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Sleep, Silence* child, sweet father of soft rest,

Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppress'd;

Lo, by thy charming rod, all breathing things
Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possess'*!,

And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest.

Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light, which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;

Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath;
I long to kiss the image of my dcadi.

The lady to whom lie was engaged to be married was suddenly snatched awny by death, and the sonnets which dwell on his own afflictions are as full of true feeling as poetic merit.


Sweet Spring, thou turn'st1 with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.
Thou turn'st, sweet youth—but, ah! my pleasant hours,

And happy days, with thee come not again;

The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air

Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come,
When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb.

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face?
And skies enamell'd with ljotli Indies' gold?
Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd,

And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold,

The mountain's pride, the meadow's fluwcry grace;
The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?

For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Sith she. for whom those once to me were dear,
No part of them can have now with me here?


My lute, be as thou wast, when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,

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When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.

Sitli that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which used in such harmonious strains to flow,

la reft from earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woo?

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan waiUngs to the tainting ear;
Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tearj

Be therefore silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign.
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.


Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee ho did not spare,

A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs

(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,

And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays.


Richard Crashaw, a religious poet, an accomplished scholar, and a power ful and popular preacher, was born in London, but the date of his birth is unknown. His father was an author, and a preacher of the Temple church, London. He took his degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred poems of " Steps to the Temple." In the year 1044 he was ejected from his living on refusing to subscribe to the Covenant, and soon afterwards he professed his faith in the Roman Church. Through the influence of his friend Cowley, the poet, he was introduced to the exiled Queen Henrietta, who obtained lor him a small office at Rome, where he died alK>ut the year 1G50.

The poems of Crashaw are not much known, but they "display delicate fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction." "He has," says Headlcy, "originality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the highest praise* To his attainments, which were numerous and elegant, all his biographers have borne witness." The lines on a prayer-book, Coleridge considers one of the best poems in our language.

1 Poet and Saint I to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven.—Cowlii. I Pope, in his "Eloisa to Aoclard, has borrowed largely from this poet.


Lo! here a little volume, but large book,

(Fear it not, sweet.

It is no hypocrite,)
Muck larger in itself than in its look.
It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all—
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd thus small;
To prove that true, schools used to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence.

As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is the armory of light:

Let constant use but keep it bright,

You'll find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts.

Only be sure

The hands bo pure
That hold these weapons, and the eyes

Those of turtles, chaste and true,
Wakeful and wise,

Here is a friend shall fight for you.
Hold but this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play his part
But oh! the heart
That studies this high art
Must be a sure housekeeper
And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,
And bring her bosom full of blessings—

Flowers of never-fading graces,
To make immortal dressings,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for Him %vho is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son.

But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come,
Shall find the wandering heart from home,

Leaving her chaste abode

To gad abroad
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies ;1

To take her pleasure and to play,

And keep the devil's holiday;

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling

But beguiling
Sphere of sweet and pugar'd lies;

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Of all this hidden store
Of blessings, and ten thousand more

Doubtless he will unload
Himself some other where;

And pour abroad
His precious sweets,
On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! 0 fortunate! O rich! 0 dear!

01 happy, and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove,
Whoe'er she be,
Whose early lovo,
With winged vows,

Makes haste to meet her morning spouse,
And close with his immortal kisses!
Happy soul! who never misses

To improve that precious hour;
And every day
Seize her sweet prey,
All fresh and fragrant as he rises,

Dropping with a balmy shower,
A delicious dew of spices.
Oh 1 let that happy soul hold last
Her heavenly armful: she shall tasto

At once ten thousand paradises:
She shall have power
To rifle and deflower

The rich and rosal spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets.
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures
Of pure inebriating pleasures.
Happy soul I she shall discover
What joy, what bliss,
How many heavens at once it is
To have a God become her lover.

The following is a portion of his version of the twenty-third Psalm: " Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." It is highly spirited and beautiful.

Come now all ye terrors, sally,
Muster forth into the valley
Where triumphant darkness hovers
With a sable wing, that covers
Brooding Horror. Come, thou Death,
Let the damps of thy dull breath
Overshadow e'en the shade,
Anil make darkness' self afraid:
There my feet, e'en there shall find
Way for a resolved mind.
Still my Shepherd, still my God,
Thou art with me, still thy rod
And thy staff, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.


Fbisias Flktcheh was the brother of Giles Fletcher, ami born alxiut tlie year 3 084. He took his degree at Cambridge, anil after completing Ms studies for the ministry, was presented w ith the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, in 1621, which he held for twenty-nine years; unci it is supposed that he died there in 1G50.

His chief poem is entitled "The Purple Island," which title, on being first heard, would suggest ideas totally different from what is its real subject. The truth is, it is a sort of anatomical poem, the u Purplo Island" being nothing leas than the human body, the veins and arteries of which are filled with the purple fluid coursing up and down; so that the first part of the poem, which is anatomically descriptive, is not a little dry and uninteresting. Bat after describing the body, he proceeds to personify the passions and intellectual faculties. «Here," says Headley, "fatigued attention is not merely relieved, but fascinated and enraptured; there is a boldness of outline, a majesty of manner, a brilliancy of coloring, and an air of life, that we look for in vain in modern productions, and that rival, if not surpass, what we meet with of the kind even in Spenser, from whom our author caught his inspiration." This is rather extravagant, and yet a few passages can be selected from Phineas Fletcher, that, for beauty, are scarcely exceeded by any poetry in the language.


Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and stale,

When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low, and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns:

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:

Singing all day, his fiocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;

Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:

In country plays is all the strife he uses,

Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses.

1 These beautiful lines seem to have suggested the plan of that most exquisite Utile piece called rm# AnM by Thomas Warton, which contains a selection of beautiful rural Images, such as perhaps no other poem of equal length In our language presents us wlUi. See It In the selections from

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