Out of the verses To Clarastella on Valentine's Day, some may be selected of more than ordinary elegance. The lover steals to the couch of the unconscious fair one, and, while gazing on her reposing beauty, exclaims : "Behold where Innocence herself doth lie Clad in her white array! Fair deitie! 'Tis I am come, who but a friend before To our dear Valentine; Where I must offer to thine eies, Large hecatombs of kisses I wil lay The season too invites ; When spring comes they a billing go, How sweet shee breaths! the zephyre wind that blows Sends forth not half so pure a smel As that which on thy chaster lips doth dwel: Could fix eternally, And pay these vows until I die He thus describes his mistress, dancing: Such comely graces 'bout her were. Whilst her silk sailes displaied, shee With this stanza he concludes a long piece, persuading Clarastella from her resolution of going into a nunnery. "Thyself a holy temple art Where love shall teach us both to pray, And incense on thy lips wil lay. In the observations prefixed to this article, we have not given the poets of Heath's school much credit for nature or feeling-nor do they indeed deserve it. In Heath himself, however, we occasionally meet with touches which betoken that the man did sometimes peep out from beneath the fantastic versifier. It is not unfrequent with him to speak of his love in terms more tender than hyperbolical comparisons can convey, and he sometimes paints the charms of his mistress and the warmth of his passion with an earnestness and strength of expression which leave little doubt of their reality. The following verses, termed "Love's Silence," are a proof that our author could sometimes fall into a natural vein. "Ay me! when I Am blind with passion, why Should my best reason speechlesse prove? (Which words can nere expresse) In silent rhetorick speak my love? If so; each smother'd sigh will vent my smart, O when thou see'st me stand thus mute and blind, Know that such love, Like Heaven's, comes from above, Language is weak, And should I strive to speak, Words would but lessen, not discharge. My love's deep sea's as silent, as profound: The lover thus enthusiastically addresses his Clarastella. "Oh those smooth, soft, and rubie lips, * Nothing can be more low or ludicrous than the most of the occasions which Heath thought worthy of being celebrated in song, provided they happened to his mistress. Clarastella could not lose her "black fan," get a cold, or get dust in her eye, but Mr. Heath was straight at her feet with a copy of verses in his hand. When we think of the nature of the subjects which he chose, we cease to wonder so much that many of them should be vilely handled, as that they should be selected, and being selected that any thing good could ever be written about them. It is easy to believe that the man who could chuse the most trivial accidents and the most low and familiar occurrences for his themes, would treat them in a corresponding style. But we cannot help both being surprised and lamenting to see ingenuity of thought, liveliness of fancy, and richness of expression wasted upon them. And yet this is the case in some of the poems before us. It is the case in one which we will venture to extract, which "builds the lofty rhyme" on no less a groundwork than the bite of an insect, which the quick-eyed lover espied on the fair hand of his mistress. "Behold how like a lovely fragrant rose Midst a fair lillie bed, Or set in pearl, like a bright rubie, shows Art could not die a crimson half so good The cunning leech knew that the richest bloud Choosing the young soft tender flesh for food, Thus being nectar-fill'd and swell'd with pride, O how I envy thee, smal creature, and That so I might but kisse that sacred hand, &c." From the occasional poems which follow Clarastella, we shall make only one and that the last of our extracts, which shews our author had some talents for humour.-It is called A sudden Phansie at Midnight, and is as follows, excepting the two last lines, which add nothing to, but easily might take away from, the pleasure of the reader. "How ist we are thus melancholie? what It makes no matter How say you yet to th' tother subsidie? Yes, yes and let our Ganymede nimbly flie |