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venture to do well, without a precedent. Nor if any rigid friend question superciliously the setting forth of these poems, will I excuse myself (though justly perhaps I might) that importunity prevailed, and clear judgments advised. This only I dare say, that if they are not strangled with envy of the present, they may happily live in the not dislike of future times. For then partiality ceaseth, and virtue is, without the idolatry of her clients, esteemed worthy honour. Nothing new is free from detraction, and when princes alter customs even heavy to the subject, best ordinances are interpreted innovations. Had I slept in the silence of my acquaintance, and affected no study beyond that which the chase or field allows, poetry had then been no scandal upon me, and the love of learning no suspicion of ill husbandry. But what malice, begot in the country upon ignorance, or in the city upon criticism, shall prepare against me, I am armed to endure. For as the face of virtue looks fair without the adultery of art, so fame needs no aid from rumour to strengthen herself. If these lines want that courtship, (I will not say flattery) which insinuates itself into the favour of great men best; they partake of my modesty; if satire, to win applause with the envious multitude, they express my content; which maliceth none the fruition of that, they esteem happy. And if not too indulgent to what is my own: I think even these verses will have that proportion in the world's opinion, that heaven hath allotted me in fortune; not so high, as to be wondered at, nor so low as to be contemned."

There is great simplicity, and modesty, in this self introduction of the anthor; and, in his estimation of his own powers, he comes very near the truth. His poetry is generally very inferior to his prose, as, we think, will be admitted on comparing the quotation just made with the succeeding extracts. The lines addressed to the Honorable Mr. W. E. are written with some degree of strength, and are freer from the author's usual faults than most of his pieces.

"He who is good is happy. Let the loud
Artillery of heaven break through a cloud
And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain
Unmov'd, and nobler comfort entertain
In welcoming th' approach of death, than vice
E'er found in her fictitious paradise.

Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appetite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age.

Where we are left to satisfy the rage

Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral.

The thought of this begets that brave disdain

With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain

Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court,

And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? Why interpose

A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? kind nature chose

Man's soul th' exchequer where she'd hoard her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth
Of our own vanity, we're left so poor,

The creature merely sensual knows more.
The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenc'd by a calm, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage: while the sensitive

Part of the world in it's first strength doth live.
Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain
Deserves our study? merchants plough the main
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more
By avarice, in the possession poor.

And yet that idol wealth we all admit
Into the soul's great temple; busy wit
Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites
To show its superstition, anxious nights
Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast.
Content with nature's courtesy doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soul, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee
(Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd
Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd
Far higher than thy birth) I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition paid
With safe content, while a pure virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name,
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for virtuous love.
Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars
To purchase unsafe honour in the wars
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.

Yet know, what busy path so e'er you tread

To greatness, you must sleep among the dead."

There is nothing original in Habington; all, therefore, to be expected from him is, that he should express ordinary thoughts in a poetical manner. The following lines, on the insatiable craving of mankind for things not within their possession, are distinguished by nothing original in thought, but they are written with some force.

"Possession makes us poor. Should we obtain

All those bright jems, for which i' th' wealthy main
The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundless chest
Imprison all the treasures of the west,

We still should want. Our better part's immense,
Not, like th' inferior, limited by sense.

Rich with a little, mutual love can lift

Us to a greatness, whither chance nor thrift

E'er rais'd her servants. For, though all were spent,
That can create an Europe in content."

The poem "To Castara, departing upon the approach of night," furnishes an example of the manner in which Habington combines poetical imagery with extravagant ideas.

"What should we fear, Castara? The cool air,
That's fall'n in love, and wantons in thy hair,
Will not betray our whispers. Should I steal
A nectar'd kiss, the wind dares not reveal
The pleasure I possess. The wind conspires
To our bless'd interview, and in our fires

Bathes like a salamander, and doth sip,

Like Bacchus from the grape, life from thy lip.
Nor think of night's approach. The world's great eye,
Though breaking nature's law, will us supply

With his still flaming lamp: and to obey

Our chaste desires, fix here perpetual day.

But should he set, what rebel night dares rise,

To be subdu'd i' th' vict'ry of the eyes?

The address to Winter is striking it is, however, rather a description of the effect, than a personification of that season, and is disfigured by hyperbole and conceit.

Into such furrows? Why dost thou appear
So shaking like an ague to the year?
The sun is gone. But yet Castara stays,
And will add stature to thy pigmy days,

Warm moisture to thy veins; her smile can bring
Thee the sweet youth, and beauty of the spring.
Hence with thy palsy then, and on thy head
Wear flow'ry chaplets, as a bridegroom led
To th' holy fane. Banish thy aged ruth,
That virgins may admire and court thy youth;
And the approaching sun, when she shall find

A spring without him, fall, since useless, blind."

Cowper's personification of Winter is of a different kind; it is a much more minute and impressive allegory.

"O winter, ruler of th' inverted year,

Thy scatter'd hair, with sleet like ashes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car indebted to no wheels,

But urg'd by storms along its slipp'ry way."

But the best thing in the volume is a poem addressed “To his noblest friend, J. C. Esq."; it is fervid, noble, and natural.

"I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet

I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide,
But loathe the expense, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my care unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatness of each star shines in the state,
The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of foreign discord flow:
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell.
The cross, or prosperous fate, of princes they
Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;

And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy, did old Machiavel.

O busy folly! Why do I my brain
Perplex with the dull policies of Spain,

Or quick designs of France! Why not repair
To the
pure innocence o' th' country air,

༣

And neighbour thee, dear friend? Who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live

Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we
Arm against passion with philosophy;

And, by the aid of leisure, so controul
What-e'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?
Knowledge doth ignorance ingender, when
We study mysteries of other men,

And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade
(Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid,
Kind nature's housewifery) contemplate all
His stratagems, who labours to enthral
The world to his great master, and you'll find
Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear
A price for glory: Honour doth appear
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And, juggler-like, works o' th' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied only wise: for no respect
Endangers them to error; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As virtue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bend us toward death, let's in our mind
Create new youth; and arm against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude

O'th' country dead our thoughts, nor busy care
O' th' town make us to think, where now we are
And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot
His journey, though his steps we numbered not."

The description of Castara is very innocent, and rather poetical.

"Like the violet which, alone,

Prospers in some happy shade,