THE SAINT'S ENCOURAGEMENT.-A SONG, Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause; Their threat'nings are as senseless, as 'Tis you must perfect this great work, You must bring back the King again 'Tis for Religion that you fight All loyal subjects slay; When these are gone, we shall be blest, The clean contrary way. When Charles we've bankrupt made like us, Of crown and power bereft him, And all his loyal subjects slain, And none but rebels left him. We'll make him then a glorious prince, 'Tis to preserve his majesty, That we against him fight, Nor are we ever beaten back, Because our cause is right: If any make a scruple on't, Our declarations say, Who fight for us, fight for the king The clean contrary way. At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York, What victories we saints obtain'd The like ne'er seen before! How often we Prince Rupert kill'd, And bravely won the day; The wicked cavaliers did run The true religion we maintain, The kingdom's peace and plenty; The privilege of parliament Not known to one of twenty; The ancient fundamental laws; And teach men to obey Their lawful sovereign; and all these The clean contrary way. We subjects' liberties preserve, By prisonments and plunder, By them the gospel is advanced And though the king be much misled By that malignant crew! He'll find us honest, and at last For we do wisely plot, and plot, Rebellion to destroy, He sees we stand for peace and truth, The clean contrary way. The public works shall save our souls, And ships shall save our lives, that stay Only for wind and weather. But when our faith and works fall down, And all our hopes decay, Our acts will bear us up to heaven, The clean contrary way. SIR JOHN SUCKLING, whom we next notice, possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed upon him by the literary taste of the age, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what are called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. Suckling was born at Witham, in Essex, in 1608. He was of a very eminent family, his father Sir John Suckling being Secretary of State to James the First, and afterward Comptroller of the household of that monarch's successor, Charles. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy, being able to speak Latin at five years of age, and to write it with accuracy at nine. When sixteen years old he entered into public life as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served out an entire campaign. On his return to England he entered warmly into the cause of Charles the First, and raised a troop of horse in his support. He also intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Stratford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial he fled to France, but a fatal accident befell him on the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling learning the circumstances, drew on his boots hurriedly to pursue him; but a rusty nail, or the blade of a knife, had been concealed in one of them, which, wounding him, produced mortification, of which he soon after died, in 1641, and in his thirty-fourth year. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier he has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes voluptuous, but rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It contains touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. The following well-known stanza has, perhaps, never been excelled:— Her feet beneath her petticoat, But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. This 'Ballad,' and the fine lines on Detraction which follow it, are the only poems that our space will allow us to introduce from this spirited writer. A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, At Charing Cross, hard by the way And there did I see coming down Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Our landlord looks like nothing to him: 1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whitsunday. No grape that's kindly ripe could be Her finger was so small, the ring And to say truth (for out it must), Her feet beneath her petticoat, But oh! she dances such a way! Is half so fine a sight. And this the very reason was, The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, By this time all were stol'n aside But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, DETRACTION EXECRATED. Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Where each meant more than could by both be said. From such sweet raptures as to joy did move; Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale; Much less could'st have it from the purer fire; |