Yon hills of Gilboa, never may You offerings pay; No morning dew, nor fruitful showers, Clothe you with flowers: Saul and his arms there made a spoil, As if untouched with sacred oil. The bow of noble Jonathan Great battles wan; His arrows on the mighty fed, Saul never raised his arm in vain, How lovely! O how pleasant! when Than eagles swifter; stronger far Whom love in life so strongly tied, Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul; Who fed you with the earth's increase, With robes of Tyrian purple decked, How are thy worthies by the sword O Jonathan! the better part Of my torn heart! The savage rocks have drunk thy blood: Thy love was great; O never more No woman when most passionate, How are the mighty fallen in fight! FRANCIS QUARLES. FRANCIS QUARLES was born at Stewards, near Romford, Essex, in 1592. He received his early education at a country school, and was subsequently entered of Christ's College, Cambridge, from whence he went to Lincoln's Inn, where "he studied," says his widow, "the laws of England, not so much out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbours, and to compose suits and differences between them." Though early introduced at court, the principal part of the life of Quarles was spent in retirement, in the composition of his various works. He died in 1644. Mr. Montgomery says, "There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than that of Quarles,-wronged, too, by those who ought best to have discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits, in contradistinction to his defects." Quarles certainly was a writer of great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. It is true his writings are defaced by vulgarisms, and deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his defects. THE WORLD. SHE is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there Thy vain inquiry can at length but find A blast of murmuring wind: It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunned with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't; Shall sooner melt, and hardest rauncel shall first Dissolve and quench the thirst, 1 A dry crust. Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast Thou may'st as well expect meridian light From shades of black-mouthed Night, As in this empty world to find a full delight. She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; Of flatuous honour should perchance be there, And whisper in thine ear? It is but wind, and blows but where it list, Poor honour earth can give! What generous mind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind? She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball The painted film but of a stronger bubble, It is a world whose work and recreation Is vanity and vexation; A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, A quest-house of complaint. It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Revived with living death? Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds Than what dull flesh propounds: Trust not this hollow world; she is empty: hark! she sounds. GLORYING IN THE CROSS. CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast, Can my affections find out nothing best, Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest Is there no good than which there's nothing higher With joys that never change; with joys that ne'er expire? I wanted wealth, and at my dear request, Earth lent a quick supply; I wanted mirth to charm my sullen breast; I wanted fame to glorify the rest; My fame flew eagle-high; My joy not fully ripe, but all decayed, Wealth vanished like a shade; My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade. My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest, Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed east, Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and wound me, And troops of fiends surround me: All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound me. DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. I LOVE (and have some cause to love,) the earth, She is my mother, for she gave me birth; She is my tender nurse, she gives me food: L. But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee? I love the air; her dainty fruits refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky; Without thy presence, air's a rank infection; Without thy presence, heaven itself no pleasure; If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, The highest honour that the world can boast, But dying sparkles of thy living fire: Without thy presence, wealth is bags of care; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness. |