Thy spotted soul to flames. Yet I will give Its passport hence; for think not to outlive This hour, this fatal hour, ordain'd to see More than an age before of tragedy.

Fearing tears should win The victory of anger, Ammurat draws His scymitar, which had in blood writ laws For conquer'd provinces, and with a swift And cruel rage, ere penitence could lift Her burthen'd soul in a repentant thought Tow'rds heaven, sheathes the cold steel in her soft And snowy breast with a loud groan she falls Upon the bloody floor, half breathless, calls For his untimely pity; but perceiving The fleeting spirits, with her blood, were leaving Her heart unguarded, she implores that breath Which yet remain'd, not to bewail her death, But beg his life that caused it-on her knees, Struggling to rise. But now calm'd Ammurat

Our souls to sail together. From thy eyes
Remove death's load, and see what sacrifice
My love is offering. With that word, a stroke
Pierces his breast, whose speedy pains invoke
Death's opiates to appease them: he sinks down
By's dying wife, who, ere the cold flood drown
Life in the deluge of her wounds, once more
Betrays her eyes to the light; and though they wore
The weight of death upon their lids, did keep
Them so long open, till the icy sleep

Began to seize on him, and then she cries-
O see, just heaven! see, see my Ammurat dies,
To wander with me in the unknown shade
Of immortality-But I have made

[gave

The wounds that murther'd both his hand that
Mine, did but gently let me blood to save
An everlasting fever. Pardon me,
My dear, my dying lord. Eternity
Shall see my soul white-wash'd in tears; but oh!
I now feel time's dear want-they will not flow
Fast as my stream of blood. Christian, farewell!
Whene'er thou dost our tragic story tell,

Do not extenuate my crimes, but let
Them in their own black characters be set,
Near Ammurat's bright virtues, that, read by
Th' unpractised lover, which posterity,
Whilst wanton winds play with our dust, shall raise
On beauties; that the good may justice praise
By his example, and the bad by mine
From vice's throne be scared to virtue's shrine.
This,

She cries, is our last interview-a kiss
Then joins their bloodless lips-each close the eyes
Of the other, whilst the parting spirit flies.

THIS gallant, unfortunate man, who was much distinguished for the beauty of his person, was the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. After taking a master's degree at Cambridge, he was for some time an officer in the army; but returned to his native country after the pacification of Berwick, and took possession of his paternal estate, worth about 5007. per annum. About the same time he was deputed by the county of Kent to deliver their petition to the House of Commons, for restoring the king to his rights, and settling the government. This petition gave such offence that he was committed to the Gate-house prison, and only released on finding bail to an enormous amount not to pass beyond the lines of communication. During his confinement to London his fortune was wasted in support of the royal cause. In 1646 he formed

a regiment for the service of the French king, was colonel of it, and was wounded at Dunkirk. On this occasion his mistress, Lucasta, a Miss Lucy Sacheverel, married another, hearing that he had died of his wounds. At the end of two years he returned to England, and was again imprisoned till after the death of Charles I. He was then at liberty; but, according to Wood, was left in the most destitute circumstances, his estate being gone. He, who had been the favourite of courts, is represented as having lodged in the most obscure recesses of poverty*, and died in great misery in a lodging near Shoe-lane.

* The compiler of the Biographia Dramatica remarks that Wood must have exaggerated Lovelace's poverty. for his daughter and sole heir married the son of Lord Chief Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at King's-down in Kent.

SONG.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd to her eye,-
The birds, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,

Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,-
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King*;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,-
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,-
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

SONG.

AMARANTHA, Sweet and fair,
Forbear to braid that shining hair;
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee, let it fly :

Let it fly as unconfined
As its ravisher the wind,
Who has left his darling east
To wanton o'er this spicy nest.

Every tress must be confess'd
But neatly tangled at the best,
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled :

Do not then wind up that light
In ribands, and o'ercloud the night;
Like the sun in his early ray,

But shake your head and scatter day.

[* Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison]

A LOOSE SARABAND.

АH me, the little tyrant thief,
As once my heart was playing,
He snatch'd it up, and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.

Proud of his purchase, he surveys,
And curiously sounds it;
And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel still on he wounds it.

And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a ball he boundeth,
From hand to hand, from breast to lip,
And all its rest confoundeth.

Then as a top he sets it up,

And pitifully whips it ; Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, Then straight again he strips it.

He cover'd it with false belief,

Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning cushionet

On's mother he bestow'd it.

Each day with her small brazen stings
A thousand times she raced it ;
But then at night, bright with her gems,
Once near her breast she placed it.

Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed, She knew that smart and grieved; At length this poor condemned heart, With these rich drugs reprieved.

She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear, Which my Lucasta dropped;

And in the sleeve silk of her hair

"Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

She probed it with her constancy,
And found no rancour nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye

Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it.

Then press'd she hard in every vein, Which from her kisses thrilled, And with the balm heal'd all its pain That from her hand distilled.

But yet this heart avoids me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But, fled to its physician's breast,
There proudly sits enthroned.

P

THE INQUIRY.

If we no old historian's name

Authentic will admit,

But think all said of friendship's fame

But poetry or wit ;

Yet what's revered by minds so pure
Must be a bright idea sure.

But as our immortality

By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be,

It would not be design'd:

So here how could such copies fall,
If there were no original?

But if truth be in ancient song,
Or story we believe;

If the inspired and greater throng

Have scorned to deceive;

There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave.

Among that consecrated crew

Some more seraphic shade

Lend me a favourable clew,

Now mists my eyes invade.

Why, having fill'd the world with fame, Left you so little of your flame?

Why is't so difficult to see

Two bodies and one mind?

And why are those who else agree

So difficultly kind?

Hath nature such fantastic art,
That she can vary every heart?

Why are the bands of friendship tied
With so remiss a knot,
That by the most it is defied,

And by the most forgot?
Why do we step with so light sense
From friendship to indifference?

If friendship sympathy impart,

Why this ill-shuffled game,

That heart can never meet with heart,
Or flame encounter flame ?
What does this cruelty create ?

Is't the intrigue of love or fate?

Had friendship ne'er been known to men, (The ghost at last confest)

The world had then a stranger been

To all that heaven possest.
But could it all be here acquired,
Not heaven itself would be desired.

A FRIEND.

LOVE, nature's plot, this great creation's soul,
The being and the harmony of things,
Doth still preserve and propagate the whole,
From whence man's happiness and safety springs:
The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw
From her alone their universal law.

Friendship 's an abstract of this noble flame,
'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross,
The next to angel's love, if not the same,

As strong in passion is, though not so gross : It antedates a glad eternity,

And is an heaven in epitome.