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;

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 teither profession was he successful in earning a comtency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In the latter part of his life he became devout. Amidst the scurities of his verse there are beauties that bespeak The genuine poet. Campbell, who had little partiality r pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flowes on a barren heath." In his own "Rainbow," he Pas, perhaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild flower" or ts 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;
Aud, when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

THE RAINBOW.

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 Teral, 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, he 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.

TO ALTHEA (FROM PRISON).

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

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.

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.

Here, 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.

My rival-image will be then thought blest, And laugh at me as dispossest;

But thou, who (if I know thee right)

I'th' substance dost not much delight,
Wilt rather send again for me,

Who then shall but my picture's picture be.

Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do

To be like one of you?

But you have climbed the mountain's top, there sit On the calm flourishing head of it,

And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go, See us, and clouds, below.

TENTANDA EST VIA.

What shall I do to be forever known,

And make the age to come my own?
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy;

Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labor, not their own.

In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this so high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myself it must be strook.

Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear;

It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
Raise up the buried man.

Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of roses in the way!

Hence, the desire of honors or estate,

And all that is not above Fate!

Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days,
Which intercepts my coming praise.

Come, my best friends, my books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone.

Welcome, great Stagyrite!' and teach me now
All I was born to know;

Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo;

He conquered th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and

wit

Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he

Who best can praise thee next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise!

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage.

1 Aristotle was born at Stagyra, in Macedonia, near the mouth of the Strymon. He was the instructor of Alexander the Great.

A HAPPY LIFE.

PARAPHRASE FROM MARTIAL, BOOK X.

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see
A true receipt of happiness from me,
These are the chief ingredients, if not all:
Take an estate neither too great nor small,
Which quantum sufficit the doctors call;
Let this estate from parents' care descend,
The getting it too much of life does spend.
Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be
A fair encouragement for industry;
Let constant fires the winter's fury tame,
And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame:
Thee to the town let never suit at law,
And rarely, very rarely, business draw;
Thy active mind in equal temper keep,
In undisturbed peace, yet not in sleep:
Let exercise a vigorous health maintain,
Without which all the composition's vain.
In the same weight prudence and innocence take,
Ana of each does the just mixture make.
But a few friendships wear, and let them be
By nature and by fortune fit for thee;
Instead of art and luxury in food,

Let mirth and freedom make thy table good.
If any cares into thy daytime creep,
At night, without wine's opium, let them sleep;
Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed,
And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed.
Be satisfied, and pleased with what thou art,
Act cheerfully and well th' allotted part,
Enjoy the present hour, be thankful for the past,
And neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of the
last.

MARK THAT SWIFT ARROW. Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, How it outruns thy following eye! Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back or stay it there, That way it went; but thou shalt find No track is left behind.

ON THE DEATH OF CRASHAW.

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given

The two most sacred names of earth and heaven;

The hard and rarest union which can be,

Next that of Godhead with humanity.
Long did the Muses, banished slaves, abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;

Like Moses thou (tho' spells and charms withstand)

Hast brought them nobly home, back to their
Holy Land.

Au, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now,
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine,
Equal society with them to hold,

Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old:
And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.

Andrew Marvell.

The friend of Milton, and his assistant in the Latin Secretaryship, Marvell (1620-1678) was born in Lincolnshire, and educated at Cambridge. His education was superior. He wrote both poetry and prose, and was Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible integrity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic religion, and as a political pamphleteer took a high rank. Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died suddenly from the effects of poison, it was believed. There is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they reveal the genuine, high-hearted thinker. His Latin poems are his best. The familiar poem, "The Spacious Firmament on High," is confidently attributed by many to Marvell. That he was equal to it is evident; but the proofs are insufficient to authorize us to take from Addison what has so long been ascribed to him. The simplicity and directness of the style are Addisonian rather than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously in the Spectator, edited by Addison. The Spectator was begun in 1711, and Marvell died in 1678. If the piece was from his pen, what good reason was there, after his death, for withholding his name? It was in no spirit of boasting that, in a letter to one of his correspondents, Marvell wrote:

"Disce, pner, virtutem ex me, verumque laborem ;
Fortunam ex aliis."

FROM "THE WISH."

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honor I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known;

Rumor can ope the grave.

equaintance I would have, but when 't depends Sot on the number, but the choice, of friends.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.1

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In the ocean's bosom unespied,

1 Emigrants supposed to be driven to expatriate themselves by the government of Charles I.