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piety which gave a charm to his life, and breathes through all his writings.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;.
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses ;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shews ye have your closes,

And all inust die.

Only a sweet and virtnous sonl,
Like seasoned timber, never gives :
But, though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

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 (oth touch and own,
Cannot for less be told.

Stanza.Called by Herbert The Pulley.'
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
"Let us,' said He, pour ou him all we can ;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,

Contract into a span.'

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
When alınost all was out, God made a stay;
Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure,

Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should,' said He,
Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
Pe would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in nature, not the God of nature-

So botli should losers be.

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.'

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 ?
My God, what is a heart,
That Thou shouldst it so eye and woo,
Pouring upon it all Thy art,
As if Thou hadst nothing else to do?
Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts—and richly--to serve Thee;
He did not heaven and earth create,
Yet studies them, not Him hy whoin they be.
Teach me Thy love to know;
That this new light which now I see
May both the work and workman shew;
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to Thee.

O day most calm, most bright,

On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope; The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Blessings are plentiful and rifeThe indorsement of supreme delight,

More hopeful than hope. Writ by a Friend, and with His blood; The conch of Time, care's balm and bay: This day my Saviour rose, The week were dark, but for thy light; And did inclose this light for his; Thy torch doth shew the way. That, as each beast his manger knows,

Man might not of his fodder miss. The other days and thou

Christ hath took in this piece of ground, Make up one man ; whose face thou art, And made a garden there for those Knocking at heaven with thy brow:

Who want herbs for their wound.
The workydays are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,

The rest of our creation
Making the whole to stoop and bow, Our great Redeemer did remove
Till thy release appear.

With the same shake, which at his passion

Did the earth and all things with it move. Man had straight forward gone

As Samson hore the doors away, To endless death: but thou dost pull Christ's hands, though nailed, wrought And turn us round, to look on One,

our salvation Whom, if we were not very dull,

And did unhinge that day.
We could not choose but look on still •
Since there is no place so alone,

The brightness of that day
The which he doth not fill.

We sullied by our foul offence:

Wherefore that robe we cast away, Sundays the pillars are

Having a new at his expense, On which heaven s palace arched lies : Whose drops of blood paid the full price, The other days fill up the spare

That was required to make us gay, And hollow room with vanities.

And fit for paradise. They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden: that is bare Thou art a day of mirth : Which parts their ranks and orders. And where the week-days trail on ground,

Thy flight is higher, as thy birth: The Sundays of man's life

O let me take thee at the bound, Threaded together on Time's string, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Till that we both, being tossed from earth, Of the eternal glorious King:

Fly hand in hand to heaven!

How soon doth Man decay!
When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath

Scarce knows the way ;
They are like little winding-sheets,
Which do consigu and send them unto death.
When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;
Sleep binds them fast; only their breath

Makes them not dead :
Successive nights, like rolling waves,
Convey then quickly, who are bound for death.
When Youth is frank and free,
And calls for music, while his veins do swell,
All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company ;
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 inclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin that atiends his death.
When Age grows low and weak,
Marking his grave, and thawing every year,
Till all do melt, and drown his breath

When he would speak;
A chair or litter shews the bier
Which shall convey him to the house of Death.
Man, ere he is aware,
Hath put together a solemnity,
And dressed his hearse, while he hath breath

As yet to spare.
Yet, Lord instruct us so to die,
That all these dyings may be life in death.

FRANCIS QUARLES. The writings of FRANCIS QUARLES (1592–1644) 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. Quarles was a native of Essex educated at Cambridge, and afterwards a student of Lincoln's Iun. He was successively cupbearer to Elizabeth, the queen of Bohemia, secretary to Archbishop Usher, and chronologer to the city of London. He espoused the cause of Charles I. ; and was so harassed by the opposite party, who injured his property, and plundered him of his books and rare manuscripts, that his death was attributed to the amiction and ill-health caused by these disasters.. Notwithstandivg his loyalty, the work- of Quarles have & tinge of Puritanism and ascetic piety that might have mollified the rage of his persecutors. His poems consist of various pieces— Job Militant,' 'Sion's Elegies,' the History of Queen Esther,'' Argalus and Parthenia,' the Morning Muse, the 'Feast of Wornis,' and the

Divine Emblems.' The last were published in 1645, and were so popular that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles 'the darling of our plebeian judgments. The eulogium stillholds good to some extent, for the 'Divine Emblems, with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, are still found in the cottages of our peasants. After the Restoration,when every. thing sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ribalil jests, Quarles seems to bave been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, bad be read him, must bave relished his lively fancy and poetical expression, notices only his bathos and absurdity. The better and more tolerant taste of modern times has admitted the divine emblemist into the laurelled fraternity of poets,' where, if he does not occupy a conspicuous place, he is at least sure of his due measure of homage and attention. Emblems, or the union of the graphic and poetic arts, to inculcate lessons of moralty and religion, bad been tried with success by Peacham and Wither Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, bis model, and from the ‘Pia Desideria’ of this author copied a great part of his prints and mottoes. His style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting the most outre and ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit mixed up with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's 'Night Thoughts.?

As when a lady, walking Flora's bower,
Picks here a pink, and there a gillyflower,
Now plucks a violet from her purple bed,
And then a primrose, the year's maidenhead,
There nips the briar, here the lover's pansy,
Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy,
This on her arms, and that she lists to wear
Upon the borders of her curious hair;
At length a rose-bud-passing all the rest--
She plucks, aud bosoms in her lily breast.

The Shortness of Life.
And what's a life ?---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
T'o view, how soon they droop, how soou 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
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

Mors Tua. Can he be fair, that withers at a blast ? Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast ? Can he be wise, that knows not how to live ? Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ? Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan? So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. So fair is man, that death-a parting blastBlasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last; So strong is man, that with a gasping breath He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death ; So wise is man, that if with death he strive, His wisdom cannot teach him how to live; So rich is man, that-all his debts being paidHis wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he 's laid; So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow, H's old enough to-day to die to-morrow : Why bragg'st thou, then, thou worm of five feet long? Thou 'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.

The Vanity of the World. False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend

The least delight: Thy favours cannot 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 casy 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 canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revyv’d, deny'st :
Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

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