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There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with white thorn laden home.

Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream

Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plight'd troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:

Many a green gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even;

Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the key's betraying

This night, and locks pick'd; yet w' are not a Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee.

The worts, the parslain, and the mess
Of water cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send
Me for this end:

That I should render for my part

A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign
As wholly thine :

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

JOSEPH HALL, Bishop of Norwich, though much more distinguished as a prose writer than as a poet, is yet allowed to be the first English author who wrote satirical verse with any degree of elegance. His satires refer to general objects, and present some just pictures of the more remarkable anomalies in human character: they are also written in a style of greater polish and volubility than most of the compositions of that age. Of these satires we present the following as a specimen :

-:

THE DOMESTIC TUTOR.

A gentle squire would gladly entertain

Into his house some trencher-chapelain:

Some willing man that might instruct his sons,

And that would stand to good conditions.

First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

While his young master lieth o'er his head.
Second, that he do, on no default,

Ever presume to sit above the salt.

Third, that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth, that he use all common courtesies;
Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master beat,

But he must ask his mother to define,

How many jerks he would his breech should line.

All these observed, he could contented be,

To give five marks and winter livery.

Lecture the Centh.

JOHN CHALKHILL-WILLIAM HABINGTON-THOMAS RANDOLPH-SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT-SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE-SIR JOHN SUCKLING-WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT -JOHN CLEVELAND-RICHARD LOVELACE-RICHARD CRASHAW.

WE

E have long lingered with the English miscellaneous poets of the age of Elizabeth, James, and Charles the First, and yet our task is not done; for there still remain to be noticed and illustrated, Chalkhill, Habington, Randolph, Davenant, Fanshawe, Suckling, and a number of others of equal eminence.

JOHN CHALKHILL was born about the year 1600, but of his life comparatively little is known. Izaak Walton, who published, in 1683, a pastoral romance entitled Thealma and Clearchus by Chalkhill, remarks, 'that the author was, in his time, a man generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging in his behaviour; a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent; and, indeed, his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Chalkhill died in 1679, and was buried in Winchester Cathedral, upon the walls of which, his tombstone of black marble is still to be seen.

The scene of Thealma and Clearchus is laid in Arcadia, and the author, like the ancient poets, describes the golden age and all its charms, which were succeeded by an iron age, in the introduction of ambition, avarice, and tyranny. The plot is complicated and obscure, and the characters are deficient in individuality; the poem must, therefore, be read, like the Faery Queen, for its romantic description and its occasional felicity of language. The versification is that of the heroic couplet, varied, like Milton's Lycidas, by breaks and pauses in the middle of the line. The following brief extracts will sufficiently illustrate these remarks:

THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA.

Within a little silent grove hard by,
Upon a small ascent he might espy
A stately chapel, richly gilt without,
Beset with shady sycamores about:

And ever and anon he might well hear

A sound of music steal in at his ear

As the wind gave it being:-so sweet an air
Would strike a syren mute.

*

A hundred virgins he might there espy
Prostrate before a marble deity,
Which, by its portraiture, appear'd to be
The image of Diana:-on their knee

They tender'd their devotions: with sweet airs,
Off'ring the incense of their praise and prayers.
Across their snowy silken robes, they wore
An azure scarf, with stars embroider'd o'er.
Their hair in curious tresses was knit up,
Crown'd with a silver crescent on the top,
A silver bow their left hand held; their right,
For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight,
Drawn from their 'broider'd quiver, neatly tied
In silken cords, and fasten'd to their side.
Under their vestments, something short before,
White buskins, lac'd with ribanding, they wore.
It was a catching sight for a young eye,
That love had fir'd before:-he might espy
One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round,
Whose head was with a golden chaplet crown'd.

He could not see her face, only his ear

Was blest with the sweet words that came from her.

THE VOTARESS OF DIANA.

Clarinda came at last,

With all her train, who, as along she pass'd
Thorough the inward court, did make a lane,
Opening their ranks, and closing them again,
As she went forward, with obsequious gesture,
Doing their reverence. Her upward vesture
Was of blue silk, glistering with stars of gold,
Girt to her waist by serpents, that enfold
And wrap themselves together, so well wrought
And fashion'd to the life, one would have thought
They had been real. Underneath she wore

A coat of silver tinsel, short before,

And fring'd about with gold: white buskins hide
The naked of her leg; they were loose tied
With azure ribands, on whose knots were seen
Most costly gems, fit only for a queen.
Her hair bound up like to a coronet,
With diamonds, rubies, and rich sapphires set;
And on the top a silver crescent plac'd,

And all the lustre by such beauty grac'd,

As her reflection made them seem more fair;

One would have thought Diana's self were there;

For in her hand a silver bow she held,

And at her back there hung a quiver fill'd
With turtle-feather'd arrows.

WILLIAM HABINGTON was descended from an ancient family, and born at Hendlip, Worcestershire, in 1605. He received his education at St. Omers and Paris, and when he had completed his studies was earnestly solicited to enter into the society of Jesuits; but as their habits of life suited neither his taste nor his genius, he left them and returned to England. Soon after his return to his native country, Habington married Lucia, daughter of the first Lord Powis, and from that time until his death, which occurred on the thirtieth of November, 1654, his life presents few incidents worthy of particular notice. Habington had all the vices of the metaphysical school, excepting its occasional licentiousness. He tells us, in the preface to his works, that 'if the innocency of a chaste muse shall be more acceptable, and weigh heavier in the balance of esteem, than a fame begot in adultery of study, I doubt I shall leave fame no hope of competition.' And of a pure attachment he beautifully remarks, that, when love builds upon the rock of Chastity, it may safely contemn the battery of the waves and threatenings of the wind; since time, that makes a mockery of the firmest structures, shall itself be ruinated before that be demolished.'

Twenty years before his death, when he had scarcely attained the thirtieth year of his age, Habington published his poems under the title of The Mistress, The Wife, and The Holy Man. These titles included each several copies of verses, and the same design was afterward adopted by Cowley. The life of the poet seems to have glided quietly away, cheered by the society and affection of his Lucia. 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 show his wit and fancy. The following description of Lucia under the feigned name of Castara, is full of beauty:

DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

Like the violet which, alone,
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd,

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

Such is her beauty as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd 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.

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