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Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?

Pr’ythee why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't ?
Pr'ythee, why so mute ?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her ;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

BORN 1618-DIED 1658.

There is something peculiarly affecting in the fate of this

gallant cavalier, and tender and elegant poet. He was the eldest son of Sir William Lovelace of Woolwich, in Kent, and, according to the old censor, Wood, who seldom overpraises poets or poetry, “was the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld,-a person of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, and much admired by the fair sex." Lovelace was for some time in the army, and in early youth suffered a long imprisonment for presenting a petition to the House of Commons, from the county of Kent, praying for the restoration of the King to his rights. He spent almost his whole fortune in the royal cause, and, when it had perished, raised a regiment for the French King, of which he was colonel. In an engagement Lovelace was severely wounded, and the lady to whom he was devoted, married, in the alleged belief that he had died of his wounds. Lovelace afterwards returned to England, and was again imprisoned on suspicion. He died at last at freedom, but in great poverty and obscurity, in a poor lodging near Shoe-Lane, London,

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.
When love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates ;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd to her eye, -
The “ birds,” (a) that wanton in the air,

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,

Our hearts with loyal flames ;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my king ;

(a) In the original it is “ gods." The correction, which is very happy, is Dr Percy's.

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,Enlarged winds that curl the flood

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,-
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

TO A ROSE.

SWEET, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower :

From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven;

Love's couch's coverlid :
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

*

See! rosy is her bower,
Her floor is all this flower ;

Her bed a rosy nest,
By a bud of roses prest.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair

Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious tear, Dropp'd thee from heav'n, where now thou’rt

rear'd.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire

To thy carved acorn-bed to lie,

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd ;

Ceres and Bacchus bid good night ; Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd,

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now, green ice ; thy joys

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poize

Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore,
I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Lov'd I not honour more.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

DIED ABOUT 1650.

CRASHAW, a Catholic priest, is chiefly distinguished as a

sacred poet. He is perhaps the most purely poetical of all the devotional lyrists, and the more his writings are perused the more they will be relished. (a)

(a) The mere merits of this neglected and beautiful writer will be better appreciated from the specimens given of his poetry in the volume of Specimens of Sacred and Serious Poetry, than from the following extracts.

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