PATRICK CAREY.

THE name of CAREY is but recently added to our list of poets. The small volume which establishes his claim to that distinction was published in 1819, by Sir Walter Scott, from the only MS. copy known to exist. appears to have been a loyalist and high-churchman.

The date is 1651. Carey

PATRICK CAREY.

CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION.

I.

Look, how he shakes for cold!
How pale his lips are grown!
Wherein his limbs to fold,
Yet mantle has he none.
His pretty feet and hands

(Of late more pure and white
Than is the snow

That pains them so,)

Have lost their candour quite.

His lips are blue,

(Where roses grew,)

He's frozen everywhere:
All the heat he has,
Joseph, alas!

Gives in a groan, or Mary in a tear.

II.

Look, how he glows for heat!
What flames come from his eyes!
"Tis blood that he does sweat,
Blood his bright forehead dies.
See, see! it trickles down:
Look, how it showers amain!
Through every pore
His blood runs o'er

And empty leaves each vein.
His very heart

Burns in each part;

A fire his breast doth sear:

For all this flame,

To cool the same,

He only breathes a sigh, and weeps a tear.

III.

What bruises do I see!

What hideous stripes are those!

Could any cruel be

Enough, to give such blows?

Look, how they bind his arms,
And vex his soul with scorns!
Upon his hair

They make him wear

A crown of piercing thorns.

Through hands and feet

Sharp nails they beat;

And now the cross they rear :

Many look on;

But only John

Stands by to sigh; Mary to shed a tear.

IV.

Why did he quake for cold?
Why did he glow for heat?
Dissolve that frost he could,

He could call back that sweat.

Those bruises, stripes, bonds, taunts,
Those thorns which thou didst see,

Those nails, that cross,

His own life's loss

Why, O why suffered he?

'Twas for thy sake:

Thou, thou didst make

Him all those torments bear:

If then his love

Do thy soul move,

Sigh out a groan, weep down a melting tear.

NULLA FIDES.

FOR God's sake, mark that fly :

See what a poor, weak, little thing it is.

When thou hast mark'd and scorn'd it; know that this,

This little, poor, weak fly

Has kill'd a pope; can make an emperor die.

Behold yon spark of fire:

How little hot, how near to nothing 'tis !

When thou hast done despising, know that this, This contemn'd spark of fire

Has burnt whole towns; can burn a world entire.