that no allusion whatever is made to the trying circumstance of her being married to another, under circumstances so recent and so distressing, in any of the various pieces devoted to her name, which in a man of Lovelace's sanguine habit might reasonably be expected.* To the volume of posthumous poems an engraved bust of the author by Hallar, is prefixed, which warrants all that has been said of the beauty of his person. Both these engravings, together with the poems, have lately been re-engraved and re-published in a very elegant manner, in the selection of early English poets, printed at the Chiswick press. Before this re-publication the collected works of Lovelace were of difficult attainment, as they appear to have been printed only once, and at distant intervals of time.

Lovelace had in the composition of his mind, many of the finer elements of poetry, and wanted only application, and a better taste than could be acquired in his time, to have placed him in a very elevated rank among the poets of his country. He possessed enthusiasm, a quick and lively perception of beauty, an ardent imagination, a correct and musical ear, and all the graces of the lyre. His faults are those of his time, and unfortunately they are in excess. In affectation he

*There is only one passage throughout the poems that seems to have any reference to the marriage of this lady. The first stanza of an ode to Lucasta, from prison.

Long in thy shackles, liberty,

I ask not of these walls, but thee,-
Left for a while another's bride,-
To fancy all the world beside.

When the obscure and metaphoric style of the poet is considered, it may be doubted whether this passage can be taken in its literal sense.

exceeds even Cowley himself, and his fancy is ever upon the rack for new and extravagant thoughts. He is frequently obscure and perplexed, and in some instances unintelligible; nor is he totally exempt from that unpardonable fault a want of delicacy. The court of Charles the second is accused of having first promoted and patronised a race of voluptuary poets, who have disgraced that language by their grossness, which they might have embellished by their talents. The accusation is not strictly correct. The great poets of Elizabeth's time are not free from this unhappy taint, and the "well-head" of our poetry, father Chaucer himself, is a sad example of it. There is however, a certain undefinable redeeming grace in the amatory poems by the great masters of the Elizabethan age, which preserves them from absolutely disgusting; a grace which was gradually dissipated in their successors and became totally extinct in the productions of the abandoned wits of Charles's time. Lovelace partook of this degradation, and some of his pieces are disfigured by it. The following selection exhibits our poet in the most favourable light :

SONG.

To LUCASTA, going beyond the Seas.

If to be absent, were to be

Away from thee,

Or that when I am gone,

You or I were alone,

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail;

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage;

For whether he will let me pass

Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though sea and land's betwixt us both,
Our faith and troth,-

Like separated souls,

All time and space controuls:

Above the highest sphere we meet,
Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet.

So then we do anticipate

Our after fate,

And are alive i'the skies,`

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfin'd

In heav'n, their earthly bodies left behind.

To constitute perfection in a love song, the ideas should be few, simple, delicate, and impassioned, and the above specimen has all these qualities combined.It is altogether a beautiful song, and the third stanza in particular is excellent: it has hitherto escaped the notice of our collectors.

SONG.

To LUCASTA, going to the Wars.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

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;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

SONG.

To AMARANTHA.

Amarantha sweet and fair,

Ah! braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd

As its calm ravisher, the wind;
Who hath left his darling th' east,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest!

Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most exquisitely ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light

In ribands,--and o'ercloud in night,

Like the sun in's early ray;

But shake your head and scatter day!

ODE.

TO LUCASTA.-The Rose.

Sweet, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower:
From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.

New startled blush of Flora,
The grief of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more ;-
Haste, haste to strew her floor.

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven;
Love's couch's coverlid ;-

Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jolly, plump Silenus ;-
Haste, haste to deck the hair
Of th' only, sweetly fair.

See! rosy is her bower,-
Her floor is all this flower,—

Her bed a rosy nest,-
By a bed of roses press'd.

But early as she dresses,

Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found I fear;

Because her cheeks are near.*

* Poets in all ages have sought to combine the most delightful of human passions, with the most beautiful of nature's