FRANCIS QUARLES. THIS celebrated poet was born in 1592, at Stewards, near Romford, in Essex, and after receiving a degree at Cambridge, in 1608, he went to Lincoln's Inn, where he "studied the laws of England, not so much," says his widow, "out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbors, and to compose suits and differences between them." He was introduced at court, and obtained the place of Cupbearer to the Queen of Bohemia, after quitting whose service he went to Ireland, as Secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the breaking out of the rebellion he was obliged to fly to England for safety. He had already been pensioned by Charles, and made Chronologer to the city of London, but in the general ruin of the royal cause his property was confiscated, and his books and manuscripts, which he valued more, were plundered. His misfortunes are supposed to have hastened his death, which occurred in 1644. Mr. Montgomery says, "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 certainly was a writer of great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. His writings are deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his defects. His chief works are 66 Argalus and Parthenia,” “The Quintessence of Meditation," "Sion's Elegies," 66 Emblems," "Hieroglyphics," "The Enchiridon,' ‚”“ Divine Fancies,” and “The Shepherd's Oracles." PRAYER FOR DIVINE INSPIRATION. THOU Alpha and Omega, before whom Things past, and present, and things yet to come, And let thy spirit enrich my feeble lines. SHE is empty hark! she sounds: there's nothing there; Thy vain inquiry can at length but find It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunned with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't; Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce' shall first Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast Thou mayst as well expect meridian light From shades of black-mouthed Night, As in this empty world to find a full delight. She is empty hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; of flatuous honor should perchance be there, It is but wind, and blows but where it list, Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind? She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball The painted film but of a stronger bubble, That's lined with silken trouble. 1A dry crust. It is a world whose work and recreation A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She is empty hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds Trust not this hollow world; she is empty: hark! she sounds. GLORYING IN THE CROSS. CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast, Can my And fix my rambling love? affections find out nothing best, 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; I wanted fame to glorify the rest; My joy not fully ripe, but all decayed, Wealth vanished like a shade; My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade. My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest, Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed east, Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and wound me, All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound me. FALSE WORLD, THOU LIEST." FALSE world, thou liest thou canst not lend Thy favors cannot gain a friend, Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night. Poor are the wants that thou suppliest ; And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest With heaven; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou liest. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure ; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure. Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her. There's none can want where thou suppliest, There's none can give where thou deniest. Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou liest. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say ? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play. Thy game at weakest, still thou viest If seen, and then revied, deniest Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou liest. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure, A paradise that has no stint, No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in't, Vain earth that falsely thus compliest With man; vain man! that thou reliest On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou liest. What mean dull souls, in this high measure, To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure The height of whose enchanting pleasure Are these the goods that thou suppliest Us mortals with? Are these the highest? Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest. DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth, She is my tender nurse, she gives me food: I love the air; her dainty fruits refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; But what's the air, or all the sweets that she |