Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore,

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

DIED ABOUT 1650.

CRASHAW, a Catholic priest, is chiefly distinguished as a sacred poet. He is perhaps the most purely poetical of all the devotional lyrists, and the more his writings are perused the more they will be relished. (a)

(a) The mere merits of this neglected and beautiful writer will be better appreciated from the specimens given of his poetry in the volume of Specimens of Sacred and Serious Poetry, than from the following extracts.

THE TEAR.

WHAT bright soft thing is this? Sweet Mary, thy fair eyes' expense? A moist spark it is,

A wat'ry diamond; from whence The very term, I think, was found The water of a diamond.

Such a pearl as this is, (Slipt from Aurora's dewy breast) The rose-bud's sweet lip kisses: And such the rose itself, when vext With ungentle flames, does shed, Sweating in too warm a bed.

Such the maiden gem
By the wanton spring put on,
Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the watʼry Sun :
This watʼry blossom of thy eyne,
Ripe, will make the richer wine.

FROM CATULLUS.

COME, and let us live, my dear,
Let us love, and never fear
What the sourest fathers say:

Brightest Sol, that dies to-day,

Lives again as blithe to-morrow;
But if we, dark sons of sorrow,
Set, O! then how long a night
Shuts the eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell

A thousand and a hundred score,
An hundred and a thousand more,
Till another thousand smother
That, and that wipe off another.
Thus, at last, when we have number'd
Many a thousand, many a hundred,
We'll confound the reckoning quite,
And lose ourselves in wild delight :
While our joys so multiply,
As shall mock the envious eye.

THE WEEPER, ABRIDGED.

HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-forded rills!

Ever bubbling things!

Thawing crystal! snowy hills! Still spending, never spent ; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalen.

Heavens thy fair eyes be,
Heavens of ever-falling stars,
"Tis seed-time still with thee,

And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares

Promise the Earth to countershine

Whatever makes Heaven's fore-head fine.

The dew no more will weep,
The primrose's pale cheek to deck,
The dew no more will sleep,
Nuzzled in the lily's neck.

Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold, which
Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distill'd from thee.

Sorrow's best jewels lie in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keep the keys.

Not in the evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping are,
For the Sun that dies,

Sits sorrow with a face so fair;

No where but here did ever meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

BORN 1664-DIED 1721,

THERE are some doubts about the parentage of Prior. At an early age he appears to have lost his father, and it is certain that, while living with his uncle, who kept a tavern near Charing Cross, in which he officiated as clerk or drawer, his classical attainments became known to the

Earl of Dorset, who sent him to Cambridge. He obtained a fellowship at St John's College, and became so well known as a man of talent, that, in 1691, he was appointed secretary to the ambassador at the Hague, and in the same capacity was engaged in the negotiations previous to the peace of Ryswick in 1697, and afterwards at the court of Versailles. On returning from France, he was first made under-secretary of state, and soon afterwards commissioner of trade. Prior was employed in the memorable treaty of Utrecht, at the instigation of Queen Anne's Tory ministry.

The writings of Prior are remarkable for ease, fluency, and correctness. Of the cold French school he is one of the most successful disciples. His works are embodied in the best editions of the British Poets, and his remains repose in Westminster Abbey. A complete elucidation of his character as a poet may be found in his cold, artificial version of the beautiful old ballad of "The Nutbrown Maid."

AN EPITAPH.

INTERR'D beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run,
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.

They walk'd, and eat, good folks: what then?
Why then they walk'd and eat again :
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day :
And, having buried children four,
Would not take pains to try for more.