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JEREMY TAYLOR.-HENRY MORE.

105

In Rome no temple was so low As that of Honor, built to show How humble honor ought to be, Though there 'twas all authority.

Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, Are only gained by losing of their way.

The truest characters of ignorance

Are vanity and pride and arrogance,

As blind men use to bear their noses higher
Than those that have their eyes and sight entire.

All smatterers are more brisk and pert
Than those that understand an art;
As little sparkles shine more bright
Than glowing coals that give them light.

Love is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of Fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,

It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality,
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to heaven but love.

Jeremy Taylor.

Known chiefly as a theologian, Taylor (1613-1667) was also in the highest sense a poet, as his devotional writings, though in prose, abundantly show. He was a native of Cambridge, and having taken his degree at Caius College, was admitted to holy orders when he was little more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissi tudes of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bishop by Charles II. in 1661. He seems to have been thoroughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge of his clerical duties.

THY KINGDOM COME.

Lord! come away!

Why dost thou stay?

Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too; and full as dear
As that of Sion, and as full of sin:
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein:
Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor!
Crucify them, that they may never more

Profane that holy place

Where thou hast chose to set thy face! And then, if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy Deity, The stones out of the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet! Amen!

Henry More.

Henry More (1614-1687), who published in 1642 a "Platonical Song of the Soul," in four books, was six years younger than Milton. He lived a hermit-life at Cambridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of Descartes, and a friend of Cudworth. He wrote various prose works, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" showed that he was a full believer in apparitions and various psychical phenomena. He fully sympathized with Glanvil in his belief that there was a substantial basis of spiritual agency in witchcraft; and he believed that he himself had had superhuman communications. He seems to have adopted the Platonic notion of the soul's pre-existence.

THE PRE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. Rise, then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse! Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. And thou, O Lycian sage! whose pen contains Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire, Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames, That I may also kindle sweet desire In holy minds that unto highest things aspire.

For I would sing the pre-existency
Of human souls, and live once o'er again,
By recollection and quick memory,
All that is past since first we all began;
But all too shallow be my wits to scan
So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear
So dark a matter. But thou, more than man,
Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotin dear;

Thy road is ready; and thy paths, made straight, Tell me what mortals are-tell what of old they

With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet! Ride on triumphantly! Behold, we lay

Our lusts and proud wills in thy way!

were.

Show fitly how the pre-existent sonl Enacts, and enters bodies here below,

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God is good, is wise, is strong—
Witness all the creature-throng!
Is confessed by every tongue-

All return from whence they sprung,
As the thankful rivers pay
What they borrowed of the sea.

Now myself I do resign:
Take me whole, I all am thine.

Save me, God, from self-desire,
Death's dark pit, hell's raging fire,
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire!
Let not lust my soul bemire!

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing,
Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O wisdom's sons,
Freed from vain religions!

*

Rise at once-let's sacrifice!
Odors sweet perfume the skies!
See how heavenly lightning fires
Hearts inflamed with high aspires:
All the substance of our souls
Up in clouds of incense rolls!
Leave we nothing to ourselves
Save a voice-what need we else?-
Or a hand to wear and tire
On the thankful lute or lyre.
Sing aloud! His praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe!

Richard Baxter.

Born at Rowdon, in Shropshire, Baxter (1615–1691), after some desultory work at school, and a course of private theological study, passed into the ministry of the Church of England. But when the Act of Uniformity was passed in 1662, he left that Church and spent several years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast success. His published writings (1830) fill twenty-three volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well authenticated instances of supersensual power. He suffered much for his non-conformist principles, and was brought (1684) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivolous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's attempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dost thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, thou art an old fellow, an old knave; thou hast written books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy." A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valedic tion," appears in several collections: but it is inferior to the hymn we publish; and of which eight only of the eleven four-line stanzas are here given.

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For if thy work on earth be sweet, What will thy glory be?

Then I shall end my sad complaints, And weary sinful days,

And join with the triumphant saints That sing Jehovah's praise.

My knowledge of that life is small; The eye of faith is dim;

HENRY VAUGHAN,

But it's enough that Christ knows all, And I shall be with Him.

Henry Vaughan.

A native of Wales, Vaughan (1614-1695) studied at Oxford, first became a lawyer, then a physician; but in neither profession was he successful in earning a competency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In the latter part of his life he became devout. Amidst the obscurities of his verse there are beauties that bespeak the genuine poet. Campbell, who had little partiality for pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flowers on a barren heath." In his own "Rainbow," he has, perhaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild flower" or two from poor Vaughan.

THE RETREAT.

Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my angel infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

Oh, how I long to travel back
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;

From whence the enlightened spirit sees

That shady City of Palm-trees.

But ah! my soul with too much stay

Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And, when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

THE RAINBOW.

107

Still young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye
Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry!
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and
fair,

Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air;
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see him
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant 'twixt all and One.

THEY ARE ALL GONE!

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,—
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility! High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them

me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's-nest may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted

themes,

And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty!

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass,-

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.

A rock, a bush are downy beds,

When Thou art there, crowning their heads
With secret blessings, or a tire

Made of the Comforter's live fire,
And, when Thy goodness, in the dress

Of anger, will not seem to bless,

Yet dost thou give them that rich rain
Which as it drops clears all again.

O what kind visits daily pass
"Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass!
With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
On these low violets of Thine,
While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crowns imperial die with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
Give me that joy which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth relieve.
This is the portion thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.

LIKE AS A NURSE.

Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place,
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go,
Nor does uphold him for a step or two;
But when she finds that he begins to fall,
She holds him up and kisses him withal:
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand
Awhile to teach his infant faith to stand:
But when he sees his feeble strength begin
To fail, he gently takes him up again.

THE REQUEST.

Thou who didst deny to me
This world's adored felicity,
And every big imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful dust;
With those fine subtle twists that tie
Their bundles of foul gallantry;--
Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
Of those gay things which are not Thine!
And shut my ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
For Thou in any land hast store
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor;
Where from the busy dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.

Richard Lovelace.

Lovelace (1618-1658), born in a knightly mansion, was educated at Oxford. Of remarkable physical beauty, le was the most unhappy of the Cavalier poets. For his gallant struggles in the royal cause he suffered imprisonment, during which he published his "Odes and Songs." He spent his fortune in the service of the King and in aid of poorer friends. The Lucasta (Lux casta, pure-light) of his verse was Lady Sacheverell, whom he loved, but who married another, after false reports that Lovelace had been killed at Dunkirk. Under Cromwell he was set free, but lived in extreme poverty, and died of consumption, in great distress, in an alley in Shoe Lane. Much of his poetry is of little value, and disfigured with the obscurities and affectations which were the fashion of the day. Two at least of his poems are likely to last as long as the English language. They breathe the knightly spirit of a true nobility.

RICHARD LOVELACE.-ABRAHAM COWLEY.

I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.

TO ALTHEA (FROM PRISON).

When Love with unconfinéd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

TO LUCASTA (ON GOING TO THE WARS).

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

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;

Abraham Cowley.

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In the period of his reputation, Cowley (1618-1667) precedes Milton; he died in the year of the publication of "Paradise Lost." He was the posthumous son of a London stationer; entered Cambridge University, and at the age of fifteen published a volume of poems, showing marvellous precocity. During the Civil War he was ejected from Cambridge, and went to Oxford. In 1646 he went with the Queen to Paris, and was active in managing the cipher correspondence between King Charles and his wife. In 1647 appeared Cowley's love poems, under the title of "The Mistress." They are pure works of imagination. He never married; and it is said that although he was once, and only once, in love, he was too shy to tell his passion. He had "the modesty of a man of genius and the humility of a Christian." In his style he belongs to the metaphysical school, of which Donne was the founder: its chief characteristic being the affectation of remote and uncommon imagery and obscure conceits, often drawn from scientific sources, and attenuated to exhaustion. His praise of Brutus in one of his odes lost him the favor of Charles II. His "Davideis" is an unfinished epic in four books, written while he was at Cambridge. He died in his fortyninth year, and was interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser. No poet of his day was more popular than Cowley, though he is now but little read.

MY PICTURE.

Herc, take my likeness with you, whilst 'tis so; For when from hence you go,

The next sun's rising will behold

Me pale, and lean, and old.

The man who did this picture draw

Will swear next day my face he never saw.

I really believe, within a while,

If you upon this shadow smile,

Your presence will such vigor give

(Your presence which makes all things live!) And absence so much alter me,

This will the substance, I the shadow be.

When from your well-wrought cabinet you take it,
And your bright looks awake it,
Ah, be not frighted if you see

The new-souled picture gaze on thee,
And hear it breathe a sigh or two;
For those are the first things that it will do.

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