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Lovelace, many of his other poems possess a high degree of beauty. His address to the grasshopper is singularly elegant, and so sprinkled over with the sparkling dew of true poetical sensibility, that it requires only to be once read to be ever after remembered, and referred to as one of the happiest specimens of the poetry of fancy."


"O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear,

Dropp'd thee from heav'n, where now thou'rt rear❜d.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams,
And all these merry days makʼst merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd,
And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now, green ice, thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poise
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass."

"And the little ode addressed to the rose is also

as sweet and fanciful as any thing of the kind that the best of our bards have since written."


"Sweet, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower:

From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.


Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven;

Love's couch's coverlid:
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

See! rosy is her bower,
Her floor is all this flower;

Her bed a rosy nest,

By a bud of roses prest."

"I acknowledge,” replied Benedict, "that these are very pretty things; and I am, like you, a little disposed to wonder how compositions of so much merit should have fallen so entirely into oblivion, as to be only known to a few bookworms. I suppose it must be owing to a little degree of quaintness,I would almost say pedantry, which makes the language and imagery not sound quite so pleasantly to our ears as it did to those of our ancestors, when that sort of style was more in unison with the ideas and sentiments then in fashion."

"Ah!" said Egeria, "that is just the way that all the moderns depreciate the merits of their prede


They never think how their own paltry performances will be considered hereafter, but set up a standard of excellence, formed according to a narrow scale of their own, by which they have themselves worked, and will not even allow the grace of success, in having written fashionably according to the taste of the times, to authors who have declined from popularity, although to have written so was nevertheless merit. I scarcely know of one eminent writer, for whom the bad taste of his age is alleged in extenuation of his faults, but Shakspeare; and yet, considering the singular judgment and good sense of that great poet, one should have thought that there was less excuse for him than for his inferiors. But, after all the clatter and criticism that we hear of the Elizabethan age, I hope that some independent editor will yet arise to do justice to the writers of the early part of Charles I.'s reign, particularly to the poets, of whom we never hear mention made, and seldom meet with a quotation. The works of Carew are in themselves a rich treasury of pleasing passages. The following song, in the peculiar fashion of that time, I am sure you will acknowledge, even with the defects of that fashion, is remarkably beautiful.”

"Would you know what's soft? I dare
Not bring you to the down or air ;
Nor to stars to show what's bright;
Nor to snow to teach you white.

Nor, if you would music hear,
Call the orbs to take your ear;
Nor to please your sense bring forth
Bruised nard, or what's more worth.

Or on food were your thoughts placed,
Bring you nectar for a taste:
Would have all these in one,
Name my mistress, and 'tis done."


"And this other is still more curiously elegant."


"Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties' orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither doth stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders, to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies."

"And where will you find a sweeter pastoral, than this sylvan dialogue between a shepherd and a nymph ?"

"Shep. This mossy bank they press'd. Nym. That aged oak

Did canopy the happy pair

All night from the damp air.

Cho. Here let us sit and sing the words they spoke,
Till the day breaking their embraces broke.
Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear,
And now she hangs her pearly store,
(Robb'd from the eastern shore,)
I' th' cowslip's bell, and rose's ear:
Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day,
But show my sun must set; no morn
Shall shine till thou return;

The yellow planets, and the gray

Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light.

Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in ev'ry tear.

Cho. They kiss'd and wept; and from their lips and


In a mix'd dew of briny sweet,

Their joys and sorrows meet;

But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise,

The sun betrays us else to spies.

Shep. The winged hours fly fast, whilst we embrace ;
But when we want their help to meet,
They move with leaden feet.

Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chase

The day for ever from this place.

Shep. Hark! Nym. Ay, me, stay! Shep. For ever.
Nym. No, arise,

We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice.
Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise.

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