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wind; since Time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.' Habington's lite presents few incidents, though he came of a plotting family. His father was implicated in Babington's conspiracy; his uncle suffered death for his share in the same transaction. The poet's mother atoned, in some measure, for these disloyal intrigues; for she is said to have been the writer of the famous letter to Lord Monteagle, which averted the execution of the Gunpowder Plot. The poet was educated at St. Omer's, but declined to become a Jesuit. He married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, whom he had celebrated under the name of Castara His collected poems-also entitled ‘Castara'-were published in 1634 (second edition, 1635); the volume consisting of the Mistress,' the Wife,' and the Holy Man.' These titles include each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterwards adopted by Cowley. The short life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Castara. He had no stormy passions to agitate him, and no unruly imagination to control or subdue. His poetry is of the same unruffled description---placid, tender, and often elegant, but studded with conceits to shew his wit and fancy. When he talks of meadows wearing a 'green plush,' of the fire of mutual love being able to purify the air of an infected city, and of a luxurious feast being so rich that heaven must have rained showers of sweetmeats, as if

Heaven were

Blackfriars, and each star a confectioner

we are astonished to find one who could ridicule the 'madness of quaint oaths,' and the 'fine rhetoric of clothes,' in the gallants of his day, and whose sentiments on love were so pure and noble, fall into such absurd and tasteless puerilities.

Epistle to a Friend.—Addressed to his noblest friend, J. C., Esq.'
I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold-
After a due oath ministered-the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow;
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,

on as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns even puzzle me to spell.
The cross or prosperous fate of princes they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Machiavel.

O busy folly! Why do I my brain

Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,

Or quick designs of France? Why not repair

To the pure innocence o' th' country air,

And neighbour thee, dear friend? who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live

Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;
And, by the aid of leisure, so control
Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?
Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when
We study mysteries of other men,

And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade-
Thy head upon some flowery pillow laid,
Kind nature's housewifery-contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthral
The world to his great master, and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory: Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And, juggler-like, works o' th' deluded sight.
Th' uubusied only wise: for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bend us toward earth, let's in our mind
Create new youth; and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

O' th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care
O th' town make us to think, where now we are,
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we numbered not.

Description of Castara.

Like the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betrayed;

For she 's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enriched with borro ved grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood;
She is noblest, being good

Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;
In her silence eloquent;

Of herself survey she takes,

But 'tween men no difference makes.

She obeys with speedy will
Her grave parents' wise commands;
And so innocent, that ill

She nor acts, nor understands:
Women's feet run stiil astray,
If once to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the court,
Where oft Honour splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast:
Virtue safely cannot sit,

Where vice is enthroned for wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best,
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without mask, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night:

O'er that darkness, whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust..

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.

THOMAS CAREW.

THOMAS CAREW (1589-1639) was the representative of a numerous class of poets-courtiers of a gay and gallant school, who, to personal accomplishments, rank, and education, united a taste and talent for the conventional poetry then most popular and cultivated. Their influence may be seen even in Cowley and Dryden: Carew and Waller were perhaps the best of the class; Rochester was undoubtedly the most debased. Their visions of fame were in general bounded by the circle of the court and the nobility. To live in future generations, or to sound the depths of the human heart, seems not to have entered into their contemplations. A loyal panegyric was the epic strain of their ambition: a 'rosy cheek or coral lip' formed their ordinary theme. The court applauded; the lady was flattered or appeased by the compliment; and the poet was praised for his wit and gallantry; while all the time the heart had as little to do with the poetical homage thus tendered and acepted, as with the cold abstractions and 'rare poesies' on wax or ivory. A foul taint of immorality and irreligion often lurked under the flowery surface, and insidiously made itself known and felt. Carew sometimes went beyond this strain of heartless frivolity, and is graceful in sentiment as well as style-piling up stones of lustre from the brook ;' but he was capable of far higher things; and in him, as in Suckling, we see only glimpses of a genius which might have been ripened into permanent and beneficial excellence Carew was descended from an ancient Gloucestershire family. He was educated at Oxford, then travelled abroad, and on his return obtained the notice and patronage of Charles I. He was appointed gentleman of the privy-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to the king. His after-life was that of a courtierwitty, affable, and accomplished-without reflection; and in a strain of loose revelry which, according to Clarendon, the poet deeply repented in his latter days. 'He died,' says the state historian, with the greatest remorse for that license, and with the greatest manifestation of Christianity that his best friends could desire.'

The poems of Carew are short and occasional. His longest is a mask, written by command of the king, entitled 'Coelum Britannicum.' It is partly in prose; and the lyrical pieces were set to music by Dr. Henry Lawes, the poetical musician of that age. The short amatory pieces and songs of Carew were exceedingly popular, and are now the only productions of his which are read. They are often indelicate, but rich in expression Thirty or forty years later, he would have fallen into the frigid style of the court-poets after the Restoration; but at the time he wrote, the passionate and imaginative vein of the Elizabethan period was not wholly exhausted. The genial and warm tints' of the elder muse still coloured the landscape, and were reflected back in some measure by Carew. He abounded, however, in tasteless conceits, even on grave elegiac subjects. In his Epitaph on the Daughter of Sir Thomas Wentworth, he says:

E. L. v. il.--4

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No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolved heart to return;
I have searched thy soul within,

And find nought but pride and scorn;

I have learned thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou.
Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.

Approach of Spring.

Now that the winter's gone, the Earth hath lost.
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or calls an icy creain

Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth.
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee;
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.
Now all things smile.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609–1641) possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed by the literary taste of his times, but he never rose into the poetry of strong passion. He is a delightful writer of what have been called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society, enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. His own life seems to have been one summer-dayYouth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.

He dreamed of enjoyment, not of fame. The father of Suckling was secretary of state and comptroller of the household to James I. and Charles I. He died in 1627, while his son was pursuing his studies at Trinity College, Cambridge. Thus emancipated from all restraint, with an immense fortune, Suckling set off on his travels. He afterwards joined an auxiliary army of 6,000 raised in England, and commanded by the Marquis of Hamilton, to act under the king of Sweden. Suckling served in several sieges and battles, and on his return in 1632, became celebrated for his wit, gallantry, and munificence at the court of Charles I. He was also considered the best bowler and card-player in England; and his sisters, it said, distressed and alarmed at his passion for gambling, came one day to the Piccadily bowling-green, 'crying for the fear he should lose all their portions. Fortune, however, would not seem to have deserted the poet; for when Charles I. took up arms against the parliament, Suckling presented the king with a hundred horsemen, richly equipped and inaintained at his own expense, at a cost, it is said, of £12,000. This gaudy regiment formed part of the cavalry commanded by Lord Holland; but no sooner had they come within sight of the Scots army at Dunse, than they turned and fled. Suckling was no worse than the rest, but he was made the subject of numerous lampoons and satires.

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