2 3 No bliss here lent Is permanent, Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; Endear delights: Who seeks for more he would inherit. Come then, true bread, Quickening the dead, Whose eater shall not, cannot die! Come, antedate On me that state, Which brings poor dust the victory. 5 6 Which from thine eye Breaks as the day doth from the east, When the spilt dew Like tears doth shew The sad world wept to be released. Spring up, O wine, And springing shine With some glad message from his heart, Who did, when slain, These means ordain For me to have in him a part! Such a sure part In his blest heart, The well where living waters spring, That, with it fed, Poor dust, though dead, Shall rise again, and live, and sing. VOL. II. U 305 7 8 O drink and bread, Which strikes death dead, The food of man's immortal being! Thou art my cheer, Present and sure without my seeing. How dost thou fly And search and pry Through all my parts, and, like a quick And knowing lamp, Hunt out each damp, Whose shadow makes me sad or sick! 10 11 The turtle's voice And songs I hear! O quickening showers Of my Lord's blood, You make rocks bud, And crown dry hills with wells and flowers! For this true ease, This healing peace, For this [brief] taste of living glory, My soul and all, Kneel down and fall, And sing his sad victorious story! spear, the key Opening the way! O thy worst state, my only best! 13 Some toil and sow That wealth may flow, And dress this earth for next year's meat: But let me heed Why thou didst bleed, And what in the next world to eat. 'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.'REV. xix. 9. THE WATERFALE. With what deep murmurs, through time's silent Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth And chide and call, As if his liquid, lòose retinue staid' Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; Where, clear as glass,, All must descend: Not to an end, But quickened by this deep and rocky grave;. Dear stream! dear bank! where often I Runs thither whence it flowed before, O useful element and clear! My sacred wash and cleanser here; Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! What sublime truths and wholesome themes Such as dull man can never find, Which reach by course the bank, and then my invisible estate, My glorious liberty, still late! Thou art the channel my soul seeks, DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT. THIS writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry. Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the composition of his magnum opus, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a controversial tract in reply to Henry More's ' Mystery of Godliness,' and several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers! After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died. While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his 'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are |