SEA-WEED.

Or, of an agitated voice, that followed him like the voice of a spirit, mysterious and persuasive:

"Oh, believe in the Good Will Doctrine!"

Not always unimpeded can I pray,Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim:Too closely clings the burden of the day,And all the mint and anise that I payBut swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.Shall I less patience have than Thou, who knowThat Thou revisit'st all who wait for Thee,Nor only fill'st the unsounded depths belowBut dost refresh with measured overflowThe rifts where unregarded mosses be?The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed,Far and more far the waves' receding shocks,Nor doubts, through all the darkness and the mistThat the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst,And shoreward lead once more her foam-fleeced flocks.For the same wave that laps the Carib shoreWith momentary curves of pearl and gold,Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roarThe lorn shells camped on rocks of Labrador,By love divine on that glad errand rolled.And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw,I, too, can wait and feed on hopes of Thee,And of the dear recurrence of thy Law,Sure that the parting grace which morning saw,Abides its time to come in search of me.

Shall I less patience have than Thou, who knowThat Thou revisit'st all who wait for Thee,Nor only fill'st the unsounded depths belowBut dost refresh with measured overflowThe rifts where unregarded mosses be?

The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed,Far and more far the waves' receding shocks,Nor doubts, through all the darkness and the mistThat the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst,And shoreward lead once more her foam-fleeced flocks.

For the same wave that laps the Carib shoreWith momentary curves of pearl and gold,Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roarThe lorn shells camped on rocks of Labrador,By love divine on that glad errand rolled.

And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw,I, too, can wait and feed on hopes of Thee,And of the dear recurrence of thy Law,Sure that the parting grace which morning saw,Abides its time to come in search of me.

"Hope, by the ancients, was drawn in the form of a sweet and beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-leaved grass in her hand."Citation from old Peacham in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary.

"Hope, by the ancients, was drawn in the form of a sweet and beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-leaved grass in her hand."

Citation from old Peacham in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary.

Three names, clustered together in more than one marked association, have a pleasant fragrance in English literature. A triple-leaved clover in a field thickly studded with floral beauties, the modest merits ofHerbert, VaughanandCrashaw

"Smell sweet and blossom in the dust"—

endeared to us not merely by the claim of intellect, but by the warmer appeal to the heart, of kindred sympathy and suffering. True poets, they have placed in their spiritual alembic the common woes and sorrows of life, and extracted from them "by force of their so potent art," a cordial for the race.

Has it ever occurred to the reader to reflect how much the world owes to the poets in the alleviation of sorrow? It is much to hear the simple voice of sympathy in its plainest utterances from the companions around us; it is something to listen to the same burden from the good of former generations, as the universal experience of humanity; but we owe the greatest debt to those who by the graces of intellect and the pains of a profounder passion, have triumphed over affliction, and given eloquence to sorrow.

There is a common phrase, which some poet must first have invented—"the luxury of woe." Poets certainly have found their most constant themes in suffering. When the late Edgar Poe, who prided himself on reducing literature to an art, sat down to write a poem which should attain the height of popularity, he said sorrow must be its theme, and wrote "The Raven." Tragedy will always have a deeper hold upon the public than comedy; it appeals to deeper principles, stirs more powerful emotions, imparts an assured sense of strength, is more intimate with our nature, or certainly it would not be tolerated. There is no delight in the exhibition of misery as such, it is only painful and repulsive; we discard all vulgar horrors utterly, and keep no place for them in the mind. Let,however, a poet touch the string, and there is another response when he brings before us pictures of regal grief, and gives grandeur to humiliation and penalty. Nor is it only in the higher walks of tragedy, with its pomp and circumstances of action, that the poet here serves us. His humbler minstrelsy has soothed many an English heart from the tale of "Lycidas" to the elegiac verse of Tennyson. George Herbert still speaks to this generation as two centuries ago he spoke to his own. His quaint verses gather new beauties from time as they come to us redolent with the prayers and aspirations of many successions of the wives, mothers and daughters of England and America; bedewed with the tears of orphans and parents; an incitement to youth, a solace to age, a consolation for humanity to all time.

These have been costly gifts to our benefactors. "I honor," says Vaughan, "that temper which can lay by the garland when he might keep it on; which can pass by a rosebud and bid it grow when he is invited to crop it." This is the spirit of self-devotion in every worthy action, and especially of the pains and penalties by which poets have enriched our daily life. We are indebted to the poets, too, for something more than the alleviation of sorrow. Perhaps it is, upon the whole, a rarergift to improve prosperity. Joy, commonly, is less of a positive feeling than grief, and is more apt to slip by us unconsciously. Few people, says the proverb, know when they are well off. It is the poet's vocation to teach the world this—

—"to be possess'd with double pomp,To guard a title that was rich before,To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet."

The poet lifts our eyes to the beauties of external nature, educates us to a keener participation in the sweet joys of affection, to the loveliness and grace of woman, to the honor and strength of manhood. His ideal world thus becomes an actual one, as the creations of imagination first borrowed from sense, alight from the book, the picture or the statue once again to live and walk among us.

The resemblances which have induced us to bring together our sacred triumvirate of poets, are the common period in which they lived, their similar training in youth, a congenial bond of learning, a certain generous family condition, the inspiration of the old mother church out of which they sprung, the familiar discipline of sorrow, the early years in which they severally wrote.

A brief glance at their respective lives may indicate still further these similarities and point a moral which needs not many words to express—which seems to us almost too sacred to be loudly or long dwelt upon.

Herbert was the oldest of the band, having been born near the close of the sixteenth century, in the days of James, who was an intelligent patron of the family. The poet's brother, the learned Lord Herbert of Cherbury, whose "Autobiography" breathes the fresh manly spirit of the best days of chivalry, was the king's ambassador to France. George Herbert, too, was in a fair way to this court patronage, when his hopes were checked by the death of the monarch. It is a circumstance, this court favor, worth considering in the poet's life, as the antecedent to his manifold spirit of piety. Nothing is more noticeable than the wide, liberal culture of the old English poets; they were first, men, often skilled in affairs, with ample experience in life, and then—poets.

Herbert's education was all that care and affection could devise. "He spent," says his amiable biographer, Izaak Walton, "much of his childhood in a sweet content under the eye and care of his prudent mother, and the tuition of a chaplain or tutor to him and two of his brothers in her ownfamily." At Cambridge he became orator to the University, gained the applause of the court by his Latin orations, and what is more, secured the friendship of such men as Bishop Andrews, Dr. Donne, and the model diplomatist of his age, Sir Henry Wotton. The completion of his studies and the failure of court expectations were followed by a passage of rural retirement—a first pause of the soul previous to the deeper conflicts of life. His solitariness was increased by sickness, a period of meditation and devotional feeling, assisted by the intimations of a keen spirit in a feeble body—and out of the furnace came forth Herbert the priest and saint. All that knowledge can inspire, all that tenderness can endear, centres about that picture of the beauty of holiness, his brief pastoral career—as we read it in his prose writings and his poems, and the pages of Walton—at the little village of Bemerton. He died at the age of thirty-nine—his gentle spirit spared the approaching conflicts of his country, which pressed so heavily upon the Church which he loved.

The poems of Herbert are now read throughout the world; no longer confined to that Church which inspired them. They are echoed at times in the pulpits of all denominations, while their practical lines are, if we remember rightly, scattered amongthe sage aphorisms of Poor Richard, and their wide philosophy commends itself to the genius of Emerson.

It is pleasant in these old poets to admire what has been admired by others—to read the old verses with the indorsement of genius. The name adds value to the bond. Coleridge, for instance, whose "paper," in a mercantile sense, would have been, on "change," the worst in England, has given us many of these notable "securities." They live in his still echoing "Table-Talk," and are sprinkled generously over his writings—while what record is there of the "good," the best financial names of the day? One sonnet of Herbert was an especial favorite with Coleridge. It was that heart-searching, sympathizing epitome of spiritual life, entitled

"Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!Parents first season us; then school-mastersDeliver us to laws; they send us boundTo rules of reason, holy messengers."Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,Bibles laid open, millions of surprises."Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness.The sound of Glory ringing in our ears:Without, our shame; within, our consciences:Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears."Yet all these fences and their whole array,One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away."

"Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!Parents first season us; then school-mastersDeliver us to laws; they send us boundTo rules of reason, holy messengers.

"Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,Bibles laid open, millions of surprises.

"Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness.The sound of Glory ringing in our ears:Without, our shame; within, our consciences:Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

"Yet all these fences and their whole array,One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away."

These poems, it should be remembered, are private devotional heart-confessions, not written for sale, for pay or reputation; they were not printed at all during the author's life, but were brought forth by faithful friends from the sacred coffer of his dying-room, in order that posterity might know the secret of that honorable life and its cheerful end. Izaak Walton has given a beautiful setting to one stanza from the eloquent ode "Sunday." "The Sunday before his death," his biographer tells us, "he rose suddenly from his bed or couch, called for one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and said:

"'My God, my GodMy music shall find thee,And every stringShall have his attribute to sing.

And having tuned it, he played and sung:

"'The Sundays of man's life,Threaded together on time's string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal glorious King.On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope;Blessings are plentiful and rife;More plentiful than hope.'

"Thus he sung on earth such hymns and anthems as the angels and he, and Mr. Farrer, now sing in heaven."

As we have fallen upon this personal, biographical vein, and as the best key to a man's poetry is to know the man and what he may have encountered, we may cite the poem entitled "The Pearl." It is compact of life and experience: we see the courtier and the scholar ripening into the saint; the world not forgotten or ignored, but its best pursuits calmly weighed, fondly enumerated and left behind, as steps of the celestial ladder.

"I know the ways of learning; both the headAnd pipes that feed the press, and make it run;What reason hath from nature borrowed,Or of itself, like a good housewife, spunIn laws and policy; what the stars conspire;What willing nature speaks, what forc'd by fire;Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas;The stock and surplus, cause and history:All these stand open, or I have the keys:Yet I love thee."I know the ways of honor, what maintainsThe quick returns of courtesy and wit:In vies of favor whether party gains,When glory swells the heart and mouldeth itTo all expressions both of hand and eye,Which on the world a true-love knot may tie,And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes:How many drams of spirits there must beTo sell my life unto my friends or foes:Yet I love thee."I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,The lullings and the relishes of it;The propositions of hot blood and brains;What mirth and music mean; what love and witHave done these twenty hundred years, and more;I know the projects of unbridled store:My stuff is flesh, not grass; my senses live,And grumble oft, that they have more in meThan he that curbs them, being but one to five:Yet I love thee."I know all these, and have them in my hand;Therefore not sealed, but with open eyesI fly to thee, and fully understandBoth the main sale, and the commodities;And at what rate and price I have thy love;With all the circumstances that may move:Yet through the labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,But thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me,Did both conduct and teach me, how, by it,To climb to thee."

"I know the ways of honor, what maintainsThe quick returns of courtesy and wit:In vies of favor whether party gains,When glory swells the heart and mouldeth itTo all expressions both of hand and eye,Which on the world a true-love knot may tie,And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes:How many drams of spirits there must beTo sell my life unto my friends or foes:Yet I love thee.

"I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,The lullings and the relishes of it;The propositions of hot blood and brains;What mirth and music mean; what love and witHave done these twenty hundred years, and more;I know the projects of unbridled store:My stuff is flesh, not grass; my senses live,And grumble oft, that they have more in meThan he that curbs them, being but one to five:Yet I love thee.

"I know all these, and have them in my hand;Therefore not sealed, but with open eyesI fly to thee, and fully understandBoth the main sale, and the commodities;And at what rate and price I have thy love;With all the circumstances that may move:Yet through the labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,But thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me,Did both conduct and teach me, how, by it,To climb to thee."

A splendid retrospect this of a short life: andwith what accurate knowledge of art, science, policy, literature, of powers of body and mind. Herbert's poems are full of this sterling sense and philosophical reflection—the mintage of a master mind.

Addison's version of the twenty-third Psalm has entered into every household and penetrated every heart by its sweetness and pathos. There is equal gentleness and sincerity in Herbert's:

"The God of love my shepherd is,And he that doth me feed.While he is mine, and I am his,What can I want or need?"He leads me to the tender grass,Where I both feed and rest;Then to the streams that gently pass:In both I have the best."Or if I stray, he doth convert,And bring my mind in frameAnd all this not for my desert,But for his holy name."Yea, in death's shady, black abodeWell may I walk, not fear:For thou art with me, and thy rodTo guide, thy staff to bear."Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,E'en in my en'mies' sight;My head with oil, my cup with wine,Runs over day and night."Surely thy sweet and wond'rous loveShall measure all my days:And as it never shall remove,So neither shall my praise."

"The God of love my shepherd is,And he that doth me feed.While he is mine, and I am his,What can I want or need?

"He leads me to the tender grass,Where I both feed and rest;Then to the streams that gently pass:In both I have the best.

"Or if I stray, he doth convert,And bring my mind in frameAnd all this not for my desert,But for his holy name.

"Yea, in death's shady, black abodeWell may I walk, not fear:For thou art with me, and thy rodTo guide, thy staff to bear.

"Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,E'en in my en'mies' sight;My head with oil, my cup with wine,Runs over day and night.

"Surely thy sweet and wond'rous loveShall measure all my days:And as it never shall remove,So neither shall my praise."

We might linger long with Herbert, gathering the fruits of wisdom and piety from the abundant orchard of his poems, where many a fruit "hangs amiable;" but we must listen to his brethren.

Henry Vaughan was the literary offspring of George Herbert. His life, too, might have been written by good Izaak Walton, so gentle was it, full of all pleasant associations and quiet nobleness, decorated by the love of nature and letters, intimacies with poets, and with that especial touch of nature which always went to the heart of the Complete Angler, a love of fishing—for Vaughan was wont, at times, to skim the waters of his native rivers.

He was born in Wales; the old Roman name of the country conferring upon him the appellation "Silurist"—for in those days local pride and affection claimed the honor of the bard, as the poet himself first gathered strength from the home, earth and sky which concentrated rather than circumscribed his genius. His family was of good old lineage, breathing freely for generations in the upper atmosphere of life, warmed and cheered in a genial sunlight of prosperity. It could stir, too, at the call of patriotism, and send soldiers, as it did, to bite the heroic dust at Agincourt. Another time brought other duties. The poet came into the world in the early part of the seventeenth century, when the great awakening of thought and English intellect was to be followed by stirring action. He was not, indeed, to bear any great part in the senate or the field; but all noble spirits were moved by the issues of the time. To some the voice of the age brought hope and energy; to others, a not ignoble submission. It was perhaps as great a thing to suffer with the Royal Martyr, with all the burning life and traditions of England in the throbbing heart, as to rise from the ruins into the cold ether where the stern soul of Milton could wing its way in self-reliant calmness. Honor is due, as in all great struggles, to both parties. Vaughan's lot was cast with the conquered cause.

His youth was happy, as all poets' should be, and as the genius of all true poets, coupled with that period of life, will go far to make it. There must be early sunshine far the first nurture of that delicate plant: the storm comes afterward to perfectits life. Vaughan first saw the light in a rural district of great beauty. His songs bear witness to it. Indeed he is known by his own designation, a fragrant title in the sweet fields of English poesy, as the Swan of the Usk, though he veiled the title in the thin garb of the Latin, "Olor Iscanus." Another fortunate circumstance was the personal character of his education, at the hands of a rural Welsh rector, with whom, his twin brother for a companion, he passed the years of youth in what, we have no doubt, were pleasant paths of classical literature. How inexhaustible are those old wells of Greek and Roman Letters! The world cannot afford to spare them long. They may be less in fashion at one time than another, but their beauty and life-giving powers are perennial. The Muse of English poesy has always been baptized in their waters.

The brothers left for Oxford at the mature age—not a whit too late for any minds—of seventeen or eighteen. At the University there were other words than the songs of Apollo. The Great Revolution was already on the carpet, and it was to be fought out with weapons not found in the logical armory of Aristotle. The brothers were royalists, of course; and Henry, before the drama was played out, like many good men and true, tasted the inside of aprison—doubtless, like Lovelace and Wither, singing his heartfelt minstrelsy behind the wires of his cage. He was not a fighting man. Poets rarely are. More than one lyrist—as Archilochus and Horace may bear witness—has thrown away his shield on the field of battle. Vaughan wisely retired to his native Wales. Jeremy Taylor, too, it may be remembered, was locking up the treasures of his richly-furnished mind and passionate feeling within the walls of those same Welsh hills. Nature, alone, however, is inadequate to the production of a true poet. Even Wordsworth, the most patient, absorbed of recluses, had his share of education in London and travel in foreign cities. Vaughan, too, early found his way, in visits, to the metropolis, where he heard at the Globe Tavern the last echoes of that burst of wit and knowledge which had spoken from the tongue and kindled in the eye of Shakspeare, Spenser and Raleigh. Ben Jonson was still alive, and the young poets who flocked to him, as a later age worshipped Dryden, were all "sealed of the tribe of Ben." Randolph and Cartwright were his friends.

Under these early inspirations of youth, nature, learning, witty companionship, Vaughan published his first verses—breathing a love of his art and its pleasures of imagination, paying his tribute to hispaternal books in "Englishing," the "Tenth Satyre of Juvenal," and not forgetting, of course, the lovely "Amoret." A young poet without a lady in his verse is a solecism which nature abhors. All this, however, as his biographer remarks, "though fine in the way of poetic speculation, would not do for every-day practice." Of course not; and the young "swan" turned his wary feet from the glittering stream to the solid land. The poet became a physician. It was a noble art for such a spirit to practise, and not a very rude progress from youthful poesy if he felt and thought aright. There was a sterner change in store, however, and it came to him with the monition, "Physician, heal thyself!" He was prostrated by severe bodily disease, and thenceforth his spirit was bowed to the claims of the unseen world. The "light amorist" found a higher inspiration. He turned his footsteps to the Temple and worshipped at the holy altar of Herbert. His poetry becomes religious. "Sparks from the Flint" is the title which he gives his new verses, "Silex Scintillans." After that pledge to holiness given to the world, he survived nearly half a century, dying at the mature age of seventy-three—a happy subject of contemplation in the bosom of his Welsh retirement, passing quietly down the vale of life, feeding his spirit on the early-gatheredharvest of wit, learning, taste, feeling, fancy, benevolence and piety.

Of such threads was the life of our poet spun.

His verse is light, airy, flying with the lark to heaven. Hear him with "his singing robes" about him:

"I would I were some bird or star,Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted farAbove this innAnd road of sin!Then either star or bird should beShining or singing still to thee."

In this song of "Peace"—

"My soul, there is a countryAfar beyond the stars,Where stands a winged sentryAll skillful in the wars.There, above noise and danger,Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,And one born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious friend,And (oh, my soul awake!)Did in pure love descend,To die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of peace,The rose that cannot wither,Thy fortress and thy ease.Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secure,But one, who never changes—Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure."

Or in that kindred ode, full of "intimations of immortality received in childhood," entitled, "The Retreat:"

"Happy those early days, when IShin'd in my angel infancy!Before I understood this place,Appointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white, celestial thought;When yet I had not walkt aboveA mile or two from my first love,And looking back, at that short space,Could see a glimpse of his bright face;When on some gilded cloud or flowerMy gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity;Before I taught my tongue to woundMy conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.Oh how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th' enlight'ned spirit seesThat shady city of palm-trees.But, ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return."

Here is a picture of the angel-visited world of Eden, not altogether destroyed by the Fall, when

"Each dayThe valley or the mountainAfforded visits, and still Paradise layIn some green shade or fountain.Angels lay lieger here: each bush and cell,Each oak and highway knew them;Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,And he was sure to view them."

Vaughan's birds and flowers gleam with light from the spirit land. This is the opening of a little piece entitled "The Bird:"

"Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all nightBlew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wingThy pillow was. Many a sullen storm,For which coarse man seems much the fitter born,Rain'd on thy bedAnd harmless head;And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light,Thy little heart in early hymns doth singUnto that Providence, whose unseen armCurb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm."

How softly the image of the little bird again tempers the thought of death in his ode to the memory of the departed:

"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may knowAt first sight if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown."

But we must leave this fair garden of the poet's fancies. The reader will find there many a flower yet untouched.

Richard Crashaw was the contemporary of the early years of Vaughan; for, alas! he died young—though not till he had transcribed for the world the hopes, the aspirations, the sorrows of his troubled life. He lived but thirty-four years—the volume of his verses is not less nor more than the kindred books of the brother poets with whom we are now associating his memory. A small body of verse will hold much life; for the poet gives us a concentrated essence, an elixir, a skillful confection of humanity, which, diluted with the commonplaces of every-day thought and living, may cover wholeshelves of libraries. The secret of the whole of one life may be expressed in a song or a sonnet. The little books of the world are not the least.

Crashaw, also, was a scholar. The son of a clergy-man, he was educated at the famed Charter-house and afterward at Cambridge. The Revolution, too, overtook him. He refused the oath of the covenant, was ejected from his fellowship, became a Roman Catholic, and took refuge in Paris, where he ate the bread of exile with Cowley and others, cheered by the noble sympathy—it could not be much more—of Queen Henrietta Maria. She recommended him to Rome, and the sensitive poet carried his joys and sorrows to the bosom of the church. He lived a few years, and died canon of Loretto, at the age of thirty-four.

Though the son of a zealous opponent of the Roman church, Crashaw was born with an instinct and heart for its service. There runs through all his poetry that sensuousness of feeling which seeks the repose and luxury of faith which Rome always offers to her ardent votaries. It is profitable to compare the sentiment of Crashaw with the more intellectual development of Herbert. What in the former is the paramount, constant exhibition, in the latter is accepted, and holds its place subordinate to other claims. Without a portion of it therecould be no deep religious life—with it, in excess, we fear for the weakness of a partial development. There is so much gain, however, to the poet, that we have no disposition to take exception to the single string of Crashaw. The beauty of the Venus was made up from the charms of many models. So, in our libraries, as in life, we must be content with parcel-work, and take one man's wisdom and another's sentiment, looking out that we get something of each to enrich our multifarious life.

Crashaw's poetry is one musical echo and aspiration. He finds his theme and illustration constantly in music. His amorous descant never fails him: his lute is always by his side. Following the "Steps of the Temple," a graceful tribute to Herbert, we have the congenial title, "The Delights of the Muses," opening with that exquisite composition:

"Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony,"

"Music's Duel." It is the story—a favorite one to the ears of our forefathers two centuries ago—of the nightingale and the musician contending with voice and instrument in alternate melodies, till the sweet songstress of the grove falls and dies upon the lute of her rapt rival. It is something more than a pretty tale. Ford, the dramatist, introducedit briefly in happy lines in "The Lover's Melancholy," but Crashaw's verses inspire the very sweetness and lingering pleasure of the contest. It is high noon when the "sweet lute's master" seeks retirement from the heat, "on the scene of a green plat, under protection of an oak," by the bank of the Tiber. The "light-foot lady,"

"The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,"

"entertains the music's soft report," which begins with a flying prelude, to which the lady of the tree "carves out her dainty voice" with "quick volumes of wild notes."

"His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string,A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them singTo their own dance."

She

"Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun noteThrough the sleek passage of her open throat:A clear, unwrinkled song."

The contention invites every art of expression. The highest powers of the lute are evoked in rapid succession closing with a martial strain:

"this lesson, too,She gives him back, her supple breast thrills outSharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubtOf dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill,The pliant series of her slippery song;Then starts she suddenly into a throngOf short thick sobs, whose thund'ring vollies float,And roll themselves over her lubric throatIn panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nestOf her delicious soul, that there does lieBathing in streams of liquid melody,Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airsA golden-headed harvest fairly rearsHis honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath,Which there reciprocally laboreth.In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire,Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre;Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notesOf sweet-lipp'd angel imps, that swill their throatsIn cream of morning Helicon; and thenPrefer soft anthems to the ears of men,To woo them from their beds, still murmuringThat men can sleep while they their matins sing."

What wealth of imagery and proud association of ideas—the bubbling spring, the golden, waving harvest, "ploughed by her breath"—the fane of Apollo suggesting in a word images of Greek maidens in chorus by the white temple of the God, the dew of Helicon, the soft waking of men from beneficent repose. It is all very well to talk of abird doing all this: we admire nightingales, but Philomela never enchanted us in this way; it is the sex with which we are charmed. The poet's "light-foot lady" tells us the secret. We are subdued by the loveliest of prima-donnas.

There is more of this, and as good. The little poem is a poet's dictionary of musical expression. Its lines, less than two hundred, deserve to be committed to memory, to rise at times in the mind—the soft assuagement of cares and sorrows.

A famous poem of Crashaw is "On a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M.R." It breathes a divine ecstasy of the sacred ode:

"Delicious deaths, soft exhalationsOf soul; dear and divine annihilations;A thousand unknown ritesOf joys, and rarefied delights."

It is human passion sublimated and refined to the uses of heaven, but human passion still—the very luxury of religion—the rapture of earth-born seraphs, as he sings with venturous exultation:

"The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasuresOf pure inebriating pleasures:Happy proof she shall discover,What joy, what bliss,How many heavens at once it is,To have a God become her lover!"

Mrs. M.R., whether maid or widow we know not—in Crashaw's day virgins were called Mistress—has another poem addressed to her—"Counsel concerning her choice." It alludes to some check or hindrance in love, and asks:

"Dear, heav'n-designed soul!Amongst the restOf suitors that besiege your maiden breast,Why may not IMy fortune try,And venture to speak one good word,Not for myself, alas! but for my dearer Lord?

Your first choice fails; oh, when you choose again,May it not be among the sons of men!"

This is the language of devotional rapture common to the extremes of the religious world—Methodism and Roman Catholicism. Every one has heard the ardent hymn by Newton—"The Name of Jesus," and that stirring anthem, "The Coronation of Christ"—few have read the eloquent production of the canon of Loretto, a canticle from the flaming heart of Rome, addressed "To the name above every name, the name of Jesus."

"Pow'rs of my soul, be proud!And speak loudTo all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name;And in the wealth of one rich word proclaimNew smiles to nature.

Sweet name, in thy each syllableA thousand blest Arabias dwell;A thousand hills of frankincense,Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,And ten thousand paradises,The soul that tastes thee takes from thence,How many unknown worlds there areOf comforts, which thou hast in keeping!How many thousand mercies thereIn Pity's soft lap lie asleeping!"

Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the very gallantry of piety. He addresses "the noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Denbigh," who had been his patroness in exile, "persuading her to resolution in religion."

"What heaven-entreated heart is thisStands trembling at the gate of bliss.

What magic bolts, what mystic barsMaintain the will in these strange wars!What fatal, what fantastic bandsKeep the free heart from its own hands!So, when the year takes cold, we seePoor waters their own prisoners be;Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lieIn a sad self-captivity;Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore,To see themselves their own severer shore.

Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lieIn a sad self-captivity;Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore,To see themselves their own severer shore.

Disband dull fears; give Faith the day;To save your life, kill your delay;It is Love's siege, and sure to beYour triumph, though his victory."

His poem, "The Weeper," shoots the prismatic hues of the rainbow athwart the veil of fast-falling tears:

"Hail sister springs,Parents of silver-footed rills!Ever bubbling things!Thawing crystal! snowy hills!Still spending, never spent; I meanThy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

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