was ejected from his preferment by the Parliament, and "ravisht in spirit to be recalled he declared that he was from a long and irksome banishment" to the "blest place of his nativity." Having assumed the habit of a layman, he resided in St. Anne's, Westminster, where he was principally supported by the Royalists. At the Restoration he recovered his living. The period of his death has not been ascertained *.

Herrick is usually admired as the gay writer of a beautiful Anacreontic Song, and one or two poems of a more plaintive character. The Noble Numbers, contain some touching strains of religious devotion.

In an early number of the Quarterly Review, there was an account of a visit to Dean Prior, and of the writer's endeavours to discover some memorials of the poet. His researches were unsuccessful, but he met with an old woman in the parish who repeated with great exactness and propriety five of the Noble Numbers, which she called her prayers, and was accustomed to recite to herself at night when unable to sleep. Among them was the following exquisite "Litany to the Holy Spirit:"

In the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,

Sick at heart, and sick in head,

And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

• Some interesting particulars of his life, interspersed with a few most unpoetical letters, may be seen in the second part of the second volume of Nichols's History of Leicestershire,

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing bell doth toll,

And the Furies in a shoại,

Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true;

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the priest his last hath pray'd,
And I nod to what is said,

Because my speech is now decay'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the Tempter me pursu'th,

With the sins of all my youth,

And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me,

When the flames and hellish cries,

Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,

And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is reveal'd,

And that open'd which was seal'd,`

When to Thee I have appeal'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me*.

:

The Thanksgiving for his House is too long to be extracted, but one stanza may be quoted, to show its peculiar merits :

The fourth and fifth stanzas are omitted.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worne by the poor.

The Dirge of Jephtha is also beautiful; the classical reader will notice the Græcism in these lines:

Thou wonder of all maids li'st here,
Of daughters all, the dearest dear;
The eye of virgins, nay the Queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meads from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

If to these poems we add the Christmas Carol, the StarSong, and the White Island, or Place of the Blest, I think it will be granted that Herrick's most lasting fame is derived from his sacred compositions. The sentiments of some of his songs have unfortunately disposed us to regard him as the reverse of a religious poet; but he has told us, that although his rhymes were wild, "his life was chaste;" and impurity, we may believe, could never linger long in a mind that could give utterance to thoughts of so much feeling. Let us hope that when, in his touching words (to God in his sickness), he made his home in darkness and sorrow, the mercy of Him in whom he trusted, did indeed renew him, even although “a withered flower*."

• His Prayer for Absolution is full of piety :-
For these my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallow'd times,
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with thee, O Lord,
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book that is not thine;
But if 'mongst all thou findest one
Worthy thy benediction,

That one of all the rest shall be
The glory of my work, and me.

THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most prolific dramatists in an age abounding in works of that description. He says, in the preface to the English Traveller, that he had "an entire hand, or at least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. His copiousness was not the result of weakness. Charles Lamb has commended, in fitting terms, that tearful pathos which cuts to the heart. But his name is only admitted into these pages in the more honourable character of a Sacred Poet. The Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels was published in 1635, and dedicated to Charles the First. It was the produce of his old age, and he cautions the reader in the preface "not to expect any new conceits from old heads," or to look for "green fruit from withered branches." The melody and grace of his dramas will be sought for in vain; unlike Sir Philip Sidney's poet, he does not present the reader at the entrance of the vineyard with a bunch of grapes, so that "full of the delicious flavour he may long to pass in farther:" his manner, on the contrary, is somewhat harsh and unpolished, and he leads him through difficult and abrupt places; but the rugged path frequently ends in a garden. The poem is divided into nine books, to each of which is appended a commentary, evincing the writer's intimate acquaintance with the abstruser studies of theology. Modern students will hardly be persuaded to turn to this ponderous volume, yet it would well repay the trouble of perusal. Some of the Meditations possess a stern and solemn severity.