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piety which gave a charm to his life, and breathes through all his writings.
For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses ;
And all inust die.
Only a sweet and virtnous sonl,
Then chiefly lives.
This is the famous stone
Stanza.–Called by Herbert ‘The Pulley.'
Contract into a span.'
So strength first made a way;
Rest in the bottom lay.
So botli should losers be.
• Yet let him keep the rest-
May toss him to my breast.'
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 rest of our creation
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.
The brightness of that day
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!
Scarce knows the way ;
Makes them not dead :
In company ;
Schooling his eyes ;
When he would speak;
As yet to spare.
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.?
The Shortness of Life.
Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;
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;
And swear'st to ease her:
What earth can say?
Are painted clay:
Thou canst not play: