That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid! * I'll seek him there! I know, ere this, Pray, hurt him not! though he be dead He knows well who do love him; And who with green-turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender-pray, take heed!- THOMAS STANLEY, THE very learned editor of Eschylus, and author of "The History of Philosophy," was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knt., of Cumberlow-green in Hertfordshire, and nephew to Sandys, the traveller and poet. He pursued his studies, first at home, and afterwards in Pembroke-hall, Cambridge, under the direction of Mr. Wm. Fairfax, son to the celebrated translator of Tasso. Having continued at the University till he had taken the degree of A.M., and been admitted to the same at Oxford, 1640, he then travelled in foreign countries and on his return lived, during part of the civil wars, in the Middle Temple. He was the friend of Shirley, Sherburne, Hall, and Suckling. His poems, printed in 1651, 12mo, consist principally of translations, with a few original compositions, from which the following specimens are borrowed. He married when young, and died in 1678. : Phillips, after commending his other works, adds, that Stanley was "particularly honoured for his smooth air and gentile spirit in poetry; which appears not only in his own genuine poems, but also from what he hath so well translated out of ancient Greek, and modern Italian, Spanish, and French poets, as to make his own." See Langbaine, Wood's Fasti, i. 284, and the Biographia Britannica. VOL. III. U The Deposition. THOUGH, when I lov'd thee, thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so : Those glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe. Beauties, like stars, in borrow'd lustre shine And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye Love's fires thus mutual influence return; Then, proud Celinda, hope no more And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find Love's Heretic. HE whose active thoughts disdain Or else more would undergo; Let him learn the art of me What tyrannic mistress dare To one beauty love confine? All may court, but none decline. Wheresoe'er I turn or move A new passion doth detain me ; Those kind beauties that do love, Or those proud ones that disdain me. This frown melts, and that smile burns me; This to tears, that ashes turns me. Soft fresh virgins, not full-blown, With their youthful sweetness take me; Sober matrons, that have known Long since what these prove, awake me; Here, staid coldness I admire, There, the lively active fire. She that doth by skill dispense Or the harmless innocence Which nor court nor city knows, Both alike my soul inflame, That wild beauty, and this tame. She that wisely can adorn Nature with the wealth of art, Both the wanton and the coy She whose loosely flowing hair, Scatter'd like the beams o' th' morn, Playing with the sportive air Hides the sweets it doth adorn, Captive in the net restrains me, In those golden fetters chains me. Nor doth she with power less bright Whose soft tresses spread, like night, O'er her shoulders a black shade; |