But who can blame them now? for since you're gone They're here the only Fair, and shine alone.

You did their natural rights invade :

Wherever you did walk or sit

The thickest boughs could make no shade
Although the sun had granted it:

The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers set next to them could do.

Whene'er, then, you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.

"Tis

The little joys, which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear,
When by their sight they let us know
How we deprived of greater are.

you the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.

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ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678) was noted both as Puritan and Royalist. In his youth he spent some years on the Continent, and among his earliest works are two satires on Richard Flecknoe, the Irish poetaster, whom he met in Rome. About 1650 he became tutor to the daughter of Lord Fairfax, and he spent the next year or two at Nun Appleton, in Yorkshire. To this period belong his poems in praise of country life and retirement. Three years later he applied for a post under the Commonwealth, and, on Milton's recommendation, was made assistant-secretary for foreign tongues, and was also appointed tutor to Cromwell's ward, William Dutton. In 1657 he became Milton's colleague in the Latin secretaryship, and a little later was given official lodgings in Whitehall. He wrote several poems on the Lord Protector, but only one of them was published before the Restoration, and he continued his political life under Charles II. In 1661 he was for the third time elected member for his native city, Hull, and in 1663 he accompanied Lord Carlisle as secretary during his foreign embassy. It is said

that Milton's impunity after the Restoration was largely owing to the influence of Marvell. His letters show considerable political insight and sound judgement. His satires reflecting on the policy of the king were circulated privately, but on the question of religious toleration Marvell openly declared himself on the side of the Nonconformists, and in 1672-3 he published the two parts of The Rehearsal Transprosed, a satire attack upon the Anglican champion, Parker (afterwards Bishop of Oxford). Two other controversial pamphlets followed. In 1677 a great sensation was created by the anonymous publication of An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England. £100 was offered for the discovery of the author, but Marvell's death occurred before any steps could be taken.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and tree do close
To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow ;
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

What wondrous life is this I lead !
Ripe apples drop about my head;

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The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
Thy nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,

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And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

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Such was that happy Garden-state

While man there walk'd without a mate:

After a place so pure and sweet,

What other help could yet be meet!

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share

To wander solitary there :

Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!

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Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, the industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers!

HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) was a Welshman, and was educated at Jesus College, Oxford. He studied first law and then medicine, and began to practise as a physician about 1645. In 1646 he published a small volume entitled 'Poems, with the Tenth Satyre of Juvenal Englished'. Another volume, Olor Iscanus: a Collection of some select Poems and Translations,' was probably written in 1647, but was not published until 1651, when it was printed by his brother. Vaughan fell much under the influence of George Herbert, and in 1650 appeared 'Silex Scintillans: or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations', which was followed by a second part in 1655. He also wrote a small volume of devotion in prose: The Mount of Olives. In 1678 Thalia Rediviva was published, and with it several other poems by Vaughan and a few pieces by his twin-brother, Thomas.

THE NIGHT

JOHN III. 2

THROUGH that pure virgin shrine,

That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine
And face the moon :

Wise Nicodemus saw such light

As made him know his God by night.

Most blest believer he!

Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see
When Thou didst rise!

And, what can never more be done,
Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

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Oh, who will tell me where

He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower;

Within whose sacred leaves did lie
The fullness of the Deity?

No mercy-seat of gold,

No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold,
And lodge alone,

Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

Dear Night! this world's defeat;

The stop to busy fools; care's cheek and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat

Which none disturb!

Christ's progress and His prayer-time;

The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.

God's silent, searching flight;

When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;

His still, soft call;

His knocking-time; the soul's dumb-watch,
When spirits their fair kindred catch.

Where all my loud, evil days

Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,

Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice

Is seldom rent;

Then I in heaven all the long year

Would keep, and never wander here.

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