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The portrait of Quarles is copied from an engraving by Marshall*, and does not realize the flattering account left by the poet's friends, of his personal appearance. Marriot says, that "his person and mind were both lovely." Marshall also "wrought" his head, we learn from Aubrey, curiously in plaster, "and valued it for his sake." "Tis pity it should be lost,” adds the antiquary; "Mr. Quarles was a very good man.

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In addition to the poems previously mentioned, he wrote Sion's Sonnets, an Elegy on his friend, Dr. Wilson†, &c. &c. And after his death were published Solomon's Recantation, a paraphrase on Ecclesiastes, the Virgin Widow, a comedy, and the Shepherd's Oracles, which bear internal proof of having been composed about the year 1632. The Virgin Widow was acted at Chelsea by a company of young gentlemen," but has little humour to recommend it. Langbaine calls it an innocent production. In Fuller's Abel Redivivus are several poems, the "most part of which," we are told by the quaint Editor, were done by Master Quarles, father and son, sufficiently known for their abilities therein." The biographer of The Worthies entertained a very friendly feeling towards the poet, with whom he was probably acquainted, and he affirmed, that if Quarles had been contemporary with Plato, he would not only have allowed him to live, but advanced him to an office, in his Commonwealth.

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Fuller's book is not of common ̧ recurrence, but the lines on the martyr Ridley deserve preservation:—

ON RIDLEY.

Read in the progress of this blessed story
Rome's cursed cruelty and Ridley's glory:

Rome's sirens' song; but Ridley's careless ear

Was deaf: they charmed, but Ridley would not hear.

* Bromley's Catalogue of Engraved British Portraits, p. 102. + There was something awful in the event that suggested this Elegy Quarles sat by the side of Dr. Wilson only two hours before his death, at the table of Sir Julius Cæsar, Master of the Rolls.

Rome sung preferment, but brave Ridley's tongue
Condemned that false preferment which Rome sung.
Rome whispered wealth; but Ridley (whose great gain
Was godliness) he waved it with disdain.

Rome threatened durance; but great Ridley's mind
Was too, too strong for threats or chains to bind.
Rome thundered death; but Ridley's dauntless eye
Stared in Death's face, and scorned Death standing by:
In spite of Rome, for England's faith he stood,

An n the flames he sealed it with his blood.

In these few verses the poet has presented a rapid and effective picture of Ridley's life; his frequent temptations, his sublime courage, and his holy resignation, are all recollected. No man "star'd in Death's face" (an image of wonderful power) with a more dauntless eye, than he who suffered and died with Latimer.

It would seem, from an Epigram addressed to F. Quarles, by Thomas Bancroft*, that he was at one time engaged on a poem descriptive of the life of our Saviour. If completed, it was never published.

The poetical character of Quarles has been unfolded in these quotations. We may say of him, in the emphatic words of Dr. Hammond, that he was of an athletic habit of mind, braced into more than common vigour by healthful and ennobling studies, and a pure and virtuous life. There was nothing effeminate in his manners or disposition; he was often ungraceful, but never weak. No man had a correcter notion of the beauty of style, or presented a more striking exception to his own rule:-" Clothe not thy language," he said, "either with obscurity or affectation; in the one thou discoverest too much darkness, in the other, too much lightness. He that speaks from the understanding to the understanding is the best interpreter." It would have been good for his fame if he had practised what he taught. His eccentricity was the ruin of his genius: he offered up the most beautiful offspring of his *Two Bookes of Epigrammes and Epitaphs, &c., 1639.

imagination, without remorse, to this misshapen idol. The specimens given in the preceding pages will, perhaps, diminish the prejudice so long entertained against their author. They show that he could write with dignity, simplicity, and pathos; and that if his poetry flowed in a muddy stream, particles of precious gold may be gathered from its channel.

His pencil rather "dashed" than "drew," and he wanted the taste and patience to finish his pictures. He was sublime and vulgar at the impulse of the moment. Sometimes, however, images of great delicacy fell unconsciously from his pen. Evangelus' description of the appearance of the Angel in the Shepherd's Oracles, may be quoted as an example:

His skin did show,

More white than ivory, or the new fall'n snow,
Whose perfect whiteness made a circling light,
That where it stood, it silvered o'er the night.

As a writer of prose, he deserves very high applause. His style is remarkably flowing, and animated by a Christian benignity of spirit. Without the copious richness of Taylor, or the mystical eloquence of Brown, or the poignant terseness of South, he possesses sufficient force and sweetness to entitle him to be named with the masters of our language. Quarles was not only a fruitful author; he was also a learned and laborious student, and while Secretary to Archbishop Usher, contributed materially to promote the progress of his theological researches. This interesting fact, has, I believe, never been noticed; but Usher alludes to his services in a letter to G. Vossius, and speaks of him as a poet held in considerable esteem, among his own countrymen, for his sacred compositions*.

* The letter is printed in the appendix to Parr's life of the Archbishop, p. 484. The passage referring to Quarles is as follows:-" Ut autem intelligas quibus in Locis Cottonianum Libri primi et tertii Chronicon a vulgato differat; Florentinum Wigorniensem nunc ad te mitto, quem

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JOHN QUARLES.

Or the poet's numerous family, John is alone remembered. He was born in Essex, and afterwards became, Wood says, a member of Exeter College, Oxford, where he bore arms for the King in the garrison of the town; but it is not clear that he ever belonged to the University. We find, from his own relation, that he was indebted for his education to Archbishop Usher, in whose house he appears to have resided.

That little education I dare own

I had, I'm proud to say, from him alone.
His grave advice would oftentimes distill
Into my ears, and captivate my will.
The example of his life did every day
Afford me lectures*.

Upon the decease of this prelate, to whom he was sincerely attached, he composed an elegy beginning with these beautiful lines :

Then weep no more; see how his peaceful breast,
Rocked by the hand of death, takes quiet rest.
Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take

A full repose; he hath been long awake.

The feet of Sion's watchman must have been weary, and his eyes heavy with sleep! While the royal cause offered any hopes of a prosperous issue, John Quarles continued an active and faithful servant of the king, in whose army he obtained the rank of captain; but when the strength of the loyalists was exhausted by the repeated victories of the Parliament, he "retired to London in a

Francisci Quarlesii Operá, qui mihi tum erat ab Epistolis (vir ob sacratiorem poesin apud Anglos suos non incelebris) cum illo conferendum curavi ad annum DCCCC. Dionysianum a quo quatenus prius missus initium duxit."

An Elegie on the most Reverend and learned James Usher, L. Archbishop of Armagh, 1656.

mean condition," and about 1649 bade farewell to England, and went abroad, but in what capacity Wood was ignorant. Upon his return he supported himself by his pen, until he was swept away in the plague of 1665. The place of his burial is unknown. His compositions were very numerous, and by some he was "esteemed a good poet," though deficient in the power and originality of his father. But if he had less energy, he had more grace. The following Hymn may be admired for its harmonious elegance, happy expression, and fervid piety. Great God, whose sceptre rules the earth, Distil thy fear into my heart, That, being rapt with holy mirth, I may proclaim how good thou art: Open my lips, that I may sing Full praises to my God, my King.

Great God, thy garden is defaced,

The weeds thrive there, thy flowers decay;
O call to mind thy promise past,

Restore thou them, cut these away:
Till then let not the weeds have power
To starve or stint the poorest flower.

In all extremes, Lord, thou art still

VOL. I.

The mount whereto my hopes do flee;

O make my soul detest all ill,

Because so much abhorred by Thee:
Lord, let thy gracious trials show
That I am just, or make me so.

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree
Yield to that heavenly voice of thine;
And shall that voice not startle me,

Nor stir this stone,-this heart of mine?
No, Lord, till Thou new-bore mine ear,
Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear.
Fountain of light, and living breath,
Whose mercies never fail nor fade,
Fill me with life that hath no death,

Fill me with light that hath no shade;
Appoint the remnant of my days
To see thy power, and sing thy praise.

R

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