JEREMY TAYLOR.-HENRY MORE. 105 In Rome no temple was so low As that of Honor, built to show How humble honor ought to be, Though there 'twas all authority. Some people's fortunes, like a weft or stray, Are only gained by losing of their way. The truest characters of ignorance Are vanity and pride and arrogance, As blind men use to bear their noses higher All smatterers are more brisk and pert Love is too great a happiness It would become a bliss too high Jeremy Taylor. Known chiefly as a theologian, Taylor (1613-1667) was also in the highest sense a poet, as his devotional writings, though in prose, abundantly show. He was a native of Cambridge, and having taken his degree at Caius College, was admitted to holy orders when he was little more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissi tudes of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bishop by Charles II. in 1661. He seems to have been thoroughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge of his clerical duties. THY KINGDOM COME. Lord! come away! Why dost thou stay? Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here Profane that holy place Where thou hast chose to set thy face! And then, if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy Deity, The stones out of the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet! Amen! Henry More. Henry More (1614-1687), who published in 1642 a "Platonical Song of the Soul," in four books, was six years younger than Milton. He lived a hermit-life at Cambridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of Descartes, and a friend of Cudworth. He wrote various prose works, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" showed that he was a full believer in apparitions and various psychical phenomena. He fully sympathized with Glanvil in his belief that there was a substantial basis of spiritual agency in witchcraft; and he believed that he himself had had superhuman communications. He seems to have adopted the Platonic notion of the soul's pre-existence. THE PRE-EXISTENCY OF THE SOUL. Rise, then, Aristo's son, assist my Muse! Let that high sprite which did enrich thy brains With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. And thou, O Lycian sage! whose pen contains Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire, Give leave awhile to warm me at thy flames, That I may also kindle sweet desire In holy minds that unto highest things aspire. For I would sing the pre-existency Thy road is ready; and thy paths, made straight, Tell me what mortals are-tell what of old they With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet! Ride on triumphantly! Behold, we lay Our lusts and proud wills in thy way! were. Show fitly how the pre-existent sonl Enacts, and enters bodies here below, God is good, is wise, is strong— All return from whence they sprung, Now myself I do resign: Save me, God, from self-desire, Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing, * Rise at once-let's sacrifice! Richard Baxter. Born at Rowdon, in Shropshire, Baxter (1615–1691), after some desultory work at school, and a course of private theological study, passed into the ministry of the Church of England. But when the Act of Uniformity was passed in 1662, he left that Church and spent several years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast success. His published writings (1830) fill twenty-three volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well authenticated instances of supersensual power. He suffered much for his non-conformist principles, and was brought (1684) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivolous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's attempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dost thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, thou art an old fellow, an old knave; thou hast written books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy." A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valedic tion," appears in several collections: but it is inferior to the hymn we publish; and of which eight only of the eleven four-line stanzas are here given. For if thy work on earth be sweet, What will thy glory be? Then I shall end my sad complaints, And weary sinful days, And join with the triumphant saints That sing Jehovah's praise. My knowledge of that life is small; The eye of faith is dim; HENRY VAUGHAN, But it's enough that Christ knows all, And I shall be with Him. Henry Vaughan. A native of Wales, Vaughan (1614-1695) studied at Oxford, first became a lawyer, then a physician; but in neither profession was he successful in earning a competency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In the latter part of his life he became devout. Amidst the obscurities of his verse there are beauties that bespeak the genuine poet. Campbell, who had little partiality for pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flowers on a barren heath." In his own "Rainbow," he has, perhaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild flower" or two from poor Vaughan. THE RETREAT. Happy those early days, when I Before I taught my tongue to wound Oh, how I long to travel back From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! THE RAINBOW. 107 Still young and fine! but what is still in view Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; THEY ARE ALL GONE! They are all gone into the world of light! It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest I see them walking in an air of glory, O holy hope! and high humility! High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just! He that hath found some fledged bird's-nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, And yet as angels in some brighter dreams So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill, A rock, a bush are downy beds, When Thou art there, crowning their heads Made of the Comforter's live fire, Of anger, will not seem to bless, Yet dost thou give them that rich rain O what kind visits daily pass LIKE AS A NURSE. Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace THE REQUEST. Thou who didst deny to me Richard Lovelace. Lovelace (1618-1658), born in a knightly mansion, was educated at Oxford. Of remarkable physical beauty, le was the most unhappy of the Cavalier poets. For his gallant struggles in the royal cause he suffered imprisonment, during which he published his "Odes and Songs." He spent his fortune in the service of the King and in aid of poorer friends. The Lucasta (Lux casta, pure-light) of his verse was Lady Sacheverell, whom he loved, but who married another, after false reports that Lovelace had been killed at Dunkirk. Under Cromwell he was set free, but lived in extreme poverty, and died of consumption, in great distress, in an alley in Shoe Lane. Much of his poetry is of little value, and disfigured with the obscurities and affectations which were the fashion of the day. Two at least of his poems are likely to last as long as the English language. They breathe the knightly spirit of a true nobility. RICHARD LOVELACE.-ABRAHAM COWLEY. I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. TO ALTHEA (FROM PRISON). When Love with unconfinéd wings And fettered to her eye, When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses bound, Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I And glories of my King; Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; TO LUCASTA (ON GOING TO THE WARS). Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; Abraham Cowley. 109 In the period of his reputation, Cowley (1618-1667) precedes Milton; he died in the year of the publication of "Paradise Lost." He was the posthumous son of a London stationer; entered Cambridge University, and at the age of fifteen published a volume of poems, showing marvellous precocity. During the Civil War he was ejected from Cambridge, and went to Oxford. In 1646 he went with the Queen to Paris, and was active in managing the cipher correspondence between King Charles and his wife. In 1647 appeared Cowley's love poems, under the title of "The Mistress." They are pure works of imagination. He never married; and it is said that although he was once, and only once, in love, he was too shy to tell his passion. He had "the modesty of a man of genius and the humility of a Christian." In his style he belongs to the metaphysical school, of which Donne was the founder: its chief characteristic being the affectation of remote and uncommon imagery and obscure conceits, often drawn from scientific sources, and attenuated to exhaustion. His praise of Brutus in one of his odes lost him the favor of Charles II. His "Davideis" is an unfinished epic in four books, written while he was at Cambridge. He died in his fortyninth year, and was interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser. No poet of his day was more popular than Cowley, though he is now but little read. MY PICTURE. Herc, take my likeness with you, whilst 'tis so; For when from hence you go, The next sun's rising will behold Me pale, and lean, and old. The man who did this picture draw Will swear next day my face he never saw. I really believe, within a while, If you upon this shadow smile, Your presence will such vigor give (Your presence which makes all things live!) And absence so much alter me, This will the substance, I the shadow be. When from your well-wrought cabinet you take it, The new-souled picture gaze on thee, |