ON SLEEP. Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath; I long to kiss the image of my death. The lady to whom he was engaged to be married was suddenly snatched away by death, and the sonnets which dwell on his own afflictions are as full of true feeling as poetic merit. ON SPRING. Sweet Spring, thou turn'st' with all thy goodly train, Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. What doth it serve to see sun's burning face? And all the glory of that starry place? The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace; The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, TO HIS LUTE. My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow 1 "Turn'st" is here used for "returnest." When immelodious winds but made thee move, Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven RICHARD CRASHAW. Died 1650.1 RICHARD CRASHAW, a religious poet, an accomplished scholar, and a power ful and popular preacher, was born in London, but the date of his birth is unknown. His father was an author, and a preacher of the Temple church, London. He took his degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred poems of "Steps to the Temple." In the year 1644 he was ejected from his living on refusing to subscribe to the Covenant, and soon afterwards he professed his faith in the Roman Church. Through the influence of his friend Cowley, the poet, he was introduced to the exiled Queen Henrietta, who obtained for him a small office at Rome, where he died about the year 1650. The poems of Crashaw are not much known, but they "display delicate fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction." "He has," says Headley, "originality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the highest praise.2 To his attainments, which were numerous and elegant, all his biographers have borne witness." The lines on a prayer-book, Coleridge considers one of the best poems in our language. 1 Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven.-COWLEY. 2 Pope, in his "Eloisa to Abelard, has borrowed largely from this poet. LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. Much larger in itself than in its look. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence. As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. Let constant use but keep it bright, To holy hands and humble hearts, Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. Wakeful and wise, Here is a friend shall fight for you. That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings- To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies;1 And keep the devil's holiday; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies; 1 Beelzebub. Of all this hidden store Of blessings, and ten thousand more Himself some other where; And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first he meets. O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe'er she be, Whose early love, With winged vows, Makes haste to meet her morning spouse, Happy soul! who never misses To improve that precious hour; And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as he rises, Dropping with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. Oh! let that happy soul hold fast Her heavenly armful: she shall taste She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosal spring of those rare sweets, Happy soul! she shall discover What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover. The following is a portion of his version of the twenty-third Psalm: "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." It is highly spirited and beautiful. Come now all ye terrors, sally, Gives direction, gives defence. PHINEAS FLETCHER. 1584-1650, PHINEAS FLETCHER was the brother of Giles Fletcher, and born about the year 1584. He took his degree at Cambridge, and after completing his studies for the ministry, was presented with the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, in 1621, which he held for twenty-nine years; and it is supposed that he died there in 1650. His chief poem is entitled "The Purple Island," which title, on being first heard, would suggest ideas totally different from what is its real subject. The truth is, it is a sort of anatomical poem, the "Purple Island" being nothing less than the human body, the veins and arteries of which are filled with the purple fluid coursing up and down; so that the first part of the poem, which is anatomically descriptive, is not a little dry and uninteresting. But after describing the body, he proceeds to personify the passions and intellectual faculties. "Here," says Headley, "fatigued attention is not merely relieved, but fascinated and enraptured; there is a boldness of outline, a majesty of manner, a brilliancy of coloring, and an air of life, that we look for in vain in modern productions, and that rival, if not surpass, what we meet with of the kind even in Spenser, from whom our author caught his inspiration." This is rather extravagant, and yet a few passages can be selected from Phineas Fletcher, that, for beauty, are scarcely exceeded by any poetry in the language. THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.1 Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state, His cottage low, and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns: No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright; Instead of music and base flattering tongues, 1 These beautiful lines seem to have suggested the plan of that most exquisite little piece called The Hamlet by Thomas Warton, which contains a selection of beautiful rural images, such as perhaps no other poem of equal length in our language presents us with. See it in the selections from Warton. |