I'l onely print upon her dewy lip

One loving kiss and so away will part.

Shee wakes, and blushes on each cheek
So red, that I may say

There on each side doth truly break
The dawning of the day.

Startle not, fairest! It is I am come
Like th' Persian to adore the rising sun.

'Tis I am come, who but a friend before
Am hap❜ly now by fate adopted more,
A brother or what els you deem
To be more neer, or of more high esteem.
I'm come to joyn in sacrifice

To our dear Valentine;

Where I must offer to thine eies,
Knowing no other shrine.

Large hecatombs of kisses I wil lay
On th' altar of thy lips, that men may say
By their continuance we are true,
And wil keep so this year, nor change for new.
The birds instruct us to do so,

The season too invites ;

When spring comes they a billing go,
As we to our delights.

*

How sweet shee breaths! the zephyre wind that blows
Fresh fragrant odours on the modest rose

Sends forth not half so pure a smel

As that which on thy chaster lips doth dwel:
Here in this holy temple I

Could fix eternally,

And pay these vows until I die
Pitied of none but thee."

He thus describes his mistress, dancing:

"Robes loosly flowing, and aspect as free,
A carelesse carriage deckt with modestie;
A smiling look, but yet severe :

Such comely graces 'bout her were.
Her steps with such an evenness she wove,
As shee could hardly be perceiv'd to move;
Whilst her silk sailes displaied, shee
Swam like a ship with majestie."

With this stanza he concludes a long piece, persuading Clarastella from her resolution of going into a nunnery.

"Thyself a holy temple art

Where love shall teach us both to pray,
I'l make an altar of my heart,

And incense on thy lips wil lay.
Thy mouth shal be my oracle; and then
For beads we'l tel our kisses o'r agen,"

In the observations prefixed to this article, we have not given the poets of Heath's school much credit for nature or feeling-nor do they indeed deserve it. In Heath himself, however, we occasionally meet with touches which betoken that the man did sometimes peep out from beneath the fantastic versifier. It is not unfrequent with him to speak of his love in terms more tender than hyperbolical comparisons can convey, and he sometimes paints the charms of his mistress and the warmth of his passion with an earnestness and strength of expression which leave little doubt of their reality. The following verses, termed "Love's Silence," are a proof that our author could sometimes fall into a natural vein.

"Ay me! when I

Am blind with passion, why

Should my best reason speechlesse prove?
Doth joye's excesse

(Which words can nere expresse)

In silent rhetorick speak my love?

If so; each smother'd sigh will vent my smart,
And say, I love not with my tongue, but heart.

O when thou see'st me stand thus mute and blind,
For pittie's sake (my Stella !) then be kind!

Know that such love,

Like Heaven's, comes from above,
And is beyond expression large;
Language is weak,

And should I strive to speak,
Words would but lessen, not discharge.
My love's deep sea's as silent, as profound:

The lover thus enthusiastically addresses his Clarastella.

"Oh those smooth, soft, and rubie lips,

Whose rosie and virmilion hue
Betray the blushing thoughts in you:
Whose fragrant amoratick breath
Would revive dying saints from death,
Whose syren-like harmonious air
Speaks musick and enchants the ear;
Who would not hang? and fixed there
Wish he might know no other sphere?
Oh for a charm to make the sun
Drunk, and forget his motion!
Oh that some palsie or lame gout
Would cramp old time's diseased foot!
Or that I might or mould or clip
His speedy wings, whilst on her lip
I quench my thirsty appetite
With the life honey dwels on it!

Then on this holy altar, I
Would sacrifice eternally,

Offring one long continued mine

Of golden pleasures to thy shrine."

Nothing can be more low or ludicrous than the most of the occasions which Heath thought worthy of being celebrated in Clarastella song, provided they happened to his mistress.

could not lose her "black fan," get a cold, or get dust in her eye, but Mr. Heath was straight at her feet with a copy of verses in his hand. When we think of the nature of the subjects which he chose, we cease to wonder so much that many of them should be vilely handled, as that they should be selected, and being selected that any thing good could ever be written about them. It is easy to believe that the man who could chuse the most trivial accidents and the most low and familiar occurrences for his themes, would treat them in a corresponding style. But we cannot help both being surprised and lamenting to see ingenuity of thought, liveliness of fancy, and richness of expression wasted them.—And upon this is the case in some of the yet poems before us. It is the case in one which we will venture to extract, which "builds the lofty rhyme" on no less a groundwork than the bite of an insect, which the quick-eyed lover espied on the fair hand of his mistress.

"Behold how like a lovely fragrant rose

Midst a fair lillie bed,

Or set in pearl, like a bright rubie, shows
This little spot of red!

Art could not die a crimson half so good
As this was made by th' tincture of her bloud.

The cunning leech knew that the richest bloud
In azure veins did lie;

Choosing the young soft tender flesh for food,
Resolv'd thus to feed high;

Thus being nectar-fill'd and swell'd with pride,
He thinks he's now to you by bloud alli'd.

O how I envy thee, smal creature, and
Ev'n wish thy shape on me,

That so I might but kisse that sacred hand, &c."

From the occasional poems which follow Clarastella, we shall make only one and that the last of our extracts, which shews our author had some talents for humour.-It is called A sudden Phansie at Midnight, and is as follows, excepting the two last lines, which add nothing to, but easily might take away from, the pleasure of the reader.

66 How ist we are thus melancholie? what
Are our rich ferkins out? or rather that
Which did inspire them, the immortal wine,
That did create us, like itself, divine?
Or are we Nectar-sated to the hight?
Or do we droop under the aged night?
If so: wee'l vote it ne'r to be eleven
Rather than thus to part at six and seven:
Moult then thy speedy wings, old Time! and be
As slow-pac't as becomes thy age! that we
May chirp awhile, and when we take our ease,
Then flie and post as nimbly as you please!
Play the good fellow with us, and sit down
Awhile, that we may drink the t' other round!
I'l promise here is none shal thee misuse,
Or pluck thee by the foretop in abuse.
Time saies he wil nor can he stay, 'cause he
Thinks him too grave for your young companie.

How say you yet to th' tother subsidie?

Yes, yes and let our Ganymede nimbly flie
And fil us of the same poetick sherrie
Ben Jonson us'd to quaffe to make him merrie.
Such as would make the grey-beard botles talk
Had they but tongues, or had they legs, to walk:

Such as would make Apollo smile, or wu'd

Draw all the sisters to our brotherhood.

And though the bald fool staies not, let him know
Wee'l sit and drink as fast as he shal go."

After the occasional poems, follows a crowd of worthless Elegies and Epigrams, in the rear of which again come Satyrs as worthless as their companions.

Our readers will now be able to judge of Robert Heath at his best. Of the inferior part of this volume it is useless to take up our time and space in giving any specimens. Suffice it to say, that the bad is very bad indeed. The total absence of what is called taste in our poet is very remarkable. The unconscious manner in which he slides from the really beautiful to what is disgusting or ridiculous, prevents us from giving what might be made the most favorable view of his talents. Perhaps some of his most sparkling sentiments and expressions may yet sleep in the little volume which we have just closed: but, if they do, they are so intertwined and united with the worthless matter, that we found it impossible to separate them, or in such small and crumbling fragments only as to render them unfit for introduction here. Though it cannot be said that Heath soars very high, yet his course is unequal. His versification is one while harmonious in the extreme, at another as rugged-his language is sometimes rich, forcible, and copious; at another, flimsy, poor, and bald. He, at one time, discloses glimpses of fancy, feeling, and sentiment, and in the next page goes grovelling on in the dark, as if a ray of light or reason had never by any chance fallen on his path. He may be compared to that species of wine which when brisk is an elegant beverage, but which, when flat and stale, of which there is more than an equal chance, loses all its inspiriting qualities, becomes disgusting to the palate, and excites surprise that in any state it could be thought delightful. Of the history or circumstances of Robert Heath we know nothing, save that Esquire is tagged to his name, and that he says of himself,

"No peasant bloud doth stein or chil my veins."

Mr. Ellis, in his Specimens, gives two short extracts from him, and we do think that he was not unworthy of the notice of Mr. Campbell, who has included in his British Poets many whose merits we cannot help thinking inferior to those of Robert Heath. It should not be forgotten that these poems were sent out into the world without the consent of the author, who probably was abroad at the time of their publication. This we learn from the address of the "Stationer to the reader," who