minster, associated with the jovial spirits of the age, and was supported or assisted by the wealthy royalists.

He had an unques

After the Restoration Herrick was restored to the Devonshire vicarage. How he was received by the 'rude savages' of Dean Prior, or how he felt on quitting the gayeties of the metropolis to resume his clerical duties and seclusion, is not recorded. He was at this time about seventy years of age, and was probably tired of wine and tavern jollities. tionable taste for the pleasures of a country life, if we may judge from his works, and the fondness with which he dwells on old English festivals and rural scenes. Though his rhymes were sometimes wild, he says his life was chaste, and he repented of his errors :

For these my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed 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.

The poet would have better evinced the sincerity and depths of his contrition by blotting out the unbaptized rhymes himself; but the vanity of the author probably triumphed over the penitence of the Christian. Gayety was Herrick's natural element. His muse was a goddess fair and free, that did not move happily in serious numbers. The time of the poet's death has not been ascertained, but he must have lived to reach a ripe old age.

The poetical works of Herrick lay neglected for many years after his death, but they have recently become popular, especially his shorter Lyrics, some of which have, within a few years, been set to music, and are now sung and quoted by all lovers of song. His verses, Cherry Ripe, and Gather the Rose-buds while ye may, possess a delicious mixture of playful fancy and natural feeling. Those To Blossoms, To Daffodils, and To Primroses, have a tinge of pathos that at once wins its way to the heart. They abound, like all Herrick's poems, in lively imagery and conceits; but the pensive moral feeling predominates, and we feel that the poet's smiles might as well be tears. Shakspeare and Jonson had scattered such delicate fancies among their plays and masques, that Herrick was not without models of the highest excellence in this species of composition. There is, however, in his songs and anacreontics, an unforced gayety and natural tenderness, which show that he wrote chiefly from the impulses of his own cheerful and happy nature. The select beauty and picturesqueness of Herrick's language, when he is in his happiest vein, is worthy of his fine conceptions; and his versification is harmony itself. His verses bound and flow like some exquisite lively melody, that echoes nature, by wood and dell, and presents new beauties at

every turn and winding. The strain is short, and sometimes fantastic, but the notes long linger in the mind, and take their place forever in the memory. One or two words, such as 'gather the rose-buds,' call up a summer landscape, with youth, beauty, flowers, and music. This is, and ever must be, true poetry.

We shall introduce Herrick's minor poems in the order in which they are enumerated above; and shall follow them by two that are more extended, the latter of which is one of the finest of his serious poetical performances.

CHERRY RIPE.

Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,

Full and fair ones-come and buy;
If so be you ask me where
They do grow?-I answer, There,
Where my Julia's lips do smile-
There's the land, or cherry-isle;
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

GATHER THE ROSE-BUDS.

Gather the rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Time shall succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here a while,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night?

'Tis pity nature brought ye forth

Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

No, no; this sorrow shown

By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read

'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

TO CORINNA, TO GO A MAYING.

Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.

See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangled herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have matins said,
And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,

Nay, profanation, to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.

Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street,1 each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;

As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street,

And open fields, and we not see't?

Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey

The proclamation made for May:

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying,

But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

1 Herrick here alludes to the multitudes which were to be seen roaming in the fields on May morning; he afterward refers to the appearance of the towns and villages bedecked with evergreens.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with white thorn laden home.

Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plight'd troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:

Many a green gown has been given;

Many a kiss, both odd and even;

Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the key's betraying

This night, and locks pick'd; yet w' are not a Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

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

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,