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but faithless'light' of his love, we cannot tell. He thus celebrates the dancing and singing of Gratiana.

"See! with what constant motion,"
Even and glorious as the sun,

Gratiana steers that noble frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voice
That gave each winding law and poise,

And swifter than the wings of fame.

Each step trod out a lover's thought
And the ambitious hopes he brought,

Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts;
Such sweet command, and gentle awe," &c.

In an epitaph on Mrs. Elizabeth Filmer, there are some fine lines, which shew that the vices of the court had not destroyed his relish for the beauty of virtue.

"You that shall live awhile before
Old time tires, and is no more;
When that this ambitious stone
Stoops low as what it tramples on;
Know that in that age, when sin
Gave the world law, and govern'd queen;
A virgin liv'd, that still put on

White thoughts, though out of fashion;



Thus chaste as th' air whither she's fled,
She, making her celestial bed,
In her warm alabaster lay
As cold as in this house of clay;
Nor were the rooms unfit to feast,
Or circumscribe this angel-guest;
The radiant gem was brightly set,
In as divine a carcanet;

Such an everlasting grace,
Such a beatific face

Incloisters here this narrow floor
That possessed all hearts before."

In the lines to his "worthy friend, Mr. Peter Lilly," on a picture of his majesty by that artist, we have a fine description of the expression of King Charles's face, admirably conveying that mixture of sweetness and sorrow, pride and goodnature, which distinguish all the portraits of that unfortunate monarch.

"See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And grief triumphant breaking through each line,
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorn
Never did happy misery adorn!

So sacred a contempt! that others shew
To this, (o' th' height of all the wheel) below;
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book
May copy out their proudest, richest look."

The poet, soon after, goes on to celebrate the improvement which the artist had made in the art of painting, in some bold lines, well worthy of a quotation.

"Not as of old, when a rough hand did speak
A strong aspect, and a fair face, a weak;
When only a black beard cried villain; and
By hieroglyphics we could understand;
When chrystal typified in a white spot,
And the bright ruby was but one red blot ;
Thou dost the things orientally the same,
Not only paint'st its colour, but its flame ;
Thou sorrow can'st design without a tear,
And, with the man, his very hope or fear;
So that th' amazed world shall henceforth find
None but my Lilly ever drew a mind."

One of these poems, the song of Althea, from prison, is well known, and has been long celebrated, both for its exquisite versification, and the beauty and nobleness of the thoughts. We cannot help thinking the second and third stanzas far inferior to the others; though, from the spirit of devoted loyalty, which the latter of the two breathes, they have doubtless contributed to the popularity of this little piece. As these verses are to be found in almost every collection of poetry, we shall content ourselves with quoting the first and last stanza, and omit the other two, which we cannot bring ourselves to admire.

"When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye;
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free;
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty."

The song called the Scrutiny is a most delightful piece of male coquetry. It is written in the happiest vein of the times. A declaration of infidelity so impudent, yet so ingenious, so cruel yet so easy and good humoured, so saucy and vain yet with such apparent good grounds for confidence, that even the deserted lady would instantly resign herself to the conviction that no chains however binding, no charms however powerful, could detain so inconstant a gallant.

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We extract the sonnet to "Elinda's Glove" as a very favorable specimen of the fanciful tributes in which the gallantry of Lovelace paid its homage to the fair sex. We cannot help being so heretical as to think the felicity of the verse and the happiness of some of the expressions too good even for the

"ten white nuns" of Elinda, as he elsewhere terms the fingers of a beauty.

"Thou snowy farm with thy five tenements!
Tell thy white mistress here was one

That call'd to pay his daily rents:

But she a gathering flow'rs and hearts is gone,
And thou left void to rude possession.

But grieve not, pretty Ermin cabinet,

Thy alabaster lady will come home;
If not, what tenant can there fit

The slender turnings of thy narrow room,
But must ejected be by his own doom.

Then give me leave to leave my rent with thee;
Five kisses, one unto a place:

For though the lute's too high for me,

Yet servants, knowing minikin nor base,
Are still allow'd to fiddle with the case."

Lovelace, whether he had experienced disappointment in his person or in that of some friend, writes with warm indignation against "the love of great ones." We quote some parts of rather a long poem on this subject, which are not without spirit and fire.

"The love of great ones! "Tis a love
Gods are incapable to prove;
For where there is a joy uneven,
There never, never can be heaven:
"Tis such a love as is not sent
To fiends as yet for punishment;
Ixion willingly doth feel

The gyre of his eternal wheel;

Nor would he now exchange his pain

For clouds and goddesses again.

Would'st thou with tempests lie? Then bow

To the rougher furrows of her brow;
Or make a thunder-bolt thy choice?
Then catch at her more fatal voice;
Or 'gender with the lightning? try
The subtler flashes of her eye."

He thus represents the woman of quality addressing her humble wooer.

"But we (defend us !) are divine

Female, but madam-born, and come
From a right honourable womb :
Shall we then mingle with the base,
And bring a silver-tinsel race?
Whilst th' issue noble will not pass,
The gold allay'd, almost half brass,
And th' blood in each vein doth appear,
Part thick Boorein, part Lady Clear:
Like to the sordid insects sprung
From father sun, and mother dungeon !ea?
Yet lose we not the hold we have, vo
But faster grasp the trembling slaye;!
Play at balloon with's heart, and wind
The strings like skeins; steal into his mind
Ten thousand hells, and feigned joys

Far worse than they; whilst, like whipp'd boys,
After this scourge he's hush with toys.
This heard, sir, play still in her eyes,
And be a dying; live like flies
Caught by their angle-legs, and whom
The torch laughs piecemeal to consumé."

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The concluding stanza of a song, supposed to be sung by Orpheus lamenting the death of his wife, is very beautiful.

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"Sweet, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower:

The following little ode, entitled The Rose, addressed to Lucasta, at least as much of it as we think worth extracting, possesses some elegance of diction, if nothing particularly new or beautiful in sentiment.

"The light of love, the purity of grace,

The mind, the music breathing from her face;

The heart, whose softness harmonized the whole, &c."

Bride of Abydos.

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