WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

BORN 1611; DIED 1643.

THE early death of this brilliant young man put a period to a career of the highest promise. His diligence was equal to the vivacity of his parts; he was thought equally admirable as a poet and a preacher : the wits, the courtiers, and the divines of his time joined in his praise while living; and all who could feel, or desired to be thought to feel, for the departure of learning and genius, were emulous to hang a garland upon his tomb. The writings of CARTWRIGHT possess ease, sweetness, and playfulness of fancy; but, judging them with the impartial coolness of posthumous criticism, it is impossible not to ascribe a considerable portion of their effect upon his contemporaries to the prejudice raised in favour of the poet, by the fascinating temper and conversation which were universally acknowledged in the man. Like most of the wits of those times, Cartwright wrote for the stage.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

CONSIDERATION.

FOOL that I was, that little of my span
Which I have sinn'd, until it styles me man,
I counted life till now; henceforth I'll say,
"Twas but a drowsy ling'ring or delay:
Let it forgotten perish, let none tell
What I then was-to live is to live well.
Off then, thou old man, and give place unto
The Ancient of Days! Let him renew

Mine age like to the eagle's, and endow

My breast with innocence; that he whom thou
Hast made a man of sin, and subtly sworn
A vassal to thy tyranny, may turn
Infant again, and having all of child,
Want wit hereafter to be so beguil❜d.
O Thou, that art the way! direct me still
In this long tedious pilgrimage; and till
Thy voice be born, lock up my looser tongue-
He only is best grown that's thus turned young.

CONFESSION.

I DO confess, O God! my wandering fires
Are kindled, not from zeal, but loose desires;
My ready tears, shed from instructed eyes,
Have not been pious griefs, but subtleties;
And only sorry that sins miss, I owe
To thwarted wishes all the sighs I blow :
My fires thus merit fire; my tears the fall
Of showers provoke; my sighs for blasts do call.
O, then, descend in fire! but let it be
Such as snatch'd up the prophet; such as we
Read of in Moses' bush; a fire of joy,
Sent to enlighten, rather than destroy.
O, then, descend in showers! but let them be
Showers only, and not tempests; such as we
Feel from the morning's eye-lids; such as feed,
Not choke, the sprouting of the tender seed.
O, then descend in blasts! but let them be
Blasts only, and not whirlwinds; such as we
Take in for health's sake; soft and easy breaths,
Taught to convey refreshments, and not deaths.
So shall the fury of my fires assuage,

And that turn fervour which was brutish rage;
So shall my tears be then untaught to feign,
And the diseased waters healed again;

So shall my sighs not be as clouds to invest My sins with might, but winds to purge my breast.

ALEXANDER ROSSE

A NAME which the well-known ludicrous rhyme in Hudibras has made a familiar by-word to many who little suspect that he who bore it was a learned and estimable divine, and a most acute metaphysician. ROSSE was one of King Charles the First's Chaplains. He wrote many books, in Latin and in English-in prose and verse. The two little poems which follow are taken from his "Mel Heliconium; or poetical Honey gathered out of the Weeds of Parnassus"'--a well-intended and ingeniously executed attempt to spiritualize, and impart a Christian sense and application to the Greek and Roman Mythology.