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Others conceived it much more fit
T'unmount the tube, and open it,
And for their private satisfaction,
To re-examine the transaction,
And after explicate the rest,

As they should find cause for the best.
To this, as th' only expedient,
The whole assembly gave consent;
But ere the tube was half let down,
It cleared the first phenomenon ;
For, at the end, prodigious swarms
Of flies and gnats, like men in arms,
Had all passed muster, by mischance,
Both for the Sub- and Prevolvans.
This being discovered, put them all
Into a fresh and fiercer brawl,
Ashamed that men so grave and wise
Should be chaldesed by gnats and flies,
And take the feeble insect's swarms
For mighty troops of men at arms;
But when they had unscrewed the glass,
To find out where the impostor was,
And saw the mouse, that, by mishap,
Had made the telescope a trap,
Amazed, confounded, and afflicted,
To be so openly convicted,
Immediately they get them gone,
With this discovery alone,
That those who greedily pursue
Things wonderful, instead of true,

And explicate appearances,

Not as they are, but as they please;

In vain strive nature to suborn,
And, for their pains, are paid with scorn.

LOVE.

LOVE is too great a happiness

For wretched mortals to possess ;

For could it hold inviolate

Against those cruelties of fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,

It would become a bliss too high
For perishing mortality;

Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but Love.
All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine;
For when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from the impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still the older,
And proves the pleasanter the colder.
As at the approach of winter, all
The leaves of great trees use to fall,
And leave them naked, to engage
With storms and tempests when they rage,
While humbler plants are found to wear
Their fresh green liveries all the year;
So when their glorious season's gone
With great men, and hard times come on,
The greatest calamities oppress

The greatest still, and spare the less.

Sir John Denham.

Born 1615

Died 1668.

He was born at Dublin in 1615, and on his father's promotion in the English Exchequer he was sent to Oxford, where he acquired a taste for gambling which he never overcame, and his happiness, in consequence, consisted chiefly in the enjoyment of low pleasures. He was a royalist, and his estate was sequestrated by the Parliament; but on the Restoration he was reinstated, and received the honour of knighthood. at the age of fifty-three.

COOPER'S HILL.

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays.
Thames! the most loved of all the ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold:
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;

He died

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers who their infants overlay ;
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's toil;
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows;
First loves to do, then loves the good he does.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,
But free and common as the sea or wind:
When he to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the world, and in his flying towers
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours;
Finds wealth where'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants.

So that to us no thing, no place, is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.
Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme;
Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;
Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full.
The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear,
That had the self-enamoured youth gazed here,
So fatally deceived he had not been,
While he the bottom, not his face, had seen.
But his proud head the airy mountain hides
Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides
A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows
Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows,
While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat-
The common fate of all that's high or great.
Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed,
Between the mountain and the stream embraced,
Which shade and shelter from the hill derives,
While the kind river wealth and beauty gives,
And in the mixture of all these appears
Variety, which all the rest endears.

Richard Baxter.

{

Born 1615.

Died 1691.

THIS eminent divine, though well known for his prose writings, especially his "Saint's Everlasting Rest," is scarcely known to have been a writer of verse, yet many of his pieces are exceedingly beautiful, and breathe the very essence of Christian piety.

FAITH AMIDST TRIALS.

I TURN'D my back on worldly toys,
And set my face towards glory's shore;
Where Thou hast promised highest joys,
And blessedness for ever more.

I took my leave of sin and earth;
What I had loved, I now did hate;
Ashamed of my former birth,
I gave my life a newer date.

But since that time, how I am tost!
Afraid of every storm and wave,
Almost concluding I am lost,

As if Thou wouldst not help and save.
If I look out beyond thine ark,
Nothing but raging floods I see ;
On this side heaven all's deep and dark,
But I look farther unto Thee.

Spare Lord, and pity thy poor dust,
That fled into thy ark for peace;
O cause my soul on Thee to trust!
And do not my distress increase.
O keep up life and peace within,
If I must feel thy chastening rod!
Yet kill not me, but kill my sin;
And let me know, Thou art my God.

Why art thou, fainting soul, cast down?
And thus disquieted with fears?
Art thou not passing to thy crown,
Through storms of pain and floods of tears?
Fear not, O thou of little faith!
Art thou not in thy Saviour's hand?
Remember what his promise saith;
Life and death are at his command.

To Him I did myself intrust,
When first I did for heaven embark,
And he hath proved kind and just;
Still I am with him in his ark.
Couldst thou expect to see no seas?
Nor feel no tossing wind or wave?
It is enough that from all these
Thy faithful pilot will thee save.

Lord, let me not my covenant break;
Once I did all to Thee resign;
Only the words of comfort speak,
And tell my soul that I am thine.
It is no death when souls depart,
If Thou depart not from the soul :
Fill with thy love my fainting heart,
And I'll not fading flesh condole.

My God, my love, my hope, my life!
Shall I be loath to see thy face?
As if this world of sin and strife,
Were for my soul a better place?
O give my soul some sweet foretaste
Of that which I shall shortly see!
Let faith and love cry to the last,
Come, Lord, I trust myself with Thee.

Abraham Cowley.

Born 1618.

Died 1667.

COWLEY was exceedingly popular in his own times, though he is somewhat neglected now. He began to write poetry in early life, having published a volume of poems in his thirteenth year. It is said he was incited to poetical composition by having read Spenser's "Faery Queen," which used to lie on his mother's table. Cowley was born in London in 1618, and after receiving his early education at Westminister, he was sent to Cambridge, in which University he obtained a fellowship. He resided there till 1643, when he was ejected by the parliamentary visitors as being a royalist. He joined Charles II. in France, but was very coldly received. After the Restoration he was more kindly treated, and obtained a grant or lease of some lands, which yielded him £300 a-year. He retired on this income to Chertsey, where he lived for seven years. He died 28th July 1667.

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