poem entitled "To Roses, in the bosom of Castara," is in the graceful style of Waller, but pure and natural in sentiment. He died in 1654,- the first year of the Protectorate.

Robert Herrick is one of the most gifted of our early lyrical poets, born in 1591. His "Hesperides, or, Works both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick," was published in 1648. Herrick was "one of the jovial spirits who quaffed the mighty bowl with rare Ben Jonson," and though a Devonshire vicar for twenty years, many of his rhymes confer but little credit on the sacred profession. Gayety was the natural element of Herrick. His philosophy seems to have been epicurean. He bids us

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gather the rosebuds; to-morrow we die." His poems abound in lively conceits, playful fancy, natural feeling, and the sweetest pathos, that wins its way to the heart. His language is chastely beautiful and picturesque, and it has been observed of his versification that it is harmony itself.

Herrick's shorter lyrics, some of which have been set to music, are sung, quoted, and admired by all lovers of song. The most exquisite are those entitled "To Blossoms, ," "To Daffodils," "To Primroses," and "Gather the Rosebuds while ye may." Among Herrick's lyrics this

latter is not only sweet with the rare grace of the poet, but highly characteristic of the man.

"Gather the rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

"The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

"That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Time shall succeed the former.

"Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry."

This to "Primroses filled with Morning Dew," is in Herrick's happiest vein, and exhibits the dainty beauty of his style, and his tender pathos, that is sometimes like a sob or a quick gush of tears.

"Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;

Nor are ye worn with years,

Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers like to orphans young,

Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

"Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

Unfortunately Herrick has bequeathed us verses far less circumspect than these, for which reckless productions he penitently craves divine forgiveness; and when we remember that Falstaff's bane, canary-sack, — rather than deliberate coarseness, was the cause of these unhappy lapses from propriety, we must charitably accord him our own. Thus he repents him of his errors:

"For these my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed times,
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with thee, O Lord!
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book that is not thine!
But if, 'mongst all, thou findest one
Worthy thy benediction,

That one of all the rest shall be

The glory of my work and me."

Belonging to this period is Richard Crashaw, a religious poet of high genius. The date of his birth is not known. He died about the year 1650. Crashaw was an accomplished scholar; and his translations from the Latin and Italian have been much praised for freedom, force,

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