With such deep art, that every one was given
To think Apollo, newly slid from heaven,
Had ta'en a human shape to win his love,
Or with the Western swains for glory strove.
He sung the heroic knights of fairy land,
In lines so elegant, of such command,

That had the Thracian* play'd but half so well,

He had not left Euridice in Hell.

But, ere he ended his melodious song,

An host of angels flew the clouds among,
And rapt this swain from his attentive mates,

To make him one of their associates

In Heaven's fair quire: where now he sings the praise
Of Him that is the first and last of days.
Divinest SPENCER, heaven-bred, happy muse!
Would any power into thy brain infuse
Thy worth, or all that poets had before,
I could not praise till thou desir'st no more.
A damp of wonder and amazement struck
Thetis' attendants; many a heavy look
Follow'd sweet SPENCER, till the thickening air,
Sight's farther passage stop'd. A passionate tear
Fell from each nymph; no shepherd's cheek was dry;
A doleful dirge, and mournful elegy

Flew to the shore. When mighty Nereus' queen,
In memory of what was heard and seen,
Employ'd a factor, fitted well with store
Of richest gems, refined Indian ore,
To raise, in honour of his worthy name,
A piramis, whose head, like winged Fame,

Should pierce the clouds; yea, seem the stars to kiss,
And Mausolus' great tomb might shroud in his.

Her will had been performance, had not Fate,
That never knew how to commiserate,

Suborn'd curs'd Avarice to lie in wait
For that rich prey (gold is a taking bait);
Who closely lurking, like a subtle snake,
Under the covert of a thorny brake,

Seiz'd on the Factor by fair Thetis sent,
And robb'd our Colin of his monument."

Having gone thus far, it would be unfair to omit the praise of Browne himself, by one or two of his cotemporaries.

To his Friend, the Author of the Pastorals. By Michael Drayton.

Drive forth thy flock, young pastor, to that plain, Where our old shepherds wont their flocks to feed; To those clear walks, where many a skilful swain To'ards the calm eyening tun'd his pleasant reed. Those, to the Muses once so sacred, downs,

As no rude foot might there presume to stand; Now made the way of the unworthiest clowns, Digg'd and plough'd up with each unhallow'd hand; If possible thou canst redeem those places, Where, by the brim of many a silver spring, The learned maidens, and delightful Graces, Often have sat to hear our shepherd's sing; Where on those pines, the neighbouring groves among, Now utterly neglected in these days,

Our garlands, pipes, and cornamutes, were hung

The monuments of our deserved praise.

So may thy sheep like, so thy lambs increase,
And from the wolf feed ever safe and free!

So may'st thou thrive amongst the learned prease,
As thou, young shepherd, art belov'd of me!

To

To the same.

So much a stranger, my severer muse

Is not to love-strains, or a shepherd's reed,
But that she knows some rites of Phoebus' dues,
Of Pan, of Pallas, and her sister's meed.
Read, and commend she durst these tun'd essays
Of him that loves her: she bath ever found
Her studies as one circle. Next, she prays

His readers be with rose and myrtle crown'd!
No willow touch them! As his bays are free,
From wrong of bolts, so may their chaplets be!*
J. SELDEN, Juris C.

N° LXVIII.

An Account of Quarles's Emblems, with Specimens.

There is one poet of the reign of Charles the First, whose memory there were several attempts, about twenty years ago, to revive, particularly by Jackson, of Exeter, in his Thirty Letters; but whose poetry has sunk again from the public notice. The person I mean is FRANCIS QUARLES.

His EMBLEMS were once a very popular work, and went through numerous editions. The first edition, as far as I have yet discovered, appeared in 1635. There was an edition in 1643; and probably more

Headley has given a well discriminated, but, perhaps, too severe character of Browne.

Browne was born at Tavistock, in Devonshire, in 1590; and is supposed to have died in 1645. See Wood's Ath. I. 491, &c.

than one, even in the latter half of the following century. These poems cannot boast originality; for in the plan, and frequently, I doubt not, in the very subjects, and even sentiments and expressions, they are imitated from Herman Hugo,* from whom the prints are borrowed:† with an execution, at least, strikingly inferior.

A specimen, amongst the numerous extracts which the various parts of my work exhibit, is due to the ingenious author, and may not be unacceptable to my readers from whose recollection the poet has faded. What I take shall be a fair example; neither his best, nor his worst.

Emblem XII. of Book 2. Galat, vi. 14. God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross.

"Can nothing settle my uncertain breast,
And fix my rambling love?

Can my affections find out nothing best,

But still and still remove?

I have a copy of Hugo's book now lying before me, with the following title: Pia Desideria Emblematis Elegiis & Affectibus SS. Patrum illustrata, Authore Hermanno Hugone, Societatis Jesu ad Urbanum VIII. Pont. Max, Vulgavit Boetius a Bolswert typis Henrici Aertesenii Antwerpiæ M DCXXIII. cum gratia et privilegio. Sm. 8vo, A translation appeared at London, 1686, by Edm. Arwaker, M.A. Several emblem-writers had previously appeared: as Alciatus, whose emblems were translated by Dr, Andrew Willet. See Cens. Lit. I. 312. We had also, in England, Geoffrey Whitney; and about the same time with Quarles appeared the Emblems of George Wither, 1635, fol.

The prints of Books III. ¡V. and V. are copied in regular succes sien from Hugo; but in a vile manner, Now and then a very minute variation occu's; and they are all reversed. The verses seem to be sometimes translations; sometimes imitations; and sometimes original. But I have not time, while preparing this paper, to read them through, and compare them regularly.

Has

Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest

Receive my restless dove?

Is there no good, than which there's nothing higher,

To bless my full desire

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 wealth to charm my sullen breast;
And who more brisk than I?

I wanted fame, to glorify the rest;
My fame flew eagle-bigh :

My joy not fully ripe; but all decay'd;

Wealth vanish'd like a shade;

My mirth began to flag; my fame began to fade.

III.

The world's an ocean, hurried to and fro

With every blast of passion;

Her lustful streams, when either ebb or flow,

Are tides of man's vexation:

They alter daily; and they daily grow

The worse by alteration;

The earth's a cask full tunn'd, yet wanting measure;

Her precious wine is pleasure,

Her yest is honour's puff; her lees are worldly treasure.

IV.

My trust is in the Cross: let beauty flag

Her loose, her wanton sail;

Let count'nance-guiding honour cease to brag,

In courtly terms and veil;

Let ditch-bred wealth henceforth forget to wag

Her base, tho' golden tail;"

False