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THE SAINT'S ENCOURAGEMENT.-A SONG,

Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause;
Fear not the cavaliers;

Their threat'nings are as senseless, as

Our jealousies and fears.

'Tis you must perfect this great work,
And all malignants slay,

You must bring back the King again
The clean contrary way.

"Tis for Religion that you fight
And for the kingdom's good,

By robbing churches, plundering men,
And shedding guiltless blood.

Down with the orthodoxal train,

All loyal subjects slay;

When these are gone, we shall be blest,

The clean contrary way.

When Charles we've bankrupt made like us,

Of crown and power bereft him,

And all his loyal subjects slain,

And none but rebels left him.
When we've beggar'd all the land,
And sent our trunks away,

We'll make him then a glorious prince,
The clean contrary way.

'Tis to preserve his majesty,
That we against him fight,
Nor are we ever beaten back,
Because our cause is right:
If any make a scruple on't,
Our declarations say,

Who fight for us, fight for the king

The clean contrary way.

At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York,
And divers places more,

What victories we saints obtain'd

The like ne'er seen before!

How often we Prince Rupert kill'd,

And bravely won the day;

The wicked cavaliers did run
The clean contrary way.

The true religion we maintain,

The kingdom's peace and plenty;

The privilege of parliament

Not known to one of twenty;

The ancient fundamental laws;

And teach men to obey

Their lawful sovereign; and all these

The clean contrary way.

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SIR JOHN SUCKLING, whom we next notice, possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed upon him by the literary taste of the age, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what are called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry.

Suckling was born at Witham, in Essex, in 1608. He was of a very eminent family, his father Sir John Suckling being Secretary of State to James the First, and afterward Comptroller of the household of that monarch's successor, Charles. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy, being able to speak Latin at five years of age, and to write it with accuracy at nine. When sixteen years old he entered into public life as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served out an entire campaign. On his return to England he entered warmly into the cause of Charles the First, and raised a troop of horse in his support. He also intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Stratford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial he fled to France, but a fatal accident befell him on the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling learning the circumstances, drew on his boots hurriedly to pursue him; but a rusty nail, or the blade of a knife, had been concealed in one of them, which, wounding him, produced mortification, of which he soon after died, in 1641, and in his thirty-fourth year.

The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier he has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes voluptuous, but rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It contains touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. The following well-known stanza has, perhaps, never been excelled:

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light;

But oh! she dances such a way!

No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

This 'Ballad,' and the fine lines on Detraction which follow it, are the only poems that our space will allow us to introduce from this spirited writer.

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou knowest) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,

Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him,
Should he go still so drest.

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1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whit sunday.

No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring

Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar, (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light;

But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

*

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison;

Who sees them is undone;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pair,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;

But Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get:

But she so handled still the matter

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

*

Passion, oh me! how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the bride:

The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that men should eat
Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice,

And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand

March'd boldly up, like our train'd band

Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,

The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And, when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance;
Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind.
And did not mean to stay behind

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DETRACTION EXECRATED.

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou, base dull aid,
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence-from earth?
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love:

Or, from the air? our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move;
Our thoughts as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were clothed in words, and maiden's blush, that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale;
No briny tears has furrowed her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd: I pray what should he ail,
That had her love; for what else could he seek?
We shorten'd days to moments by love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity.

Much less could'st have it from the purer fire;
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire:
Our mutual love itself did recompense.

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