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Sundays the pillars are
On wbich heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities,
They are the fruitful bed and borders
In God's rich garden; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife;

More plentiful than hope.

Thou art a day of mirth:
And, where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.
Oh, let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven;
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heaven!

Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!

Parents first season us; then schoolmasters

Deliver to us laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,

Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,

Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,

The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:

Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom sin blows quite away.

THOMAS CAREW. 1589_1639.

Of the personal history of Thomas Carew we have not many particulars He was educated at Oxford, and, after travelling abroad, was received with great favor at the court of Charles I. for his elegant manners and personal accomplishments. All his poems are short and occasional, and were exceed. ingly popular at the time. « Sprightly, polished, and perspicuous,” says Headley, “ every part of his works displays the man of sense, gallantry, and

1 "This sonnet is equally admirable for the weight, number, and expression of the thoughts, and for the simple dignity of the language; unless, indeed, a fastidious taste should object to the latter half of the sixth line."--Coleridge.


breeding. He has the ease, without the pedantry of Waller, and perhaps less conceit:" and Campbell remarks that “his poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their trifling subjects could not have yielded withont a delicate and deliberate exercise of the fancy; and he unites the point and polish of later times with many of the genial and warın tints of the elder muse." It is deeply to be regretted that he should have employed such talents upon subjects generally so trivial, when he might have shone in the higher walks of poetry, and built for himself a wide-spread fame.


The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone: With weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid hier in earth:
If any of thein (reader) were
Known unto thee, shed a tear:
Or if thyself possess a gem,
As dear to thee, as this to them;
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs, thine own hard case;
For thou perhaps at thy return
Mayst find thy darling in an urn.

Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake:
For that lovely face will fail;
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain, or winter's swi:
Most fleeting when it is most dear;
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis liere,
These curious locks so aptly twined,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow
White and cold as winter's snow.
That eye, which now is Cupid's nest,
Will prove his grave, and all the rest
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose,
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose.
And what will then become of all
Those, whom now you servants call?
Like swallows, when your summer's done,
They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

Bewitching siren! gilded rottenness!
Thou hast with cunning artifice display'd
Th' enameli'd outside, and the honied verge
Of the fair cup where deadly poison lurks.
Within, a thousand sorrows dance the round;
And, like a shell, pain circles thee without.

Grief is the shaclow waiting on thy steps,
Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their west decling
Doth to a giant's spreading form extend
Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art pain,
Greedy intense desire; and the keen edge
Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee,
And cuts thy slender thread; but still the terror
And apprehension of thy hasty end
Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets :
Yet thy Circean charms transform the world.
Captains that have resisted war and death,
Nations that over fortune have triumph’d,
Are by thy magic made effeminate :
Empires, that knew no limits but the poles,
Have in thy wanton lap melted away.
Thou wert the author of the first excess
That drew this reformation on the gods;
Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven
Banish'd th' effect, will there enthrone the cause?
To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence;
There dwell, for ever drown'd in brutish sense.

GERVASE MARKHAM. GERVASE MARKHAM was a very voluminous writer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., but neither the period of his birth nor his death has been ascertained. He commenced author about the year 1992, and lived to a good old age, dying in the latter part of the reign of Charles I. His education had been very liberal, for he was esteemed a good classical scholar, and was well versed in the French, Italian, and Spanish languages. He seems to have been a general compiler for the booksellers, writing upon almost every subject. His populanty in his clay was unrivalled, many of his works reaching numerous editions. The following excellent remarks aro from his work on Housewifery:2

THE GOOD HOUSEWIFE. Next unto her sanctity and holiness of life, it is meet that our English housewife be a woman of great modesty and temperance, as well inwardly as outwardly; inwardly, as in her behavior and carriage towards her husband, wherein she shall shun all violence of rage, passion, and humor, covering less to direct than to

1 See a list of his works in Lowndes's “ Bibliography," III. 1211, and in Drake's “ Shakspeare, L. 596: also in the “Censura Literaria," v. 105-117.

! I must give the title as a curiosity: “The English House-Wife, containing the Inward and outWard virtoes which ought to be in a compleat woman. As her skill in physick, chirurgery, cookery extraction of oyls, banqueting-stuff, ordering of great feasts, preserving of all sorts of wines, con. cited secrets, distinations, perfumes, ordering of wool, hemp, flax; making cloth and dying, the knowledge of dayries, omce of malting, of oats, their excellent rules in famllies; of brewing, baking, and all other things belonging to an household. A work generally approved, and now the eighth time much augmented, purged, and made most profitable and necessary for all men, and the general good of this nation. By G. Markham."

be directed, appearing ever unto him pleasant, amiable, and de. lightful; and, though occasion of mishaps or the misgovernment of his will may induce her to contrary thoughts, yet virtuously to suppress them, and with a mild sufferance rather to call him home from his error, than with the strength of anger to abate the least spark of his evil; calling into her mind, that evil and uncomely language is deformed, though uttered even to servants; but most monstrous and ugly, when it appears before the presence of a husband : outwardly, as in her apparel and diet, both which she shall proportion according to the competency of her husband's estate and calling, making her cirele rather strait than large : for it is a rule, if we extend to the uttermost, we take away increase ; If we go a hair's breadth beyond, we enter into consumption ; but if we preserve any part, we build strong forts against the adversaries of fortune, provided that such preservation be honest and conscionable.

To conclude, our English housewife must be of chaste thoughts, stout courage, patient, untired, watchful, diligent, witty, pleasant, constant in friendship, full of good neighborhood, wise in discourse, but not frequent therein, sharp and quick of speech, but not bitter or talkative, secret in her affairs, comfortable in her coun. sels, and generally skilful in the worthy knowledges which do belong to her vocation.

GEORGE SANDYS. 1587-1643.

This eminent sacred poet, the son of Archbishop Sandys, was born in 1587, and in his eleventh year he entered St. Mary's Hall, Oxford. He spent many years in travelling in the East, visiting Asia Minor, Palestine, Persia, Egypt, &c.; and notwithstanding the labors of more recent travellers, his works still have a high reputation, and are still referred to as of the first authenticity and credit. To an ardent spirit of curiosity and research, he united a pure and discriminating taste, and a spirit of true piety. He died in 1643.'

The principal poetical work of Sandys is a translation of the Psalms of David, incomparably the most poetical in the English language, but yet, at the present day, scarcely known.


Thy beauty, Israel, is fled,

Sunk to the dead;
liow are the valiant fallen! the slain

Thy mountains stain.
Oh! let it not in Gath be known,
Nor in the streets of Ashkelon;

1 See Sir Egerton Brydges's "Censura Literaria," Iv. 420, and x. 394.

Lest that sad story should excite

Their dire delight!
Lest in the torrent of our woe,

Their pleasure flow :
Lest their triumphant daughters ring
Their cymbals, and their pæans sing.
Yon hills of Gilboa, never may

You offerings pay;
No morning dew, nor fruitful showers,

Clothe you with flowers :
Saul and his arms there made a spoil,
As if untouch'd with sacred oil.
The bow of noble Jonathan

Great battles won;
His arrows on the mighty fed,

With slaughter red.
Saul never raised his arm in vain,
His sword still glutted with the slain.
How lovely! O how pleasant! when

They lived with men!
Than cagles swister; stronger far

Than lions are:
Whom love in life so strongly tied,
The stroke of death could not divide.
Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul;

Lament his fall,
Who fed you with the earth's increase,

And crownd with peace;
With robes of Tyrian purple deck’d,
And gems which sparkling light reflect.
How are thy worthies by the sword

Of war devour'd!
O Jonathan! the better part

Of my torn heart!
The savage rocks have drunk thy blood:
My brother! O how kind! how good !
Thy love was great; O never more

To man, man bore!
No woman, when most passionate,

Loved at that rate!
How are the mighty fallen in fight!

They and their glory set in niglit! The following is a part of his preface to his travels, admirable alike for the beauty and piety of its spirit, and for the vigor of its style :

THE FALL OF ANCIENT EMPIRES. The parts I speak of are the most renowned countries and kingdoms : once the seats of most glorious and triumphant empires; the theatres of valor and heroical actions; the soils enriched with all earthly felicities; the places where nature hath produced her

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