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No bliss here lent

Is permanent,

Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit;
Short sips and sights

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.

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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.

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O drink and bread,

Which strikes death dead,

The food of man's immortal being!
Under veils here

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!

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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!

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spear, the key Opening the way!

O thy worst state, my only best!

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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
stealth,.

Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth
Here flowing fall,

And chide and call,

As if his liquid, lòose retinue staid'

Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid;
The common pass,

Where, clear as glass,,

All must descend:

Not to an end,

But quickened by this deep and rocky grave;.
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank! where often I
Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye;
Why, since each drop of thy quick store

Runs thither whence it flowed before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came (sure) from a sea of light?
Or, since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes he'll not restore?

O useful element and clear!

My sacred wash and cleanser here;
My first consigner unto those

Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes!

What sublime truths and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!

Such as dull man can never find,
Unless that Spirit lead his mind,
Which first upon thy face did move
And hatched all with his quickening love.
As this loud brook's incessant fall
In streaming rings re-stagnates all,

Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen: just so pass men.

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my invisible estate,

My glorious liberty, still late!

Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.

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

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