But ah, the sickle !—golden ears are crop'd;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;

Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have top'd,

And what scythes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool, and now green ice!-Thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter's rain, and poise
Their floods, with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends!we will create
A genuine summer in each other's breast;
And spite of this cold time, and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally

As vestal flames; the north-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve, and fly
This Etna in epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail th' usurping of his reign;

But when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry, he hath his crown again.

Night, as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip,
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.

Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need!
Though lord of all that seas embrace, yet he
That wants himself, is poor indeed!

This is a very perfect specimen of our poet's best style, and at the same time abounds with his peculiar defects. It is impossible to deny that it exhibits the genuine poet, but there are passages hardly intelligible. A SONG.

The Vintage to the Dungeon.

Sing out, pent souls, sing cheerfully!
Care shackles you in liberty;-

Mirth frees you in captivity :

Would you double fetters add,
Else why so sad?

Besides your piníoned arms, you'll find
Grief too can manacle the mind.

Live then prisoners uncontrol'd!

Drink o' th' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollity,

And throats are free,

Triumph in your bonds and pains,

And dance to the music of

your

chains!

We may easily conceive that the above was written during the confinement of the poet in the Gatehouse Prison, and that the generous writer did not confine himself to words only, but that he employed the means in his power to make the heart of the prisoner leap for joy.

SONG.

To ALTHEA, from Prison.
When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates:

The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free ;-
Fishes that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my KING;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be;→
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free;-
Angels alone that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

This song has been much, and very justly admired, and if he had composed nothing more, would have insured to Lovelace a place in the memory of all lovers

H

of poetry, so long as the language in which it is written exists. The composition is perfect, there is not a defective line nor a faulty word. Two objections however may be made to it. It is of temporary application, and not adapted for "all time." It is complex, refering to three different states of enjoyment, love, drinking, and loyalty. The climax, if we may be allowed to call it so, in the succession of metaphors is well adapted, and the last stanza is altogether admirable.

SONG.

To General Goring, after the pacification of Berwick, Now the peace is made at the foes rate,

Whilst men at arms to kettles their old helms translate

And drink in casques of honourable plate;

In every hand a cup be found,

That from all hearts a health may sound,

To Goring! to Goring! see't go round.

He whose glories shine so bright and high,

That captive they in triumph lead each ear and eye,
Claiming uncombated the victory;

And from the earth to heaven rebound,

Fix'd there eternal as this round,

To Goring! to Goring! see him crown'd.

To his lovely bride in love with scars,

Whose eyes wound deep in peace as doth his sword in

wars,

They shortly must depose the queen of stars:

Her cheeks the morning's blushes give,

And the benighted world reprieve;

To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live.

Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry sun,
That to this pair I may drink off an ocean,

Yet leave my grateful thirst unquench'd, undone !
Or a full bowl of heavenly wine,

In which dissolved stars should shine!

To the couple! to the couple! they are divine!

AN ELEGY

On the death of Mrs. Cassandra Cotton, only sister to Mr. C. Cotton.

Hither with hallowed steps as is the ground
That must inshrine this saint, with looks profound
And sad aspects as the black veils you wear,
Virgins oppress'd draw gently, gently near;
Enter the dismal chancel of this room,

Where each pale guest stands fix'd, a living tomb;
With trembling hands help to remove this earth
To its last death and first victorious birth;
Let gums and incense fume, who are at strife
To enter th' hearse and breathe in it new life;
Mingle your steps with flowers as you go,
Which as they haste to fade will speak your woe.
And when y' have plac'd your tapers on her urn,
How poor a tribute 'tis to weep and mourn!
That flood the channels of your eyelids fills,
When you lose trifles, or what's less your
If you'll be worthy of these obsequies,
Be blind unto the world and drop your eyes;
Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire
That's fed no more, so willingly expire;
Pass through the cold and obscure narrow way,
Then light your torches at the spring of day,

wills.