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."

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

HOW THE HEART'S-EASE FIRST CAME.

Frolic virgins once these were,

Over-loving, living here;

Being here their ends denied,

Ran for sweethearts mad, and died.

Love, in pity of their tears,

And their loss of blooming years,

For their restless here-spent hours,

Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers.

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 fall,
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 Londo 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 with. out 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."

TO MY ANTENOR.1

My dear Antenor, now give o'er,-
For my sake talk of graves no more,
Death is not in our power to gain,

And is both wish'd and fear'd in vain.

Let's be as angry as we will,

Grief sooner may distract than kill,

And the unhappy often prove

Death is as coy a thing as love.

Those whose own sword their death did give,

Afraid were, or ashamed, to live;

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.

And by an act so desperate,

Did poorly run away from fate;

"Tis braver much t' outride the storin,
Endure its rage, and shun its harm;
Affliction nobly undergone,

More greatness shows than having none.
But yet the wheel, in turning round,
At last may lift us from the ground,
And when our fortune's most severe,
The less we have the less we fear.
And why should we that grief permit,
Which cannot mend nor shorten it?
Let's wait for a succeeding good,

Woes have their ebb as well as flood:

And since the parliament have rescued you,
Believe that Providence will do so too.

JEREMY TAYLOR, who, for learning, eloquence, imagination, and piety, stands among the first of English divines, was the son of a barber in Cambridge. He was born about the year 1602, and at the age of thirteen entered the university of his native place. A short time after taking his degree, he was elected, by the interest of Archbishop Laud, fellow of All-Souls College Oxford. He became chaplain to Laud, who procured for him the rectory of Uppington in Rutlandshire, where he settled in 1640. In 1642, he was created D. D. at Oxford. In 1644, while accompanying the royal army as chaplain, he was taken prisoner by the parliamentary forces, in the battle fought before the castle of Cardigan, in Wales. Being soon released, he resolved to continue in Wales, and, having established a school in the county of Caermarthen, he there waited calmly the issue of events. In his own felicitous style, he gives the following picturesque account of his retirement: "In the great storm which dashed the vessel of the church all in pieces, I had been cast on the coast of Wales, and, in a little boat, thought to have enjoyed that rest and quietness which in England, in a far greater, I could not hope for. Here I cast anchor, and thinking to ride safely, the storm followed me with so impetuous violence, that it broke a cable, and I lost my anchor: and, but that He that stilleth the raging of the sea, and the noise of his waves, and the madness of the people, had provided a plank for me, I had been lost to all the opportunities of content or study: but I know not whether I have been preserved more by the courtesies of my friends, or the gentleness and mercies of a noble enemy."

After continuing some years in this solitude, he lost his three sons in the short space of two or three months. This most afflicting calamity caused him to go to London, where he administered, though in circumstances of great danger, to a private congregation of loyalists. At the Restoration he was made bishop of Down and Connor, in Ireland, and subsequently was elected vice-chancellor of the University of Dublin, which office he retained to his death, 1667.

The writings of Bishop Taylor, which are numerous, are all of a theologi

1 A most noble and just tribute to the Republican cause.