Scotland, but his little invading army was routed, and he was seized, conveyed to Edinburgh, and there hung and quartered, May 21st, 1650, after the barbarous fashion of the times. Of the following spirited poem there are several corrupt versions.

I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

My dear and only love, I pray

That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy : For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all.

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe :
But 'gainst my batteries if I find

Thon storm, or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,

If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to share with me,—
Or com'mittees if thou erect,

Or go on such a score,

I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more.

But if no faithless action stain

Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword:
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,
And love thee more and more.

Sir John Suckling.

Suckling (1609-1641) was born at Witham, in Middlesex. His father was Secretary of State to James I. The young poet went abroad, and served under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Returning to England, he attempted with others to deliver Strafford from the Tower; for this he was ordered to appear at the bar of the House of Commons, whereupon he set out for France. While stopping at an inn, he was robbed by a servant, who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife inside his master's boot, and when Suckling, in haste, tried to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he died.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, 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!

Sir John Denham.

Denham (1615-1668), son of the Chief-baron of Exchequer in Ireland, was born at Dublin. He was made Governor of Farnham Castle by Charles I., who told him, on seeing one of his poems, "that when men are young, and have little else to do, they may vent the overflowings of their fancy in that way; but when they are thought fit for more serious employments, if they still persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not the way to any better." The poet stood corrected, and his Muse was dumb for a time. His marriage was an unhappy one, and his closing years were darkened by insanity, from which, however, he recovered. His principal poem is "Cooper's Hill," which was highly praised for a few generations, but would hardly have escaped oblivion if produced in these days; but Dryden said of it: "For the majesty of the style it is, and ever will be, the exact standard of good writing;" and Pope extolled it. We quote the well-known passage descriptive of the Thames it is far above anything else in the poem.

DESCRIPTION OF THE THAMES.

FROM "COOPER'S HILL."

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays:
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs;
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold;
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay ;
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil;
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;
First loves to do, then loves the good he does.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind,-
When he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying tours
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants.
So that to us no thing, no place, is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange.
Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not

dull;

Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full!

Samuel Butler.

The son of a Worcestershire farmer, Samuel Butler (1612-1680) is not known to have had a university education. Having lost his wife's fortune through bad investments, he became an author, and published in 1663 the first part of his "Hudibras," a satire launched at the Puritan party. It is indebted for much of its celebrity to public sympathy with its partisan hits. It had a large success, and has been praised as "the best burlesque poem in the English language"-which is not saying much for it. It now has few readers. But it contains several epigrammatic expressions which have become proverbial, and it is rich in wit and wisdom. Butler

died obscurely in his sixty-eighth year, having suffered deeply from that hope deferred which maketh the heart sick.

THE LEARNING OF HUDIBRAS.

He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skilled in analytic.

He could distinguish and divide

A hair 'twixt south and south-west side:
On either which he could dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
He'd undertake to prove, by force

Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;
A calf an alderman; a goose a justice;
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:
All this by syllogism, true

In mood and figure, he would do.
For rhetoric-he could not ope
His month but out there flew a trope.
And when he happened to break off
I' the middle of his speech, or cough,
He'd hard words ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talked like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools.

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech, In loftiness of sound was rich;

A Babylonish dialect,

Which learned pedants much affect.

It was a party-colored dress

Of patched and piebald languages.

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,
Like fustian heretofore on satin.

It had an odd promiscuous tone,
As if he'd talked three parts in one.
Which made some think when he did gabble
They'd heard three laborers of Babel,
Or Cerberus himself pronounce
A leash of languages at once.

FROM "MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS." Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes Than all the magazines of daggers, ropes, And other ammunitions of despair, Were ever able to despatch by fear.

In Rome no temple was so low As that of Honor, built to show How humble honor ought to be, Though there 'twas all authority.

Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, Are only gained by losing of their way.

The truest characters of ignorance

Are vanity and pride and arrogance,

As blind men use to bear their noses higher
Than those that have their eyes and sight entire.

All smatterers are more brisk and pert
Than those that understand an art;
As little sparkles shine more bright
Than glowing coals that give them light.

Love is too great a happiness

For wretched mortals to possess ;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of Fate
Which all felicities below

By rigid laws are subject to,

It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality,

Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to heaven but love.

Jeremy Taylor.

Known chiefly as a theologian, Taylor (1613-1667) was also in the highest sense a poet, as his devotional writings, though in prose, abundantly show. He was a native of Cambridge, and having taken his degree at Caius College, was admitted to holy orders when he was little more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissitades of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bishop by Charles II. in 1661. He seems to have been thoroughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge of his clerical duties.

THY KINGDOM COME.

Lord! come away!

Why dost thou stay?

Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too; and full as dear
As that of Sion, and as full of sin:

Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein :
Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor!
Crucify them, that they may never more

Profane that holy place

Where thou hast chose to set thy face! And then, if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy Deity, The stones out of the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet! Amen!

Henry More.

Henry More (1614-1687), who published in 1642 a "Platonical Song of the Soul," in four books, was six years younger than Milton. He lived a hermit-life at Cambridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of Descartes, and a friend of Cudworth. He wrote various prose works, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" showed that he was a full believer in apparitions and various psychical phenomena. He fully sympathized with Glanvil in his belief that there was a substantial basis of spiritual agency in witchcraft; and he believed that he himself had had superhuman communications. He seems to have adopted the Platonic notion of the soul's pre-existence.

THE PRE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. Rise, then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse! Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. And thou, O Lycian sage! whose pen contains Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire, Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames, That I may also kindle sweet desire In holy minds that unto highest things aspire.

For I would sing the pre-existency
Of human souls, and live once o'er again,
By recollection and quick memory,
All that is past since first we all began;
But all too shallow be my wits to scan

So deep a point, and mind too dull to clear
So dark a matter. But thou, more than man,
Aread, thou sacred soul of Plotin dear;

With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet! Ride on triumphantly! Behold, we lay

Our lasts and proud wills in thy way!

were.

Show fitly how the pre-existent soul Enacts, and enters bodies here below,

And then, entire unhurt, can leave this moul, And thence her airy vehicle can draw,

In which by sense and motion they may know Better than we what things transacted be Upon the earth, and, when they list, may show Themselves to friend or foe-their phantasie Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency.

Wherefore the soul, possessed of matter meet,
If she hath power to operate thereon,
Can eath transform this vehicle to sight,
Dight with due color figuration;

Can speak, can walk, and then dispear anon,
Spreading herself in the disperséd air;
Then, if she please, recall again what's gone:
Those the uncouth mysteries of fancy are,
Than thunder far more strong, more quick than
lightning far.

FROM "THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.”
Sing aloud! His praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.

*

*

*

God is good, is wise, is strong—
Witness all the creature-throng!
Is confessed by every tongue-

All return from whence they sprung,
As the thankful rivers pay
What they borrowed of the sea.

Now myself I do resign:
Take me whole, I all am thine.
God, from self-desire,

Save me,
Death's dark pit, hell's raging fire,
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire!
Let not lust my soul bemire!

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing,
Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O wisdom's sons,
Freed from vain religions!

Richard Baxter.

Born at Rowdon, in Shropshire, Baxter (1615–1691), after some desultory work at school, and a course of private theological study, passed into the ministry of the Church of England. But when the Act of Uniformity was passed in 1662, he left that Church and spent several years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast success. His published writings (1830) fill twenty-three volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well anthenticated instances of supersensual power. He suffered much for his non-conformist principles, and was brought (1684) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivolous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's attempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dost thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, thou art an old fellow, an old knave; thou hast written books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy." A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valediction," appears in several collections: but it is inferior to the hymn we publish; and of which eight only of the eleven four-line stanzas are here given.

THY WILL BE DONE.

Now it belongs not to my care
Whether I die or live;

To love and serve Thee is my share,
And this Thy grace must give.

If death shall bruise the springing seed Before it come to fruit,

The will with Thee goes for the deed, Thy life was in the root.

*

Would I long bear my heavy load, And keep my sorrows long? Would I long sin against my God, And his dear mercy wrong?

How much is sinful flesh my foe,
That doth my soul pervert
To linger here in sin and woe,

And steals from God my heart!

Christ leads me through no darker rooms Than he went through before;

He that unto God's kingdom comes

Must enter by this door.

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet Thy blessed face to see;