Yon hills of Gilboa, never may

You offerings pay;

No morning dew, nor fruitful showers, Clothe you with flowers:

Saul and his arms there made a spoil,

As if untouched with sacred oil.

The bow of noble Jonathan

Great battles wan;

His arrows on the mighty fed,
With slaughter red.

Saul never raised his arm in vain,
His sword still glutted with the slain.

How lovely! O how pleasant! when
They lived with men!

Than eagles swifter; stronger far
Than lions are:

Whom love in life so strongly tied,
The stroke of death could not divide.

Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul;
Lament his fall,

Who fed you with the earth's increase,
And crowned with peace;

With robes of Tyrian purple decked,
And gems which sparkling light reflect.

How are thy worthies by the sword
Of war devoured!

O Jonathan! the better part

Of my torn heart!

The savage rocks have drunk thy blood:
My brother! O how kind! how good!

Thy love was great; O never more
To man, man bore!

No woman when most passionate,
Loved at that rate!

How are the mighty fallen in fight!
They, and their glory, set in night!

FRANCIS QUARLES.

FRANCIS QUARLES was born at Stewards, near Romford, Essex, in 1592. He received his early education at a country school, and was subsequently entered of Christ's College, Cambridge, from whence he went to Lincoln's Inn, where "he studied," says his widow, "the laws of England, not so much out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbours, and to compose suits and differences between them." Though early introduced at court, the principal part of the life of Quarles was spent in retirement, in the composition of his various works. He died in 1644.

Mr. Montgomery says, "There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than that of Quarles,-wronged, too, by those who ought best to have discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits, in contradistinction to his defects." Quarles certainly was a writer of great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. It is true his writings are defaced by vulgarisms, and deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his defects.

THE WORLD.

SHE is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there
But noise to fill thy ear;

Thy vain inquiry can at length but find

A blast of murmuring wind:

It is a cask that seems as full as fair,

But merely tunned with air.

Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds;
The soul that vainly founds

Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds.

She is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't;
The spark-engendering flint

Shall sooner melt, and hardest rauncel shall first

Dissolve and quench the thirst,

1 A dry crust.

Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast
With smooth-faced alms of rest.

Thou may'st as well expect meridian light

From shades of black-mouthed Night,

As in this empty world to find a full delight.

She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast;
What if some flattering blast

Of flatuous honour should perchance be there,

And whisper in thine ear?

It is but wind, and blows but where it list,
And vanisheth like mist.

Poor honour earth can give! What generous mind
Would be so base to bind

Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind?

She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball
For fools to play withal;

The painted film but of a stronger bubble,
That's lined with silken trouble.

It is a world whose work and recreation

Is vanity and vexation;

A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint,

A quest-house of complaint.

It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint.

She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void.
What's here to be enjoyed,

But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow,
Drawn now and crossed to morrow?
Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath,

Revived with living death?

Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds

Than what dull flesh propounds:

Trust not this hollow world; she is empty: hark! she sounds.

GLORYING IN THE CROSS.

CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast,
And fix my rambling love?

Can my affections find out nothing best,
But still and still remove?

Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest
Receive my restless dove?

Is there no good than which there's nothing higher
To bless my full desire,

With joys that never change; with joys that ne'er expire?

I wanted wealth, and at my dear request,

Earth lent a quick supply;

I wanted mirth to charm my sullen breast;
And who more brisk than I?

I wanted fame to glorify the rest;

My fame flew eagle-high;

My joy not fully ripe, but all decayed,

Wealth vanished like a shade;

My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade.

My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest,
My fast, my sole delight.

Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed east,
Blow till they burst with spite:

Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best,
And join their twisted might;

Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and wound me,

And troops of fiends surround me:

All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound me.

DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY.

I LOVE (and have some cause to love,) the earth,
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good:

She is my mother, for she gave me birth;

She is my tender nurse, she gives me food:

L.

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty fruits refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouthed choirs sustain me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me;
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee?
I love the sea; she is my fellow creature,
My careful purveyor, she provides me store;
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore;
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee,
What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,

Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky;
But what is heaven, great God, compared with Thee?
Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.
Without thy presence, earth gives no refection;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;

Without thy presence, air's a rank infection;

Without thy presence, heaven itself no pleasure;

If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honour that the world can boast,
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
Its brightest beams of glory are at most

But dying sparkles of thy living fire:
The proudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly glowworms if compared to Thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of care;
Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet sadness;
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;

Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness.