Which, that by thy offence I may take heed, I shall with sacred application read.

THE INSCRIPTION.

In this pillar I do lie

Buried where no mortal eye
Ever could my bones descry.

When I saw great Sodom burn,
To this pillar I did turn,
Where my body is my urn.

You to whom my corpse I show,

Take true warning from my woe,

-Look not back when God cries "Go."

They that toward virtue hie,
If but back they cast an eye,
Twice as far do from it flie.

Counsel then I give to those,
Who the path to bliss have chose,
Turn not back, ye cannot lose.

That way let your

whole hearts lie;

If ye let them backward flie,

They'll quickly grow as hard as I.

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On a Good Man.

You, that did love with filial fear
The soul that shines in yonder sphere,
Whose shadow is enshrined here,
-Put on your sackcloth and appear.

You, that are valiant, great and wise,
Attend his sacred obsequies,
For on this holy herse there lies
A theme for tears in unborn eyes.

Although he was not understood,
Yet from his spirit and his blood,
Did flow a fair and fertile flood
Of all that men call great and good.

Religion was his daily guest;

Within the treasure of his breast
Was more than language e'er express'd;
-Angels can only tell the rest.

On the incomparable treasure of the Holy Scriptures. [Motto to Barker's folio edition of the Bible, 1616,]

HERE is the Spring where waters flowe
To quench our heate of sinne;

Here is the tree where truth doth grow,
To leade our lives therein.

Here is the Judge that stints the strife,
Where men's devises faile;

Here is the bread that feedes the life,
That death cannot assaile.

The tidings of salvation deare
Come to our eares from hence;

The fortresse of our faith is here,

And shield of our defence.

Then be not like the Hogge, that hath
A pearle at his desire,

And takes more pleasure at the trough,
And wallowing in the myre.

Readé not this book, in any case,

But with a single eye;

Reade not, but first desire God's grace

To understand thereby.

Pray still in faith, with this respect,

To fructify therein;

That knowledge may bring this effect

To mortify thy sinne.

Then happie thou in all thy life,
What so to thee befalles;

Yea double happy shalt thou be,
When God by death thee calls.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BORN 1592. DIED 1644.

Principal Works:-" The Scripture Histories of Samson, Job, Esther and Jonah,-the School of the Heart, Emblems, Sion's Elegies, &c. &c.

There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than that of Quarles,-wronged, too, by those who ought best to have discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits in contradistinction to his defects. "Quarles and Wither," for more than a century, were the " Bavius and Mævius," of every poet and poetaster who imagined himself a Horace. It must be confessed, that our Author as well as Wither (of whom we have already spoken,) has injured his own fair fame more than the slanders of his brethren, and the neglect of posterity could do,-by the quantity of crude, indigestible matter with which he has encumbered his finer conceptions, as well as the base phraseology with which he has defiled the pure and felicitous diction, that frequently clothes his loveliest thoughts in the seemliest words, apparently without any effort of his own. In fact his faults are so laboured, that they seem to have been committed on purpose, while his beauties are so spontaneous, that they alone, amidst his anomalous compositions, seem to be natural to him. From his multiform works, a rich volume of poetry might be compiled by an Editor of good taste. The annexed specimens, with proper allowance for occasionally vulgar idioms and uncouth ideas, will justify this favourable estimate of his powers.

Glorying in the Cross.

[From Divine Emblems.]

CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast,
And fix my rambling love?
Can my affections find out nothing best,
But still and still remove?

Has earth no mercy? Will no ark of rest
Receive my restless dove?

Is there no good, than which there's nothing higher,
To bless my full desire

With joys that never change; with joys that ne'er expire?

I wanted wealth: and, at my dear request,
Earth lent a quick supply;

I wanted mirth, to charm my sullen breast;
And who more brisk than I?

I wanted fame, to glorify the rest;
My fame flew eagle-high;

My joy not fully ripe, but all decay'd,
Wealth vanish'd like a shade;

My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade.

My trust is in the cross; there lies my rest:
My fast, my sole delight:

Let

cold-mouth'd Boreas, or the hot-mouth'd East, Blow till they burst with spite;

Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, And join their twisted might:

Let showers of thunderbolts dart down and wound me, And troops of fiends surround me,

All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound me.

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Fleeing from Wrath.

[From Divine Emblems.]

AH! whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?

What, if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

What, if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? If she springs away,
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.

What, if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice, and not cleave in twain?

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-ey'd fury means to smite, can save.
'Tis vain to flee, till gentle mercy show
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
The' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, Thou that seem'st my foe,
'Tis Thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

GOOD God! how poor a thing is wretched man?
So frail, that let him strive the best he can,
With every little blast he's overdone;
If mighty cedars of great Lebanon

Cannot the danger of the axe withstand,
Lord! how shall we, that are but bushes, stand?
How fond, corrupt, how senseless is mankind?
How feigning deaf is he? how wilful blind?
He stops his ears, and sins; he shuts his eyes,
And, blindfold, in the lap of danger flyes:
He sins, despairs; and then to calm his strife
He chuseth death, to baulk the God of life.

Poor wretched sinner! travel where thou wilt,
Thy travel shall be burthen'd with thy guilt:
Climb tops of hills, that prospects may delight thee,
There will thy sins like wolves and bears affright thee:
Fly to the valleys, that those frights may shun thee,
And there, like mountains, they will fall upon thee:
Or to the raging seas, with Jonah, go;

There will thy sins like stormy Neptune flow.
Poor shiftless man, what shall become of thee?
Where-e'er thou fly'st, thy griping sin will flee.