scholarship and by the logic of which he is no unpractised master, render him in every respect qualified for the mission upon which he has been sent. Who will not look forward with more than common interest to

his promised "Sights and Thoughts" in Jerusalem, as preparatory to his visit to the eternal city? The movements of such a mind are influential, and we shall watch them with care.

0

UR readers have already admired the

character of Southwell as a martyr; his distinction as a Christian poet will appear from the following portions of his writings. His object in composing these poems is stated in a prefatory address to "his loving cousin."

"Poets, by abusing their talents, and taking for their subjects the follies and feignings of love, have so discredited the faculty that now-a-days, a poet, a lover and a liar, are almost synonymous terms. But the Almighty himself was pleased to deliver many parts of Scripture in verse, and his apostle wishes us to exercise our devotion in hymns and spiritual songs; hence we have warrant that the art is good, and its use allowable. Our Blessed Lord himself, by making a hymn the conclusion of his last supper, and the prologue to the first pageant of his passion, gave his spouse a method to imitate, as she has done, in the offices of the Church, and to all men a pattern to know the true use of this measured style. But as the evil one affected deity, and would have all the accompaniments of divine honor applied to his service, so has he, among the rest, possessed most poets with his idle fancies. For, in place of serious and devout matters, to which in duty they owe their abilities, they busy themselves in expressing such passions as only testify to what unworthy affections they have wedded their wills. Now, as the best course to let them see the error of their works, is to weave a new web in their own loom, I have here laid a few coarse threads together, to invite some more skilful hand

to produce a fitter piece, wherein it may be seen how well verse and virtue agree together. In the meantime, my good cousin, with many good wishes I send you these few ditties; do you add the tunes, and let them, I pray you, form still a part in all your music."

His poetic apology, also, for courting the muses, is so pleasing, that he must be a stern censor indeed, by whom it would not be admitted.

THE POET TO HIS READER.

Dear eye that deignest to peruse my style,
With easy censure deem of my delight;
The soberest brow has sometimes leave to smile,
And gravest wits to take a breathing flight.
Of mirth to make a trade may be a crime;
But wearied minds for mirth must have a time.

The lofty eagle soars not still above,

High flights will force him from his wing to

stoop;

Men must at times too studious thoughts remove,
Lest, by excess, before their time they droop.
In lighter studies, 'tis a sweet repose,
With poet's pleasing vein to temper prose.

Profane conceits, and fainting fits I fly,

Such lawless stuff doth lawless speeches fit; With David, verse to virtue I apply,

Whose measure well with measured words doth fit.

It is the sweetest note that man can sing,
When grace in virtue's key tunes nature's string.

*The following is from a pleasing tribute to Southwell:

"The muses' fount is hallowed by thee,
And Poesy baptised Divinity;
Which most prevails, thy wit or grace divine,
We know not: but the grace of wit is thine."

What can be more apt and beautiful than the following image in "St. Peter's Plaint."

The mother sea, from overflowing deeps,
Sends forth her issue by divided veins,
Yet back her offspring to their mother creeps,
To pay the purest streams with added gains;
But I, who drank sweet drops from fount su-

preme,

Repaid the Giver with polluted stream.

We give a specimen of his devotional poetry, which, though marked by all the quaintness of the age, has great force and concentration of thought.

LIFE'S DEATH-LOVE'S LIFE.

Who lives to love, loves least to live,

And doth each moment rue, Apart from Him, for whom he lives,

To whom all love is due ;

Who for our love was pleased to live,

And more content to die;

Who loved the ransomed more than life, And love with life did buy.

Let us in life, yea, with our life,

Requite his living love;

For best we live, when least we live,
If love such life reprove.

True lovers here are ill at ease;

Extremes must disagree:

Love where it loves, life where it lives, Alone at rest can be.

Then, since love is not where it lives, Nor liveth where it loves;

Love hates the life that holds it back

From what it most approves. Mourn, therefore, no true lover's death, "Tis life breeds his annoy; And when he taketh leave of life, Then love begins his joy.

The most considerable poem in Southwell's collection is entitled, "St. Peter's Plaint," or lainentation after his fall. It has many vigorous stanzas, and some touches of the pathetic, by no means unworthy of the Shaksperian age. Our limits will allow but of some extracts, but they will be of a kind not to destroy the symmetry of the composition.

This makes my mourning muse dissolve in tears,
For this my heavy pen doth plain in prose :
Christ's thorn is sharp, no head his garland wears;
Our finest wits are 'stilling Venus' rose.
In Paynim lays the sweetest veins are spent,
Few have to Christian works their talents lent.
Favor my wish, well-wishing works no ill,
I move the suit, the grant rests in your will.
St. Peter speaks.

Let me give vent to my o'erchargéd breast,
Let bitter grief find issue at these eyes,
Till tears wash out the stain by sin impressed,
And peace once more be won by plaints and
sighs:

Foul was my trespass, and let tears not few
Baptize my spotted soul with weeping dew.

Vain my vaunts, I vowed, if all friends failed, Alone Christ's hardest fortunes to abide; Giant in talk, like dwarf in trial quailed,

Exceeding none but in untruth and pride. Such is the distance 'tween high words and deeds;

So rare in proof the mighty vaunter speeds!

What trust in one that Truth itself defied? What good in him that did his God forswear? How can I live that thus my Life denied,

What can I hope, that lost my Hope in fear? Fears without cause, fears feeling no mishaps; O fond delusion, miserable lapse!

Ah, fear! abortive imp of drooping mind,

Self-overthrow, false friend, root of remorse; Swift in foreseeing ills, in shunning blind,

Ye beams of mercy bent on sorrow's cloud, Pour suppling showers upon my parchéd ground;

Bring forth the fruit to your due service vowed, Let good desires with good effects be crowned. Since sin did grace of riper growth devour, Water reviving virtue's tender flower.

Weep balm and myrrh, ye sweet Arabian trees, With purest gems perfume and pearl your rine;

Gather your honey-drops, ye busy bees,

A barren plant, no precious store is mine.

If David, night by night, did bathe his bed, Esteeming longest days too short to mourn; Tears inconsolable if Anna shed,

Who in her son her solace had forgone; Then I, to days and weeks, to months and years, Do owe the hourly meed of stintless tears.

My eye reads mournful lessons to my heart;

My heart doth to my thought the grief expound, My thought the theme doth to my tongue impart, My tongue the message in mine ear doth sound; The ears back to the heart their sorrows send, Thus circling griefs run round without an end.

My guilty eye seems still to see my sin;

All things are characters to spell my fall: What eye doth read without, heart rues within; What heart doth rue, to pensive thought is gall,

Which when the thought would by the tongue digest,

The ear conveys it back into the breast.

My comfort now is comfortless to live

In orphan state, devoted to mishap;

Rent from the root that sweetest fruit did give,
I scorn to graft on stock of meaner sap;
No juice can joy me, but of Jessie's flower,
Whose heavenly root hath such reviving power.

With mildness, Jesu, measure mine offence;
Let true remorse the vengeance due abate;
Let tears appease where trespass doth incense;
Let pity temper thy deserved hate;
Let grace forgive, let love forget my fall,
With fear I crave, with hope I humbly call.

Redeem my lapse with ransom of thy love, Traverse th' indictment, rigor's doom suspend; Let frailty favor, sorrow's succor move;

Be thou thyself-though changling I offend. Tender my suit, cleanse this polluted den, Cancel my debts-sweet Jesus, say, Amen!

Among other poems is a poetical commentary on the texts of St. Matthew: "When Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost. Whereupon Joseph, being a just man, and not willing publicly to expose her, was minded to put her away privately." The poet represents Joseph as determined to leave her, and thus beautifully describes the conflict in his mind. Alas! and was my love so lightly prized,

And was our solemn pledge so soon forgot? Could vows so plighted, be so soon despised, Could such a spouse be stained with such a

spot?

O wretched Joseph, that hath lived so long, of faithful love to reap such grievous wrong?

Could a foul worm breed in so sweet a wood?

Could in such chaste demeanor lurk untruth? Could ill lie hid where virtue's image stood, Where hoary sageness graced such tender

youth!

Where can affiance rest, to rest secure,
In virtue's fairest seat where faith's not sure?

All proofs did promise hope; a pledge of grace Where good might have repaid the deepest ill;

Sweet signs of purest thoughts in saintly face,

Assured the eye of her unstained will; Yet 'neath this outward lustre seems to lie Concealed a failing of the darkest die.

But Joseph's word shall never work her woe; I wish her leave to live, not doom to die; Though fortune mine, yet am not I her foe,

She to herself less loving is than I. The most I wish,-the least I can, is this, Since none may save, to shun what is amiss.

Exile my home, the wilds shall be my walk, Complaint my joys, my music mourning lays; With pensive griefs in silence will I talk,

Sad thoughts shall be my guides in sorrow's

ways.

Such course best suits the disappointed mind, That seeks to lose what most it joyed to find.

One foot he often setteth out of door,

The other loath uncertain ways to tread ; He takes the fardel for his needful store, He casts the inn where first he means to bed: But still, ere he can frame his feet to go, Love winneth time, till all concludes in "No!"