And by these meditations refined,
Can unapparel and enlarge my mind;
And so can make, by this soft ecstasy,
This place a map of heaven, myself of thee.
Thou see'st me here at midnight now all rest,
Time's dead low-water, when all minds divest
To-morrow's business, when the lab'rers have
Such rest in bed, that their last churchyard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this
Now, when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps: when the condemned man,
(Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them, then,
Again by death!) although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep.

Thou at this midnight seest me, and as soon
As that sun rises, to me midnight's noon;
All the world grows transparent, and I see
Through all, both church and state, in seeing thee...

SONG.

SWEETEST love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me.
But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;

He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he....

Of this author I have been able to obtain no farther information, than that he belonged to the Inner Temple, and translated a great number of John Owen's Latin epigrams into English. His

FROM SONGS, SONNETS, AND ELEGIES, BY T. PICKE.
THE night, say all, was made for rest;
And so say I, but not for all;
To them the darkest nights are best,
Which give them leave asleep to fall;
But I that seek my rest by light,
Hate sleep, and praise the clearest night.
Bright was the moon, as bright as day,
And Venus glitter'd in the west,
Whose light did lead the ready way,
That led me to my wished rest;
Then each of them increased their light,
While I enjoy'd her heavenly sight.

songs, sonnets, and elegies, bear the date of 1631. Indifferent as the collection is, entire pieces of it are pilfered.

Say, gentle dames, what moved your mind
To shine so bright above your wont !
Would Phoebe fair Endymion find,
Would Venus see Adonis hunt?
No, no, you feared by her sight,
To lose the praise of beauty bright.

At last for shame you shrunk away,
And thought to reave the world of light;
Then shone my dame with brighter ray,
Than that which comes from Phœbus' sight;
None other light but hers I praise,
Whose nights are clearer than the days.

"HOLY George Herbert," as he is generally called, was prebendary of Leighton Ecclesia, a village in Huntingdonshire. Though Bacon is said to have consulted him about some of his writings, his memory is chiefly indebted to the affectionate mention of old Isaak Walton.

[In saying but thus much of George Herbert, it seems to me that Campbell did him less than justice. He was a younger brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and was educated at Westminster and Cambridge. He was a favourite with Bishop Andrews as well as with Bacon, and he would probably have risen at court but for the death of James, after which, having no more hopes in that quarter, he retired into Kent, where he lived with great privacy, and taking a survey of

his past life determined to devote his remaining years to religion; in his own words, " to consecrate all my learning and all my abilities to advance the glory of that God which gave them, knowing that I can never do too much for Him that hath done so much for me as to make me a Christian." He took orders, was married, and after a few years was presented with the living of Bemerton, near Salisbury, into which he was inducted in 1630. Here he passed the remainder of his days in the faithful discharge of the duties of a parish minister, as delineated by himself in "The Country Parson," and by Isaak Walton in his pleasant biography. He died, of consumption, in February, 1632. Herbert's "Temple, or Sacred Poems," have been many times reprinted in Eng

land and in this country. Its popularity when first published was so great that when Walton wrote, more than twenty thousand copies of it had been sold. Baxter says: “I must confess that next the Scripture Poems, there are none so savory to me as our George Herbert's. I know that Cowley and others far excel Herbert in wit and accurate composure; but as Seneca takes with me above all his contemporaries, because he speaketh by words feelingly and seriously, like a man that is past jest, so Herbert speaks to God,

like a man that really believeth in God, and whose business in the world is most with God: heartwork and heaven-work make up his books." Coleridge, the best of critics, alludes to Herbert as "the model of a man, a gentleman, and a clergyman," and adds, "that the quaintness of some of his thoughts (not of his diction, than which nothing could be more pure, manly, and unaffected) has blinded modern readers to the great general merit of his poems, which are for the most part excellent in their kind."-G.]

THE merry world did on a day

With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay,

And all in sport to jeer at me.

First Beauty crept into a rose,

Which when I pluck'd not, "Sir," said she, "Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came: and, chinking still, "What tune is this, poor man?" said he; "I heard in music you had skill:"

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by,

In silks that whistled "who but he?" He scarce allow'd me half an eye;

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be;
And, to be short, make an oration:

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of thy design

To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large; say, I am thine;

And then they have their answer home.

GRACE.

My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve;
O, let Thy graces, without cease,
Drop from above!

If still the sun should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives; O, let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth every morning fall,
And shall the dew outstrip Thy dove?
The dew for which grass cannot call
Drop from above!

O come, for Thou dost know the
Or, if to me Thou will not move,
Remove me where I need not say,
Drop from above!

BUSINESS.

way,

CANST be idle, canst thou play Foolish soul, who sinned to-day? Rivers run, and springs each one Know their home, and get them gone: Hast thou tears, or hast thou none?

If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Wouldst thou had no fault or fears!
Who hath those, those ills forbears!
Winds still work, it is their plot
Be the season cold or hot :
Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not?

If thou hast no sighs or groans,
Would thou hadst no flesh and bones:
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.

But if yet thou idle be,

Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,
To assume thy flesh and bone?
Had He life, or had He none?

If He had not lived for thee
Thou hadst died most wretchedly;
And two deaths had been thy fee.

He so far thy good did plot,
That his own self He forgot-
Did He die, or did He not?

If He had not died for thee
Thou hadst lived in misery-
Two lives worse than two deaths be.

And hath any space of breath
"Twixt his sins and Saviour's death?
He that loseth gold, though dross,
Tells to all he meets, his cross-
He that hath sins, hath he no loss?
He that finds a silver vein
Thinks on it, and thinks again-
Brings thy Saviour's death no gain?
Who in heart not ever kneels,
Neither sin nor Saviour's feels.

PEACE.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly

crave

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd if peace were there,

A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No!
Go seek elsewhere."

I did; and going, did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter.

But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The crown imperial.

"Sure," said I,

"Peace at the root must dwell."
But when I digg'd I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man ;
Whom when for peace

I did demand, he thus began:

"There was a prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes,

But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth;

For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtues lie therein;

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain which in my garden grows,

And grows for you:

Make bread of it; and that repose,

And peace which everywhere

With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there."

MATTENS.

I CANNOT ope mine eyes,

But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice:

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart?

That thou shouldst it so eye and woo,
Pouring upon it all thy art,

As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?

Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee:
He did not heaven and earth create,
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.

Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which, now I see
May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.

THIS writer was the antagonist of Jonson in the drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in satire,* though confessedly inferior to them both in their respective walks of poetry. While none of his biographers seem to know any thing about him, Mr. Gifford (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) conceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed him as a gentleman of Coventry, who married Mary, the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, chaplain to King James, and rector of St. Martin, in Wiltshire. According to this notice, our poet died at London, in 1634, and was buried in the church belonging to the Temple. These particulars agree with what Jonson said to Drummond respecting this dramatic opponent of his, in his conversation at Hawthornden, viz. that Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, and his father-inlaw Marston's comedies. Marston's comedies are somewhat dull; and it is not difficult to conceive a witty sermon of those days, when puns

FROM SOPHONISBA, A TRAGEDY.
ACT V. SCENE II.

SOPHONISBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, has been wooed by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa, and both the allies of Carthage. She prefers Massinissa; and Syphax, indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Romans. Massinissa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned to the assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of Scipio's invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwithstanding Massinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be tempted back to them by the offer of Sophonisba in marriage. Sophonisba is on the point of being sacrificed to the enforced nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been apprized of the treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops of Syphax, joins the Romans, and brings Syphax a captive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in his justification to Scipio, pleads, that his love for Sophonisba alone had tempted him to revolt from Rome. Scipio therefore orders that the daughter of Asdrubal, when taken prisoner, shall belong to the Romans alone. Lelius and Massinissa march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, where they find Sophonisba.

The cornets sounding a march, MASSINISSA enters with his beaver up.

Mass. MARCH to the palace!
Soph. Whate'er man thou art,

Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart

To amazed weakness: hear her that for long time
Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba,
A name for misery much known, 'tis she
Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon:
Let me not kneel to Rome; for though no cause
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.
O'tis a nation which from soul I fear,
As one well knowing the much-grounded hate
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood!

* He wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of satires, 1599. He was also author of the Metamorphosis of Pigmalion's Image, and certain Satires, published 1598, which makes his date as satirist nearly coeval with that of Bishop Hall.

were scattered from the pulpit, to have been as lively as an indifferent comedy. Marston is the Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, where he is treated somewhat less contemptuously than his companion Demetrius, (Dekker;) an allusion is even made to the respectability of his birth. Both he and Dekker were afterwards reconciled to Jonson; but Marston's reconcilement, though he dedicated his Malcontent to his propitiated enemy, seems to have been subject to relapses. It is amusing to find Langbaine descanting on the chaste purity of Marston as a writer, and the author of the Biographia Dramatica transcribing the compliment immediately before the enumeration of his plays, which are stuffed with obscenity. To this disgraceful characteristic of Marston an allusion is made in "The Return from Parnassus," where it is said,

"Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine."

Mass. Sophonisba ! Lel. Sophonisba.

We are now in Rome's power. Lelius,
View Massinissa do a loathed act

Most sinking from that state his heart did keep.
Look, Lelius, look, see Massinissa weep!
Know I have made a vow more dear to me
Than my soul's endless being. She shall rest
Free from Rome's bondage!

Lel. But thou dost forget

Thy vow, yet fresh thus breathed. When I desist
To be commanded by thy virtue, Scipio,
Or fall from friend of Rome, revenging gods
Afflict me with your tortures!

Mass. Lelius, enough:

Salute the Roman-tell him we will act What shall amaze him.

Lel. Wilt thou yield her, then?

Mas. She shall arrive there straight.
Lel. Best fate of men

To thee!

Mass. And, Scipio, have I lived, O Heavens! To be enforcedly perfidious!

Soph. What unjust grief afflicts my worthy lord? Mass. Thank me, ye gods, with much behold

ingness;

For, mark, I do not curse you.

Soph. Tell me, sweet,

The cause of thy much anguish.
Mass. Ha! the cause-

Let's see wreathe back thine arms, bend down thy neck,

Practise base prayers, make fit thyself for bondage.
Soph. Bondage!

Mass. Bondage! Roman bondage!
Soph. No, no!

Mass. How, then, have I vow'd well to Scipio?
Soph. How, then, to Sophonisba ?
Mass. Right: which way?

Run mad!-impossible-distraction!

[power,

Soph. Dear lord, thy patience: let it 'maze all And list to her in whose sole heart it rests,

To keep thy faith upright.

Mass. Wilt thou be slaved?

Soph. No, free.

Enter Page with a bowl of wine.

Mass. Thou darest not die-some wine-thou darest not die!

Soph.....

[She takes a bowl, into which MASSINISSA puts poison.] Behold me, Massinissa, like thyself,

A king and soldier; and, I pray thee, keep
My last command.

Mass. Speak, sweet.

Soph. Dear! do not weep.

And now with undismay'd resolve behold,
To save you-you-(for honour and just faith
Are most true gods, which we should much adore)
With even disdainful vigour I give up [to me,
An abhorr'd life! (She drinks.) You have been good
And I do thank thee, Heaven. O my stars!

I bless your goodness, that, with breast unstain'd,
Faith pure, a virgin wife, tied to my glory,
I die, of female faith the long-lived story;
Secure from bondage and all servile harms,
But more, most happy in my husband's arms.

FROM ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.
ACT III. SCENE I.

Representing the affliction of fallen greatness in ANDRUGIO, Duke of Genoa, after he has been defeated by the Venetians, proscribed by his countrymen, and left with only two attendants in his flight.

Enter ANDRUGIO in armour, LUCIO with a shepherd's gown in his hand, and a Page.

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, that flakes

With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?

Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence. And. Away! I have no excellence to please. Prithee observe the custom of the world, That only flatters greatness, states exalts; And please my excellence! Oh, Lucio, Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith That I am wretched; oh, read that, read that..... My thoughts are fix'd in contemplation

Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal, That eats her children, should not have eyes and

ears.

Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise,
And forms no useless or imperfect thing.
Did nature make the earth, or the earth nature?
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man
Moulds me up honour; and, like a cunning Dutch-

man,

Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath,
And gives a sot appearance of a soul.
Go to, go to; thou liest, philosophy;
Nature forms things imperfect, useless, vain.
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears?
That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints:
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief,
He might fall thus upon the breast of earth,
[He throws himself on the ground.
And in her ear, hallow his misery,
Exclaiming thus: Oh, thou all-bearing earth,
Which men do gape for, till thou cramm'st their
mouths,