these, says Wood, copying in part from the titlepage, "he sings the birth of Christ, and sighs for his Saviour's sufferings on the cross. These two books made him much admired in the time they were published, and especially by the generous and boon loyalists, who commiserated his sufferings."

Phillips, the nephew of Milton, in his "Theatrum Poetarum," allows Herrick to have shewn occasionally "a pretty flowery and pastoral gale of fancy," &c., but supposes him not to have been "particularly influenced by any nymph or goddess, except his maid Pru." However this may have been, he seems to have been greatly attached to this humble companion of his retirement; of whom we find frequent and affectionate mention made in his "Works," as the following extracts will sufficiently evince.

The first is entitled, "Upon Prudence Baldwin her Sicknesse."

"Prue, my dearest maid, is sick,

Almost to be lunatic:

Esculapius! come and bring
Means for her recovering;
And a gallant Cock shall be

Offer'd up by her to thee."

That little Fates me gave or lent."

"He has, also, a little piece addressed to his "Kind Prew," and, lastly, the following Epitaph:

"In this little urn is laid

Prewdence Baldwin (once my maid);
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple Violet."

The Poems of Herrick are, unfortunately, but little known, although a very elegant reprint was published at Edinburgh a few years ago. But they have not been admitted into any collection, not even into the overgrown and illselected mass edited by Chalmers, although, in his "Biographical Dictionary," he has justly characterized our Poet as one who " certainly, in vigour of fancy, feeling, and ease of versification, is entitled to a superior rank among the bards of his period." It must be admitted, that

compo

he is unequal, and that some few of his sitions are a disgrace to the volume in which they are found; but the dross bears no proportion to the ore, and the latter is of the purest description.

The following beautiful song has few equals in our language.

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And, while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry."

The gaiety and sprightliness of the next spe

cimen are eminently characteristic.