An Elegie on Dr. Ravis, Bishop of London.

WHEN I past Paul's, and travell'd in that walke
Where all our Britaine-sinners sweare and talk; (a)
And then beheld the body of my Lord

Trodd under foote by vice that he abhorr'd;
It wounded me, the landlord of all times
Should let long lives and leases to their crimes,
And to his springing honour did afford
Scarce soe much time as to the prophet's gourd.
Yet since swift flights of vertue have apt ends,
Like breath of angels, which a blessing sends,
And vanisheth withall, whilst fouler deeds
Expect a tedious harvest for bad seeds;
I blame not fame and nature if they gave,
Where they could give no more, their last, a grave.
And wisely doe thy grieved friends forbeare
Bubbles and alabaster boyes to reare

On thy religious dust: for men did know
Thy life, which such illusions cannot show :
For thou hast trod among those happy ones
Who trust not in their superscriptions,
Their hired epitaphs, and perjured stone,
Which oft belyes the soule when she is gon;
And durst committ thy body, as it lyes,
To tongues of living men, nay unborne eyes.
What profits thee a sheet of lead?
What good
If on thy corse a marble quarry stood?

Let those that feare their rising purchase vaults,
And reare them statues to excuse their faults;

(a) St. Paul's Cathedral was in Corbet's time the resort of the idle and profligate of all classes.

As if, like birds that peck at painted grapes,
Their judge knew not their persons from their shapes.
Whilst thou assured, through thy easy dust
Shalt rise at first; they would not though they must.

THOMAS CAREW.

BORN 1589. DIED 1639.

Author of miscellaneous Poems, of which the best that can be said is, that all the painful art employed in their composition, was not enough to overpower the beauty and simplicity of nature, which are frequently conspicuous in them.

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To my worthy friend, Master George Sandys, on his translation of the Psalms.

I PRESS not to the choir, nor dare I greet
The holy place with my unhallowed feet;
My unwasht Muse pollutes not things divine,
Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine:
Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays,
And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays.
So, devout penitents of old were wont,
Some without door, and some beneath the font,
To stand and hear the church's liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemn exercise:
Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain,

To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train:
Though nor in tune, nor wing, she reach thy lark,
Her lyric feet may dance before the ark.

Who knows, but that her wandering eyes that run,
Now hunting glow-worms, may adore the Sun :
A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power
Into her breast, the earthly flame devour:
My eyes in penitential dew may steep

That brine, which they for sensual love did weep.
Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit
Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit

Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoy'd,
Quench'd all her thirst, nor satisfy'd, though cloy'd;
Weary of her vain search below, above

In the first fair may find the' immortal love.
Prompted by thy example then, no more
In moulds of clay will I my God adore;
But tear those idols from my heart, and write
What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite;
Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;

And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn,
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.

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Epitaph on the Lady S. Wife of Sir W. S.

Carew was one of the most elegant of the fantastical writers of his day. Nothing can be more cold, elaborate, and unaffecting, than the burthen of the following piece; yet it must be acknowledged that the conclusion is happy. The whole, as a specimen of what once pleased a generation of readers as well as writers, at once pedantic and puerile, is a curiosity worth preserving.

THE harmony of colours, features, grace,
Resulting airs (the magic of a face)

Of musical sweet tunes, all which combined
To crown one sovereign beauty, lie confined
To this dark vault: she was a cabinet
Where all the choicest stones of price were set;
Whose native colours and pure lustre lent
Her eye, cheek, lip, a dazzling ornament;
Whose rare and hidden virtues did express
Her inward beauties and mind's fairer dress;
The constant diamond, the wise chrysolite,
The devout sapphire, emerald apt to write
Records of memory, cheerful agate, grave
And serious onyx, topaz that doth save
The brain's calm temper, witty amethyst;
This precious quarry, or what else the list
On Aaron's ephod planted had, she wore:
One only pearl was wanting to her store;
Which in her Saviour's book she found exprest;
To purchase that, she sold Death all the rest.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

BORN 1585. DIED 1649.

Of Hawthornden, in Scotland. His poems are not affected to be written in the dialect of his native country; on that country, however, they reflect more honour than those of any contemporary bard.

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Life hastening away.

Look as the flower, which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Just so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

THE last and greatest herald of Heaven's king,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey, that from virgin hives distill'd;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from Earth exil'd.
There burst he forth. "All ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,

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Repent, repent, and from old errours turn.'
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves," Repent, repent."

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,

Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget Earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

AMIDST the azure clear

Of Jordan's sacred streams, Jordan, of Lebanon the offspring dear, When zephyrs flowers unclose, And Sun shines with new beams,

With grave and stately grace a nymph arose.

Upon her head she wear

Of amaranths a crown;

Her left hand palms, her right a torch did bear;
Unveil'd skin's whiteness lay,

Gold hairs in curls hung down,

Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day.