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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 dews shall weep thy fall to-night;
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses;
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
All may of thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean,
Which, with this tincture, for thy sake,
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold,
For that which God doth touch and own,
Stanza.-Called by Herbert 'The Pulley."
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
For if I should,' said He,
Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
"Yet let him keep the rest-
Man, ere he is aware,
Hath put together a solemnity,
And dressed his hearse, while he hath breath
That all these dyings may be life in death.
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 Inn. 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 affliction and ill-health caused by these disasters. Notwithstanding his loyalty, the works of Quarles have a 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 Worms,' 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 still holds 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 everyhing sacred and serious was either neglected or made the subject of ibald jests, Quarles seems to have been entirely lost to the public. Even Pope, who, had he read him, must have 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, had been tried with success by Peacham and Wither Quarles, however, made Herman Hugo, a Jesuit, his 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,
The Shortness of Life.
And what's a life?-a weary pilgrimage,
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
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.
Can he be fair, that withers at a blast?
Why bragg'st thou, then, thou worm of five feet long?
The Vanity of the World.
False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend
Thy morning pleasures make an end
Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of lasting pleasure;
Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.
What well-advised ear regards
What earth can say?
Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.