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In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

BEFORE my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find:

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face,

Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose have sometime been ;
I see the bones, across that lie,
Yet little think, that I must die.

I read the label underneath,

That telleth me whereto I must:
I see the sentence eke, that saith,
"Remember, man, that thou art dust."
But yet, alas! but seldom I

Do think indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I, ere morning, may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well :

But yet, alas! for all this, I
Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I do use to wear,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat,

All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I!

My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone ;
My youngers daily drop away ;-
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I!

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Sampson, though he were so strong, No king, nor ever person yet

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!
Wherefore I know that I must die,
And yet my life, amend not I!

Though all the east did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name,

And all the west did likewise fear
To hear of Julius Cæsar's fame,

Yet both by death in dust now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart,
If rich and poor his beck obey,

If strong, if wise, if all do smart,

Then I to scape shall have no way.

O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mend, sith I must die!

SPENSER.

BORN ABOUT 1553-DIED 1599.

EDMUND SPENSER was born in London about the year 1553. He was of good descent, and was educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge.

Spenser has sometimes been styled, by pre-eminence, the DIVINE POET of ENGLAND. With Milton and Cowper before us, we must hesitate in this belief. All his writings have however a pure, elevating, and beautiful spirit of humanity, and his "Divine Hymns" are indeed divine. Of Spenser Mr Southey has said,

"Yet not more sweet

Than pure was he; and not more pure than wise:
High Priest of all the muses' mysteries,"

This, however, with all reverence for authority so high. and so good, must be received in the spirit of all things being pure to the pure in mind; for although the enemy. and the exposer of vice, Spenser has sometimes painted its captivation in a tone of voluptuous languishment, which shews that his love of poetical beauty occasionally overcame his zeal for nobler objects.

Spenser's history has the romance which misfortune throws around life when connected with genius. He was made Secretary for Ireland, an office afterwards held by Addi son and other distinguished men, and obtained a grant of forfeited lands in the county of Cork. He went to live

on his estate; but, on the breaking out of Tyrone's rebellion, was obliged to abandon his new home so abruptly, that one of his children perished in the flames to which the insurgents devoted his dwelling. Spenser died in London early in 1599, of a broken heart, and, it is alleged, in very distressed circumstances. As a poet he was highly popular in his own lifetime, a distinction more rare in the age of Elizabeth than at present. By his own desire he was buried near the tomb of Chaucer. Ben Jonson supported the pall at his funeral; and all the contemporary poets-Shakspeare probably of the number, says Mr Campbell-threw tributary verses into his grave.

HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR.

O BLESSED Well of Love! O Flower of Grace!
O glorious Morning-Star! O Lamp of Light!
Most lively image of thy Father's face,
Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,
Meek Lamb of God, before all worlds behight,
How can we thee requite for all this good?
Or what can prize that thy most precious blood?

Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love,
But love of us, for guerdon of thy pain :
Ay me! what can us less than that behove ?
Had he required life for us again,

Had it been wrong to ask his own with gain?
He gave us life, he it restored lost;

Then life were least, that us so little cost.

But he our life hath left unto us free,

Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band;
Ne ought demands but that we loving be,
As he himself hath lov'd us afore-hand,

And bound thereto with an eternal band,
Him first to love that was so dearly bought,
And next our brethren, to his image wrought.

Him first to love great right and reason is,
Who first to us our life and being gave,
And after, when we fared had amiss,

Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even he himself, in his dear sacrament,

To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.

Then next, to love our brethren, that were made
Of that self mould, and that self Maker's hand,
That we, and to the same again shall fade,
Where they shall have like heritage of land,
However here, on higher steps we stand,
Which also were with self-same price redeem'd
That we, however of us light esteem'd.

And were they not, yet since that loving Lord
Commanded us to love them for his sake,
Even for his sake, and for his sacred word,
Which in his last bequest he to us spake,
We should them love, and with their needs partake;
Knowing that, whatsoe'er to them we give,
We give to him by whom we all do live.

Such mercy he by his most holy reede
Unto us taught, and to approve it trew,
Ensampled it by his most righteous deed,
Shewing us mercy (miserable crew!)
That we the like should to the wretches shew,
And love our brethren; thereby to approve
How much, himself that loved us, we love.

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