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pp. 70, 71.

He breathes in our seraphicke fire.

Feeds in our starry milkye road,
And sings in our eternall quire,

O man, O man, O what is God.'-
From the Poems by the Honourable Mrs. Henry Thimelby,
we extract an Epitaph on a sweet little boy by Sir William
• Stay, courteous passenger,

this stone
Sayes something that concerns each one.
If maydes and bachelors, that wed
For pledges of their marriage bed,
Here may they fix their hearts, and wish
For such a lovely boy as this.
But oh, it will allay desire,
So soone your noblest sparkes expire.
If you be loving parents, here's
A jewel richly worth your teares.
Yet know, although you shed amaine
It cannot be redeemed againe.'

p. 105.

Some lines addressed to Sir William and his Lady on a similar afflicting occasion, conclude with the following couplets, which for terseness and point are equal to any thing in Waller's poems.

• It were a sin to wish her here againe ;
But pardon if I say that all the paine
Of such a losse, belongs not so to you,
But we may challenge equal portions too:
We rivall not, but thus our title prove,
Tho’y ours by nature she was ours by love.'

p. 104.

Our next specimen is a poem of a very different cast, but interesting from its allusions to the cant phrases and politics of the day. The versification is uncommonly correct and flowing, the covert sarcasm highly dexterous, and indeed, in all respects, the poem is perfect in its kind.

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Nor is my hart rebellious growne,

Since thou art still betraying,
The trust and power of Beauty's throne,

It finds no more abaying.
My loves benevolence, I say,

Though deue was freely given ;
Without a parlament, I'l pay

No subsidy to Heaven.
A routed faith, a plundred love,

And a sequestred deuty,
Are taxe and impost good enough

For thy delinquent beauty.
Call not my harts free homage, scant

Allegiance pay'd unto thee,
Least it engage, and covenant

New fealtys to undoe thee.
Revoake not back the life you give,

I'l die no doating martyr,
But question thy prerogative,

If thou repeale my charter.
Strive not thy Babell towre to build,

Or arme gainst love's free citty;
Scorne's high commission-court may yield

To freedomes grand committy.
Tempt not with thy new minion's pride

My love to wrath abetted ;
Felton had not a knife more tryed,

Nor Pymme a tongue more whetted.
Nor thinke thy force, or thy deceipt,

Of art or arme can out me:
Love has his Ferfaxes to beat,

And Crumwells too to rowt thee.' pp. 546.

Poems collected by the Right Honourable Lady Asten occupy the third division. Almost all of them have appeared in print before, scattered through different miscellaneous collections, or attached to the works of dramatic authors. Of this fact, however, the Editor was not aware till too late. As a collection made at the time by a lady of quality and of taste, it is still curious; and the pieces, if not generally of very superior merit, will probably be new to most of our readers. The lines in Italics in the following verses addressed · To Sleep' were wanting in the original MSS. and were supplied


by the Editor. They are to be found, with considerable variations, in Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedy of Valentinian.'

· Care-charming sleepe, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, gently thyself dispose
On this afflicted wight; tall like a cloud
In gentle showers, give nothing that is loud,
Or painfull to his slumber ; ease is sweet,
When soothing dreams the wearied fancy cheat.
• And as faire purling streamz. thou son of night,
In softe t, sweetest, murmurs of delight
Passe by his troubled sences, 'sing his paines,
Like hollow murmuring winds, or silver raines,
Unto thy selfe gently, gently glide
And kisse him into slumbers like a bride.' p. 134.



We are tempted to find room for some charming lines, as the Editor justly styles them, which are given in the notes, from a curious little miscellany, entitled Westminster Drellery, or a

" choice collection of the newest songs and poems, both at court and the theatres. By a person of quality, London 1871.'

A Song at the Duke's House.
O! fain would !, before I die,
Bequeath to thee a legacy
That thou maist say, when I am gone,
None had my heart but thou alone!
Had I as many hearts as hairs,
As many lives as lover's lears,
As many lives as years have hours,
They all and onely should be yours.
Dearest, before you condescend
To entertain a bosom friend,
Before your liberty you sell,
Be sure you know your servant well :
For love's a fire in young and old,
"Tis sometimes hot, and sometimes cold ;
And men you know that when they please,
They can be sick of love's disease
Thep wisely. chuse a friend that may
Last for an age, and not a day;
Who loves thee not for lip or eye,
But for thy mutual sympathie :
Let such a friend thy heart engage,
For he will comfort thee in age;
And kiss thy furrowed wrinkled brow
With as much joy as I do now. p. 366.

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of paper.

This is worth whole volumes of Unperishable Love,' and • Mirtillo', and On his mistresse going a voyage,' and The '

' Irresistible Beauty,' and · Philander and Phillis, &c. &c.

* The poems in the fourth and last division,' says Mr. Clifford, consist of such pieces, as I fouud totally unconnected with each other, and written ou backs of letters, or other scraps I have prefixed to them, a 'Pindaric Ode,' by

' Dryden ; two small poems, by Sir Richard Fanshawe ; one by Sidney Godolphin ; and one by Valler : all of which I found in the old trunk, and which, i believe, are now published for the first time.' The Ode is certainly in Dryden's careless manner, with here and there a touch which betrays a master's hand, but neither of these poems, we venture to think, would have remained in the Tixall chest, with any great detriment to the fame of its author. The Poem entitled Ephelia, and the Reply, are written with considerable energy and are well deserving

of preservation ; but we have no room for their ingertion. The Ode on Mr. Abraham Cowley's retirement, which the notes inform us, was written by Mrs. Catherine Philips, on whose death Cowley wrote a monody, is bighly creditable to that lady's genius. It begins

. No, no, unfaithful world, thou hast

Too long my easy heart betray'd.' We give the second stanza.

« En my remote and humble seat

Now I'me again possest

Of that late fugitive my breast.
From all thy tumults, and from all thy heat,
I'll find a quiet and a coole retreat:
And on the fetters I have worne
Looke with experienc'd and revengefull seorne:
• In this my sov'rain privacy,
'Tis true I cannot govern thee;

But yet myself I may subdue,
And 'tis the nooler empire of the two.
every passion had got leave.

Its satisfaction to receive,
Yet I would it a higher pleasure call,

To conquer one, than to indulge them all. We are afraid of extending this article beyond all reasonable limits, but we think no apology will be necessary for subjoining the fourth stanza, and part of the fifth, which, especially considering the date of the poem, are of no ordinary beanty.

• No other wealth will I aspire
But that of nature to admire ;

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Nor envy on a laurell will bestow,
While there do any in my garden grow.

And when I would be great,
'Tis but ascending to a seat,
Which nature in a lofty rock hath built ;
A throne as free from trouble, as from guilt ;

Where when my soul her wings doth raise,

Above what worldlings fear or praise,

With innocence, and quiet pride, I'll sit, i

And see the humble waves pay tribute to my feet:

Oh ! life divine, when free from joys diseas'd!

Not alwais merry, but 'tis alwais pleas'd.
• A heart, which is too great a thing
To be a present for a Persian king,
Which God himselfe would have to be his court,
Where angels would officiously resort,

From its own hight would much decline,
If this converse it should ressigne,

Ill-natur'd world for thine.
Thy unwise rigour hath thy empire lost,

It hath not only set me free,

But it hath made me see,
They only can of thy possession boast,
Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most.

Pp. 235–74 At page 320, there is a very pleasing poem, in the same strain, entitled Retirement, which the Editor afterwards discovered, with some variations, in a Collection of Miscellaneous Poems, Letters, &c. By Mr. Brown, &c. London 1699. It is an imitation of a French ode, by St. Evremond. As it is short, we may venture to transcribe it.

• Whatever sins by turns have sway'd me,
Ambition never reach'd

my heart ;
Its lewd pretences ne'er betray'd me,

In publick ills to act a part.
• Let others, fame or wealth pursuing,

Despise a mean but safe retreat ;
I'll ne'er contrive my own undoing,

Nor stoop so low as to be great.
· The faithless court, the pensive 'change,

What solid pleasures can they give? Oh let me in the country range,

'Tis there we breathe, 'tis there we live. · The beauteous scene of lofty mountains, Smiling valleys, murmuring fountains, Lambs in flowery pastures bleating, Ecchos our complaints repeating :


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