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LET God, the God of battle, rise,

And scatter his proud enemies :

O let them flee before his face,

Like smoke which driving tempests chase ;

As wax dissolves with scorching fire,

So perish in his burning ire.
But let the just with joy abound;
In joyful songs his praise resound,
Who, riding on the rolling spheres,
The name of great Jehovah bears.
Before his face your joys express,
A father to the fatherless;

He wipes the tears from widows' eyes,
The single plants in families;
Enlarging those who late were bound,
While rebels starve on thirsty ground.

When he our numerous army led,

And march'd through deserts full of dread,
Heav'n melted, and earth's centre shook,
With his majestic presence struck.
When Israel's God in clouds came down,
High Sinai bow'd his trembling crown;
He, in th' approach of meagre dearth,
With showers refresh'd the fainting earth.

Where his own flocks in safety fed,
The needy unto plenty led.
By him we conquer.-Virgins sing
Our victories, and timbrels ring:

He kings with their vast armies foils,
While women share their wealthy spoils.

When he the kings had overthrown,
Our land like snowy Salmon shone.

God's mountain Bashan's mount transcends,
Though he his many heads extends.
Why boast ye so, ye meaner hills?
God with his glory Zion fills,
This his beloved residence,
Nor ever will depart from hence.
His chariots twenty thousand were,
Which myriads of angels bear,

He in the midst, as when he crown'd
High Sinai's sanctified ground.
Lord, thou hast raised thyself on high,
And captive led captivity.

O praised be the God of Gods,
Who with his daily blessings loads;
The God of our salvation,

On whom our hopes depend alone;

The controverse of life and death Is arbitrated by his breath.

Thus spoke Jehovah: Jacob's seed
I will from Bashan bring again,
And through the bottom of the main,
That dogs may lap their enemies' blood,
And they wade through a crimson flood.
We, in thy sanctuary late,

My God, my King, beheld thy state;
The sacred singers march'd before,
Who instruments of music bore,
In order follow'd-every maid
Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd.
His praise in your assemblies sing,

You who from Israel's fountain spring,
Nor little Benjamin alone,

But Judah, from his mountain-throne;
The far-removed Zebulon,

And Napthali, that borders on

Old Jordan, where his stream dilates,
Join'd all their powers and potentates.
For us his winged soldiers fought;

Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath wrought!
He that supports a diadem

To thee, divine Jerusalem !
Shall in devotion treasure bring,

To build the temple of his King.

Far off from sun-burnt Meroë,
From falling Nilus, from the sea
Which beats on the Egyptian shore,
Shall princes come, and here adore.
Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd,
Sing to the Lord, his praise resound;
He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides,
And on her aged shoulders rides ;
Whose voice the clouds asunder rends,
In thunder terrible descends.

O praise his strength, whose majesty
In Israel shines-his power on high !
He from his sanctuary throws
A trembling horror on his foes,
While us his power and strength invest;
O Israel, praise the ever-blest!

[ Mr. Campbell's extract, selected to show the strength of Sandys, gives no idea of his greatest merit, the effect his taste and knowledge of our language had in harmonising the numbers of our couplet verse. Dryden, who allows him but slender talents as a translator, calls him, however, "the ingenious and learned Sandys, the best versifier of the former age." His versification is his chief excellence; he studied the well-placing of words for the sweetness of pronunciation, and gave us Ovid in smoothsliding verse:

With so much sweetness and unusual grace,

that if he does not deserve the whole eulogy of Drayton, he merits his epithet of dainty, which, when said of his heroic verse, is not only poetical but appropriate.]

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FRANCIS QUARLES.

[Born, 1592. Died, 1644.]

THIS voluminous saint was bred at Cambridge and Lincoln's-inn, and was appointed cup-bearer to Elizabeth, Electress of Bohemia, after quitting whose service he went to Ireland, and was secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the breaking out of the rebellion in that kingdom he was a considerable sufferer, and was obliged to fly, for safety, to England. 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. This reverse of fortune is supposed to have accelerated his death.

The charitable criticism of the present age has

done justice to Quarles, in contrasting his merits with his acknowledged deformities. That his perfect specimens of the bathos should have been laughed at in the age of Pope, is not surprising. His "Emblems," whimsical as they are, have not the merit of originality, being imitated from Herman Hugo. A considerable resemblance to Young may be traced in the blended strength and extravagance, and ill-assorted wit and devotion of Quarles. Like Young, he wrote vigorous prose-witness his Enchiridion. In the parallel, however, it is due to the purity of Young to acknowledge, that he never was guilty of such indecency as that which disgraces the "Argalus and Parthenia" of our pious author.

FAITH.

THE proudest pitch of that victorious spirit
Was but to win the world, whereby t' inherit
The airy purchase of a transitory
And glozing title of an age's glory;
Would'st thou by conquest win more fame than he,
Subdue thyself! thyself's a world to thee.
Earth's but a ball, that heaven hath quilted o'er
With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floor
Of fickle Fortune's false and slippery court,
Sent for a toy, to make us children sport,
Man's satiate spirits with fresh delights supplying,
To still the fondlings of the world from crying;
And he, whose merit mounts to such a joy,
Gains but the honour of a mighty toy.

But would'st thou conquer, have thy conquest crown'd

By hands of Seraphims, triumph'd with the sound
Of heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestial choir, recorded with a quill
Pluck'd from the pinion of an angel's wing,
Confirm'd with joy by heaven's eternal King;
Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel,
And chase those false affections that rebel.
Hath heaven despoil'd what his full hand hath
given thee?

Nipp'd thy succeeding blossoms? or bereaven thee
Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend?
Doth sad Despair deny these griefs an end?
Despair's a whisp'ring rebel, that within thee,
Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again' thee:
Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee :
Advance thy shield of Patience to thy head,
And when Grief strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead.
In adverse fortunes, be thou strong and stout,
And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out

His bow for ever bent; the disposition
Of noblest spirit doth, by opposition,
Exasperate the more: a gloomy night
Whets on the morning to return more bright;
Brave minds, oppress'd, should in despite of Fate,
Look greatest, like the sun, in lowest state.
But, ah! shall God thus strive with flesh and blood?
Receives he glory from, or reaps he good

In mortals' ruin, that he leaves man so
To be o'erwhelm'd by this unequal foe?

May not a potter, that, from out the ground,
Hath framed a vessel, search if it be sound?
Or if, by furbishing, he take more pain
To make it fairer, shall the pot complain?
Mortal, thou art but clay; then shall not he,
That framed thee for his service, season thee!
Man, close thy lips; be thou no undertaker
Of God's designs: dispute not with thy Maker.

* Of his absurdity one example may suffice from his "Emblems."

Man is a tennis-court, his flesh the wall,
The gamesters God and Satan,-the heart's the ball;
The higher and the lower hazards are
Too bold presumption and too base despair:
The rackets which our restless balls make fly,
Adversity and sweet prosperity.

The angels keep the court, and mark the place
Where the ball falls, and chalk out every chase.
The line 's a civil life we often cross,
O'er which the ball, not flying, makes a loss.
Detractors are like standers-by, and bet
With charitable men, our life's the set.
Lord, in these conflicts, in these fierce assaults,
Laborious Satan makes a world of faults.
Forgive them, Lord, although he ne'er implore
For favour, they'll be set upon our score.
O take the ball before it come to the ground,
For this base court has many a false rebound;
Strike, and strike hard, and strike above the line,
Strike where thou please, so as the set be thine.

EMBLEM I. BOOK III.

My soul hath desired thee in the night.-ISAIAH, XXVI. 6.

GOOD God! what horrid darkness doth surround
My groping soul! how are my senses bound
In utter shades; and muffled from the light,
Lurk in the bosom of eternal night!

The bold-faced lamp of heaven can set and rise,
And with his morning glory fill the eyes
Of gazing mortals; his victorious ray
Can chase the shadows and restore the day:
Night's bashful empress, though she often wane,
As oft repents her darkness, primes again;
And with her circling horns doth re-embrace
Her brother's wealth, and orbs her silver face.
But, ah! my sun, deep swallow'd in his fall,
Is set, and cannot shine, nor rise at all:
My bankrupt wain can beg nor borrow light;
Alas! my darkness is perpetual night.
Falls have their risings; wanings have their primes,
And desperate sorrows wait their better times :
Ebbs have their floods; and autumns have their
springs;

All states have changes, hurried with the swings
Of chance and time, still riding to and fro :
Terrestrial bodies, and celestial too.
How often have I vainly groped about,
With lengthen'd arms, to find a passage out,
That I might catch those beams mine eye desires,
And bathe my soul in these celestial fires!
Like as the haggard, cloistered in her mew,
To scour her downy robes, and to renew
Her broken flags, preparing t' overlook
The timorous mallard at the sliding brook,

Jets oft from perch to perch; from stock to ground,
From ground to window, thus surveying round
Her dove-befeather'd prison, till at length
Calling her noble birth to mind, and strength
Whereto her wing was born, her ragged beak
Nips off her jangling jesses, strives to break
Her jingling fetters, and begins to bate
At every glimpse, and darts at every grate :
E'en so my weary soul, that long has been
An inmate in this tenement of sin,
Lock'd up by cloud-brow'd error, which invites
My cloister'd thoughts to feed on black delights,
Now suns her shadows, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at thee, that only art
The sun she seeks, whose rising beams can fright
These dusky clouds that make so dark a night :
Shine forth, great glory, shine; that I may see,
Both how to loathe myself, and honour thee:
But if my weakness force thee to deny
Thy flames, yet lend the twilight of thine eye!
If I must want those beams I wish, yet grant
That I at least may wish those beams I want.

SONG.

To the tune of-Cuckolds all a-row.

KNOW then, my brethren, heaven is clear,
And all the clouds are gone;

The righteous now shall flourish, and
Good days are coming on:

Come then, my brethren, and be glad,

And eke rejoice with me ;

Lawn sleeves and rochets shall go down,
And hey! then up go we!

We'll break the windows which the Whore
Of Babylon hath painted,

And when the popish saints are down,
Then Barrow shall be sainted.
There's neither cross nor crucifix

Shall stand for men to see;

Rome's trash and trumperies shall go down, And hey! then up go we!

We'll down with all the 'Varsities,
Where learning is profest,
Because they practise and maintain

The language of the beast.
We'll drive the doctors out of doors,

And arts, whate'er they be ;
We'll cry both arts and learning down,
And hey! then up go we!

If once that Antichristian crew

Be crush'd and overthrown,
We'll teach the nobles how to crouch,
And keep the gentry down.

Good manners have an ill report,
And turn to pride, we see ;

We'll therefore cry good manners down,
And hey! then up go we!

The name of lord shall be abhorr'd,

For every man's a brother;
No reason why, in church or state,
One man should rule another.
But when the change of government
Shall set our fingers free,
We'll make the wanton sisters stoop,
And hey! then up go we!

Our cobblers shall translate their souls
From caves obscure and shady;
We'll make Tom T * as good as my lord,
And Joan as good as my lady.

We'll crush and fling the marriage ring

Into the Roman see;

We'll ask no bands, but e'en clap hands,
And hey! then up go we!

WILLIAM BROWNE.

[Born, 1590. Died, 1645.]

WILLIAM BROWNE was the son of a gentleman of Tavistock, in Devonshire. He was educated at Oxford, and went from thence to the Inner Temple, but devoted himself chiefly to poetry. In his twenty-third year he published the first part of his Britannia's Pastorals, prefaced by poetical eulogies, which evince his having been, at that early period of life, the friend and favourite of Selden and Drayton. To these testimonies he afterwards added that of Ben Jonson. In the following year he published the Shepherd's Pipe, of which the fourth eclogue is often said to have been the precursor of Milton's Lycidas. A single simile about a rose constitutes all the resemblance! In 1616 he published the second part of his Britannia's Pastorals. His Masque of the Inner Temple was never printed, till Dr. Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian library, for Thomas Davies's edition of Browne's works, more than 120 years after the author's death.

He seems to have taken his leave of the Muses about the prime of his life, and returned to Oxford, in the capacity of tutor to Robert Dormer, Earl of Caernarvon, who fell in the battle of Newbury, 1643. After leaving the university with that nobleman, he found a liberal patron in William, Earl of Pembroke, whose character, like that of Caernarvon, still lives among the warmly coloured and minutely touched portraits of Lord Clarendon. The poet lived in Lord Pembroke's family; and, according to Wood, grew rich in his employment. But the particulars of his history are very imperfectly known, and his verses deal too little with the business of life to throw much light upon his circumstances. His poetry is not without beauty; but it is the beauty of mere landscape and allegory, without the manners and passions that constitute human interest.

SONG.

GENTLE nymphs, be not refusing,
Love's neglect is time's abusing,

They and beauty are but lent you;
Take the one, and keep the other :
Love keeps fresh what age doth smother,
Beauty gone, you will repent you.
"Twill be said, when ye have proved,
Never swains more truly loved :

O, then fly all nice behaviour!
Pity fain would (as her duty)
Be attending still on Beauty,
Let her not be out of favour.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth : Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

SONG.

SHALL I tell you whom I love? Hearken then a while to me, And if such a woman move

As I now shall versify; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embraced a heart. So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY.

'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart
That can debase the excellence of art,
Nor great in titles makes our worth obey,
Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they.
For there is hidden in a poet's name

A spell that can command the wings of Fame,
And maugre all oblivion's hated birth

Begin their immortality on earth,

When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines.

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