Nor is my hart rebellious growne, The trust and power of Beauty's throne, My loves benevolence, I say, A routed faith, a plundred love, Call not my harts free homage, scant Revoake not back the life you give, Strive not thy Babell towre to build, Tempt not with thy new minion's pride 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. 54-6, Poems collected by the Right Honourable Lady Aston 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, And as faire purling streams. thou son of night, 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 eurious little miscellany, entitled Westminster Drollery, or a choice collection of the newest songs and poems, both at court and the theatres. By a person of quality, London 1671.' A Song at the Duke's House. • O! fain would 1, before I die, That thou maist say, when I am gone, As many lives as lover's tears, As many lives as years have hours, Be sure you know your servant well: 'Tis sometimes hot, and sometimes cold; And men you know that when they please, They can be sick of love's disease Then wisely chuse a friend that may 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 found totally unconnected with each other, and written ou backs of letters, or other scraps of paper. I have prefixed to them, a Pindaric Ode,' by Dryden, two small poems, by Sir Richard Fanshawe; one by Sidney Godolphin; and one by Waller: 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 insertion. 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 highly creditable to that lady's genius. It begins No, no, unfaithful world, thou hast We give the second stanza. In my remote and humble seat 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 scorne: In this my sov'rain privacy, 'Tis true I cannot govern thee; But yet myself I may subdue, And 'tis the nobler empire of the two. If 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 beauty. • No other wealth will I aspire But that of nature to admire ; Nor envy on a laurell will bestow, Which nature in a lofty rock hath built; A heart, which is too great a thing Which God himselfe would have to be his court, Thy unwise rigour hath thy empire lost, They only can of thy possession boast, Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most. pp. 235-7 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, Its lewd pretences ne'er betray'd me, Let others, fame or wealth pursuing, The faithless court, the pensive 'change, Oh let me in the country range, 'Tis there we breathe, 'tis there we live. The beauteous scene of lofty mountains, Birds in cheerfull notes expressing There are some fine lines on Conscience,' by Sir Edward Sherburne, but they may be found in his works. Chalmers's poets, vol. vi. p. 632. The Domesday Thought, ascribed to Mr. Flatman, is a happy specimen of the quaint morality so characteristic of the poetry of the age. Oft when I hear a blustering wind With a tempestuous murmur join'd, fancy, Nature in this blast, I Practises how to breathe her last: 'Go to the dull church-yard, and see Or, in thy delving, smit'st upon A shin-bone, or a cranion.' p. 249. The following two poems, one entitled The Immortality of Poesie; to Envy,' in imitation of Ovid. Amor. Lib. 1. Eleg. 15, which the Editor believes to be the production of Mr. John Evelyn, son of the celebrated author of the "Sylva," &c. and the other by Habington, author of "Castara," entitled Cupio dissolvi. St. Paule, merit a place in any future Anthology to consist of poems of this period. There is a vast quantity of trash, which has found its way into the complete works of the English poets,' which might well be swept away to make room for the select works of neglected authors, and the fugitive foundlings, who, for want of a parent's name, have been refused admission into the corporate body of poets. Among the neglected poets, old Quarles, with all his absurdities and quiddities, deserves particular attention. The following epitaph, On Argalus and Parthenia,' is supposed to be his. |