The writings of Quarles are more like those of a divine, or contemplative recluse, than of a busy man of the world, who held various public situations, and died at the age of fifty-two. His principal poems are Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, The History of Queen Esther, The Morning Muse, The Feast of Worms, and The Divine Emblems. The latter was published the year after the writer's death, and was so popular, that Phillips, Milton's nephew, styles Quarles the darling of our plebeian judgments.' The eulogium, to some extent, is still appropriate, for the 'Divine Emblems,' with their quaint and grotesque illustrations, may be found, even at the present day, in the cottages of many of the English peasantry.

Quarles' style is that of his age-studded with conceits, often extravagant in conception, and presenting frequently the most ridiculous combinations. There is strength, however, amidst his contortions, and true wit intermingled with the false. His epigrammatic point, uniting wit and devotion, has been considered the precursor of Young's Night Thoughts.' The following pieces sufficiently exhibit all the peculiarities of this author's manner, to which we have alluded :—

THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE.

And what's a life ?-a weary pilgrimage,
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age.
And what's a life ?-the flourishing array
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day
Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.
Read on this dial, how the shades devour
My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour;
Alas! the total's but from eight to four.

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made,
Fair copies of my life, and open laid

To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade!

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon;

My non-aged day already points to noon;

How simple is my suit!-how small my boon!

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile

My time away, or falsely to beguile

My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend
The least delight:

Thy favours can not gain a friend,

They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:

There's none can want where thou supply'st:

There's none can give where thou deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay:

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou can'st not play:

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st;

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coin'd treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure

To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with? are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

DELIGHT IN GOD ALONE.

I love, (and have some cause to love,) the earth
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse-she gives me food;

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;

Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store:

She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Where spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee?
Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me.
Without thy presence earth gives no reflection;
Without thy presence sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence air 's a rank infection;
Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure:
If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honours that the world can boast,
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But mighty glow-worms if compared to thee.

Without thy presence wealth is bag of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness:
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compared with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?
Not having thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what farther care I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.

Herbert and Herrick, with a passing glance at Hall, will close the list of poets to be embraced within the present lecture.

GEORGE HERBERT was of the ancient and honorable family of Pembroke, and was born at Montgomery Castle, Wales, on the third of April, 1593. His early studies were pursued at Westminster school, where he was eminently distinguished for both genius and application. In 1608, he was elected as King's scholar to Trinity College, Cambridge, and having there taken both his degrees, he soon after obtained a fellowship, and, in 1619, became orator of the university. Herbert was the intimate friend of Sir Henry Wotton, and Doctor Donne; and Lord Bacon is said to have entertained so high regard for his learning and judgment, that he usually submitted his works to him before their publication. The poet was also in favor with King James, who gave him a sinecure office worth one hundred

and twenty pounds a year, which Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to Sir Philip Sidney. With this,' says Izaak Walton, and his annuity, and the advantages of his college and of his oratorship, he enjoyed his genteel humor for clothes and court-like company, and seldom looked toward Cambridge unless the King was there, but then he never failed.'

The death of the king and of two powerful friends, the Duke of Richmond and the Marquis of Hamilton, destroyed Herbert's court hopes, and he, therefore, entered into sacred orders. He was first prebend of Layton Ecclesia, and afterward rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire. The third day after he was made rector of Bemerton,' says Walton, and had changed his sword and silk clothes into a canonical habit, he returned so habited with his friend Mr. Woodnot to Bainton; and immediately after he had seen and saluted his wife, he said to her, 'You are now a minister's wife, and must now so far forget your father's house as not to claim a precedence of any of your parishioners; for you are to know that a priest's wife can challenge no precedence or place but that which she purchases by her obliging humility; and I am sure places so purchased do best become them. And let me tell you, I am so good a herald as to assure you that this is truth.' 'And she was so

meek a wife as to assure him it was no vexing news to her, and that he should see her observe it with a cheerful willingness.' Herbert remained at Bemerton till the close of his life, and to the last discharged his clerical duties with saint-like zeal and purity; but his strength was not equal to his self-imposed tasks, and he died at the early age of thirty-nine.

The principal production of Herbert is The Temple, or Sacred Poems, and Private Ejaculations. The lines on Virtue are the best in the collection; but even in them we find what mars all the poetry of this writer, ridiculous conceits and coarse unpleasant similes. The most sacred subject could not repress his love of fantastic imagery, or keep him for any number of consecutive verses in a serious and natural strain. It may be safely said, therefore, that his poetry alone would not have preserved his name, and that he is indebted for the reputation he enjoys to his excellent and amiable character, to his prose work, the Country Parson, and to the warm and fervent piety which gave a charm to his life, and breathes through all his writings. The following are the lines on 'Virtue' already alluded to, to which we shall add a much more elaborate poem on Sunday.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses
A box where sweets compacted lie;
Thy music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

SUNDAY.

O day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time, care's balm and bay:
The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow;
The worky days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight-forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose, but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies;
The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife-

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,

And did inclose this light for his;

That, as each beast his manger knows,

Man might not of his fodder miss.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground,

And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.