Withdrew her beams, yet made no night, But left the sun her curate light. RICHARD LOVELACE was the son of Sir William Lovelace, and was born at Woolridge, Kent, in 1618. He was educated at Oxford, and Wood describes him, at the age of sixteen, as the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld; a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, which made him then, but especially after, when he retired to the great city, much admired and adored by the female sex.' Soon after Lovelace had completed his studies he was introduced at court, and being thus personally distinguished, and a royalist in principle, he was chosen by the county of Kent to deliver a petition to the House of Commons, praying that the king might be restored to his rights, and the government settled. The 'Long Parliament' was then in the ascendant, and Lovelace was thrown into prison for his temerity. He was eventually liberated on heavy bail, and soon after spent the balance of his fortune in fruitless efforts to succour the royal cause. Lovelace afterward obtained the command of a regiment in the French army, but being wounded at Dunkirk, he relinquished his command, and in 1648 returned to England. He had, however, scarcely reached his native shore before he was apprehended and again cast into prison; and seeing no prospect of a second retrieve, he beguiled the time of his imprisonment by collecting and arranging his poems for publication. They appeared in 1649, under the title of Lucastra: Odes, Sonnets, and Songs. The general title was bestowed upon them on account of the 'lady of his love,' Lucy Sackeverell, whom he usually called Lux Castra. This attachment proved, in the event, unfortunate; for the lady, hearing that Lovelace died of his wounds at Dunkirk, married another man. From this time the course of the poet was downward. The dominant party did, indeed, release his person, when the death of the king had left them the less to fear from their opponents; but Lovelace was now penniless, and the reputation of a broken cavalier was no passport to better circumstances. Oppressed with want and melancholy, he gradually sunk into a consumption, and finally died in a miserable alley near Shore Lane, London, in 1658,-a death presenting a striking contrast to the gay and splendid scenes of his youth. The poetry of Lovelace, like his life, was very unequal. There is a spirit and nobleness in some of his verses and sentiments, that charms the reader as much as his gallant bearing and fine person captivated the fair. His genius was exalted, but his taste was perverted by the affected wit and ridiculous gallantry of the day. That he knew, however, how to appreciate true taste and nature, may be seen from the following lines on Lely's portrait of Charles the First : See what an humble bravery doth shine, And grief triumphant breaking through each line, So sacred a contempt that others show Lovelace's lighter poems bear a strong resemblance to those of Herrick, though they are less buoyant in spirit, and less natural in imagery and fancy. From these poems we select the following addresses, both of which are certainly very beautiful :— TO LUCASTA, ON 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, And with a stronger faith embrace Yet this inconstancy is such, I could not love thee, dear, so much, TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. And fetter'd with her eye, 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 crown'd, When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. When linnet-like, confined, I With shriller note shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty, And glories of my king; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood, Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds, innocent and quiet, take RICHARD CRASHAW was the son of William Crashaw, an eminent preacher at the Temple Church, London; but the time of his birth is unknown. He received the early part of his education at the 'Charter House' near London, and thence passed to Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, whence, after a brief period, he entered Peter House College, of which he was soon after chosen a fellow. When the parliamentary party gained the ascendency in the university, he was, with many others, ejected from his fellowship; and being of an enthusiastic disposition he lived for several years in St. Mary's Church, near Peter House, engaged, chiefly, in religious offices and writing devotional poetry; and 'like a primitive saint, offering more prayers by night, than others usually offer in the day.' Foreseeing, as he supposed, that the church of England would be subverted, Crashaw removed to France and became a proselyte to the Roman Catholic faith; and soon after, through the friendship of Cowley, he obtained the notice of queen Henrietta Maria, who was at that time in Paris, and who recommended him to the dignitaries of the church in Italy. He there became secretary to one of the cardinals, and a canon of the church of Loretto. In this situation he died about 1650, and when intelligence of the event reached England, Cowley honored his memory with The meed of a melodious tear. Crashaw was a very accomplished scholar, and his translations from the Latin and the Italian languages possess great freedom, force, and beauty. He translated part of the Sospetto d'Herode from the Italian of Merino; and passages from his version are not unworthy of even Milton. He thus describes the abode of Satan :— While thus Heaven's highest counsels, by the low The felicity and copiousness of Crashaw's language are, perhaps, better seen from his translations than from his original poems; and did our space permit, we should, therefore, be happy to introduce, entire, his version of Music's Duel, from the Latin of Strada: it is seldom that, in our poetical pilgrimage, so sweet and luxurious a strain of pure description and sentiment greets us as it contains. While residing at Cambridge, Crashaw published a volume of Latin poems and epigrams, in one of which occurs the well-known conceit relative to the sacred miracle of water being turned into wine The conscious water saw its God and blush'd. In 1646, his English poems appeared under the title of Steps to the Temple, The Delights of the Muses, and Carmen Deo Nostro. The greater part of the volume consists of religious poetry, much of which, though deficient, occasionally, in taste and judgment, indicates genius of a very high order. No poet of his day is so rich in barbaric pearl and gold,' the genuine ore of poetry, as he. It is, therefore, deeply to be regretted that his life had not been longer, more calm and fortunate-realizing his own exquisite lines A happy soul that all the way To heaven, hath a summer's day. Of the two beautiful similes which the following lines contains, the first reminds us of a passage in Jeremy Taylor's Holy Dying, and the other, of one of Shakspeare's best sonnets: I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud Of a ruddy rose, that stood, Blushing to behold the ray Of the new-saluted day; His tender top not fully spread; The sweet dash of a shower new shed, Invited him no more to hide Within himself the purple pride Of his forward flower, when lo, While he sweetly 'gan to show His swelling glories, Auster spied him; Cruel Auster thither hied him, And with the rush of one rude blast Sham'd not spitefully to waste All his leaves so fresh and sweet, And lay them trembling at his feet. I've seen the morning's lovely ray To blot the newly-blossom'd light. The following Hymn will form an appropriate close for our brief sketch of this deeply interesting poet : HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS. I sing the Name which none can say, Our bliss, and supernatural blood; The high-born brood of day; you bright The heirs elect of love; whose names belong Unto the everlasting life of song; All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast |