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And never feels a perfect peace
Till Death's cold hand signs his release ?

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loose passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,
Which beats his bark with many a wave
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose ;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep;
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enroll’d.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moraliz’d in age and youth ;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are ;
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out
The sun-set, as it moves about ;
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtle stages of time's flight ;

Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include ;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hope and varied fears ;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

SONNET.

To Patience. Down! stormy Passions, down ! no more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing Reason sits, and hides Her from the fury of your tides.

Fall, easy Patience, fall, like rest,
Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast !
And where those rebels you espy,
0! in your silken cordage tie
Their malice up! so shall I raise
Altars to thank your power, and praise
The sovereign virtue of your balm,
Which cures a tempest by a calm.

1 The Surrender. My once dear love, hapless that I no more Must call thee so, the rich affection's store That fed our hopes lies now exhaust and spent, Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent! We,—that did nothing study but the way To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us, and with them set,Must learn the hateful art, how to forget. We,—that did nothing wish that heaven could give Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live Beyond that wish,—all these now cancel must, As if not writ in faith, but words, and dust.

Yet, witness those clear vows which lovers make! Witness the chaste desires that never brake Into unruly hearts! witness that breast Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest! 'Tis no default in us, I dare acquite Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white As thy pure self. Cross planets did envý Us to each other, and heaven did untie Faster than vows could bind— * * * * * * * Like turtle doves Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years. In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself; so thou again art free.

Thou, in another, sad as that, re-send
The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.
Now turn from each : so fare our sever'd hearts
As the divorc'd soul from her body parts.

FRANCIS QUARLES

Was a very voluminous and very popular writer ; and though, as Mr. Headley justly observes," he too often mistook the enthusiasm of devotion for the inspiration of fancy,” he certainly deserved a great part of the reputation for which he was principally indebted to his loyalty and devotion. Mr. Jackson of Exeter, in his “ Thirty Letters,” and Dr. Anderson, in his Life of P. Fletcher, have defended him against the contempt of Pope.

His principal works are his “ Emblems,” “ Divine Poems,” consisting of pieces first published separately, Argalus and Parthenia,” and “ Solomon's Recantation," all of which, especially the “ Emblems,” have passed through various editions. His “Enchiridion," 1658, small 12mo, a collection of brief observations in prose, is highly and deservedly praised by Mr. Headley.

Quarles was of an ancient family, nephew to Sir Robert Quarles ; born 1592 ; educated at Christ's College, Cambridge; studied in Lincoln's Inn; afterwards cup-bearer to the Queen of Bohemia, secretary to the primate of Ireland, and chronologer to the city of London. He died in 1644.

See Mr. Headley's more particular account, as well as the specimens he has given, amply sufficient to vindicate our author's fame.

The following lines, extracted from his “ Shepherd's Oracles," 1646, 4to, will perhaps be thought worth preserving, as they describe with some humour the taste of the Puritans.

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