RORERT HERRICK. 1591-1662.

ONE of the most exquisite of the early English lyric poets, was Robert Herrick. But little is known of his life. His father was a goldsmith of London, and he was born in that city in 1591. He studied at Cambridge, and took orders in the established church, and obtained a place to preach in, in Devonshire, which he lost at the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was re-appointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards, in 1662.

Abating some of the impurities of Herrick, we can fully join with an able critic in the Retrospective Review1 in pronouncing him one of the best of English lyric poets. "He is the most joyous and gladsome of bards; singing like the grasshopper, as if he would never grow old. He is as fresh as the Spring, as blithe as the Summer, and as ripe as the Autumn. His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament, sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature: it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty."

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon:
Stay, stay,

Until the hastening day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along!

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing:

We die,

As your hours do; and dry

Away

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING Dew.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest mon

Teem'd her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;

1 Vol. v. page 156. Read also, remarks in "Drake's Literary Hours.”

Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known
The reason why

Ye droop, and weep.

Is it for want of sleep;
Or childish lullaby?

Or, that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth."

THE CAPTIVE BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER.

As Julia once a slumbering lay,

It chanced a bee did fly that way,

After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower;

For some rich flower he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip:

But when he felt he suck'd from thence

Honey, and in the quintessence,

He drank so much he scarce could stir
So Julia took the pilferer:

And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t' excuse:
Sweet lady-flower! I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrup ran at waste:
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship;
And told her, as some tears did fail,
That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled; and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know
When next he came a pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.

THE NIGHT PIECE.-TO JULIA.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee!

Let not the dark thee cumber

What though the moon does slumber,

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number!

Then Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me:
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet

My soul I'll pour into thee!

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?
I will whisper to your ears,

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show

So yellow green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak

And bending, yet it doth not break?
I will answer, these discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.

UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her!

EPITAPH UPON A CHILD.

Virgins promised, when I died,
That they would, each primrose-tide.
Duly morn and evening come,
And with flowers dress my tomb:
Having promised, pay your debts,
Maids, and here strew violets.

UPON A MAID.

Here she lies, in beds of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins, come, and in a ring
Her supremest requiem sing;
Then depart, but see ye tread
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.

CATHERINE PHILIPS. 1631-1664.

MRS. CATHERINE PHILIPS was the daughter of John Fowler, a London merchant, and married, when quite young, James Philips, a gentleman of Cardiganshire. Her devotion to the Muses showed itself at a very early age, and she wrote under the fictitious name of Orinda. She continued to write after her marriage; though this did not prevent her from discharging, in a most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed without her knowledge or consent. She was very much esteemed by her con

temporaries: Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship," and Cowley wrote an ode on her death. She died of the small

pox, June 22, 1664, aged thirty-three.

AGAINST PLEASURE.

There's no such thing as pleasure here,

'Tis all a perfect cheat,

Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose charm is but deceit;

The empty bribe of yielding souls,
Which first betrays, and then controls.

'Tis true, it looks at distance fair,
But if we do approach,

The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And perish at a touch;

It being than in fancy less,

And we expect more than possess.

For by our pleasures we are cloy'd,
And so desire is done;

Or else, like rivers, they make wide
The channels where they run:
And either way true bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our joys.

We covet pleasure easily,

But ne'er true bliss possess;

For many things must make it be,

But one may make it less.

Nay, were our state as we could choose it,
"Twould be consumed by fear to lose it.

What art thou then, thou winged air,
More weak and swift than fame?
Whose next successor is despair,

And its attendant shame.

The experienced prince then reason had,
Who said of pleasure, "It is mad.”

1 This was the fictitious name under which she addressed her husband, whose circumstances were much reduced during the civil war. The above poem was written March 16, 1600, to cheer him with the hope that, as parliament had rescued him, Providence would do so too.