RORERT HERRICK. 1591-1662. ONE of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662. Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review1 in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. "He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; singing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty." TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Until the hastening day But to the even-song; We have short time to stay, as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again. TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING Dew. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest mon Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower 1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours.” Nor felt th' unkind Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known Ye droop, and weep. Is it for want of sleep; Or, that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER. As Julia once a slumbering lay, It chanced a bee did fly that way, After a dew, or dew-like shower, For some rich flower he took the lip But when he felt he suck'd from thence Honey, and in the quintessence, He drank so much he scarce could stir And thus surprised, as filchers use, THE NIGHT PIECE.-TO JULIA. Whose little eyes glow Like sparks of fire, befriend thee! No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee! Let not the dark thee cumber What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number! Then Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: My soul I'll pour into thee! THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow green, and sickly too? And bending, yet it doth not break? UPON A CHILD THAT DIED. Here she lies, a pretty bud, EPITAPH UPON A CHILD. Virgins promised, when I died, UPON A MAID. Here she lies, in beds of spice, CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631-1664. MRS. CATHERINE PHILIPS was the daughter of John Fowler, a London merchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write after her marriage; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed without her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con temporaries: Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship," and Cowley wrote an ode on her death. She died of the small pox, June 22, 1664, aged thirty-three. AGAINST PLEASURE. There's no such thing as pleasure here, 'Tis all a perfect cheat, Which does but shine and disappear, The empty bribe of yielding souls, 'Tis true, it looks at distance fair, The fruit of Sodom will impair, It being than in fancy less, And we expect more than possess. For by our pleasures we are cloy'd, Or else, like rivers, they make wide We covet pleasure easily, But ne'er true bliss possess; For many things must make it be, But one may make it less. Nay, were our state as we could choose it, What art thou then, thou winged air, And its attendant shame. The experienced prince then reason had, 1 This was the fictitious name under which she addressed her husband, whose circumstances were much reduced during the civil war. The above poem was written March 16, 1600, to cheer him with the hope that, as parliament had rescued him, Providence would do so too. |