is a beautiful, splendid, and luminous building, adapted, by the
poet, with exquisite art and propriety, to its peculiar use. The
versification is more melodious than that of the greater part of
the poem. The language of Davenant is, indeed, very often
neither flowing nor perspicuous, and the careless reader will
have occasionally to turn back and reperuse a stanza before he
can comprehend its full force and beauty.-His heroic poem is
full of weighty matter and divine philosophy, and he who reads
it with a kindred spirit will find in it a quick, bold, and excur-
sive fancy, and a moral sublimity about the conceptions, which
is but seldom met with. His principal defect is a want of pas-
sion, and the minor graces and gentler touches of poetry.
The House of Praise is thus described.

"Dark are all thrones to what this temple seem'd,
Whose marble veins out-shin'd heav'n's various bow;
And would (eclipsing all proud Rome esteem'd)
To northern eies, like eastern mornings show.

From Paros isle was brought the milkie white;

From Sparta came the green, which cheers the view;
From Araby, the blushing onichite;

And from the Misnian hills, the deeper blew.

The arched front did on vast pillars fall,

Where all harmonious instruments they spie
Drawn out in boss, which, from the astrigall
To the flat frise, in apt resemblance lie.

Toss'd cymbals (which the sullen Jews admir'd)
Were figur'd here, with all of ancient choice
That joy did ere invent, or breath inspir'd,
Or flying fingers touch'd into a voice.

In statue o'er the gate, God's fav'rite king,
(The author of celestial praise) did stand;
His quire (that did his sonnets set and sing)
In niches rang'd, attended either hand.
From these, old Greeks sweet musick did improve;
The solemn Dorian did in temples charm,

The softer Lydian sooth'd to bridal love,
And warlike Phrygian did to battail warm :

They enter now, and, with glad rev'rence, saw
Glory, too solid great to taste of pride;

So sacred pleasant, as preserves an awe;
Though jealous priests it neither praise nor hide.

Praise is devotion fit for mightie minds!

The diff'ring world's agreeing sacrifice,
Where heav'n divided faiths united finds,
But pray'r in various discord upward flies.
For pray'r the ocean is, where diversly

Men steer their course, each to a sev'ral coast;
Where all our int'rests so discordant be,

That half beg winds by which the rest are lost.

By Penitence, when we ourselves forsake,
"Tis but in wise design on pitious heav'n;
In praise we nobly give, what God may take,
And are, without a begger's blush, forgiv❜n.
Its utmost force, like powder's, is unknown!

And though weak kings excess of praise may fear,
Yet when 'tis here, like powder, dang'rous grown,

Heav'n's vault receives, what would the palace tear."

We do not think we shall mis-spend either our own time, or that of our readers, in selecting a few insulated stanzas, which possess considerable beauty.

The following comparison is well worth extracting.

"As rivers to their ruin hastie be,

So life, still earnest, loud, and swift, runs post
To the vaste gulf of death, as they to sea,
And vainly travels to be quickly lost."

His apostrophe to Honor is exceedingly beautiful.

"O, honour! Frail as life thy fellow flower!
Cherish'd and watch'd, and hum'rously esteem'd,

Then worn for short adornments of an hour;

And is, when lost, no more than life, redeem'd."

These four lines, on the two friends of Oswald who were slain in the combat, are written in that pointed and epigrammatic style which distinguishes our author.

"And cold as he lies noble Dargonet,

And Paradine, who wore the victor's crown;
Both swift to charge, and lame in a retreat;
Brothers in bloud, and rivals in renown."

And again :

"Borgio and he from this dire region haste,

Shame makes them sightless to themselves, and dumb;

*

Their thoughts flie swift as Time from what is past,
And would, like him, demolish all to come.'

In speaking of Gondibert's father, the poet has the following stanza, which is nobly expressed.

"He to submiss devotion more was given
After a battel gain'd, than ere 'twas fought;
As if it nobler were to thank high Heav'n

For favours past, than bow for bounty sought."

And also:

"Care, that in cloysters onely seals her eyes,

Which youth thinks folly, age as wisdom owns;
Fools, by not knowing her, outlive the wise;

She visits cities, but she dwells in thrones."

This stanza conveys a very striking impression of vastness.

"So vast of height, to which such space did fit,

As if it were o're-syz'd for modern men;

The ancient giants might inhabit it,

And there walk free as winds that pass unseen."

Gartha, the sister of Oswald, arrives at the camp of the army of her late brother, to rouse them to revenge. Her anger is depicted by this fine image.

"The sun did thus to threatned Nature show

Her anger red, whilst guilt look'd pale in all,
When clouds of flouds did hang about his brow,

And then shrunk back to let that anger fall."

In the character and love of Birtha, we have a picture of most absolute loveliness and dove-like simplicity. Never was that delightful passion pourtrayed with a more chaste and exquisite pencil. Venus, when she arose from the white spray of the sea, a fresh and beautiful creation, and gazed around with hardly awakened consciousness and strange timidity, was not more retiringly pure-more delicately graceful. The art of the poet is most conspicuous-" most sweet and commendable."

"To Astragon, heav'n for succession gave
One onely pledge, and Birtha was her name;

Whose mother slept, where flowers

grew on her

And she succeeded her in face and fame.

grave,

She ne'r saw courts, yet courts could have undone
With untaught looks and an unpractis'd heart;
Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun;
For nature spred them in the scorn of art.

She never had in busie cities bin,

Ne'r warm'd with hopes, nor ere allay'd with fears; Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin;

And sin not seeing, ne'r had use of tears.

But here her father's precepts gave her skill,
Which with incessant bus'ness fill'd the hours;
In Spring, she gather'd blossoms for the still,
In Autumn, berries; and in Summer, flow'rs.
And as kind nature with calm diligence

Her own free virtue silently employs,
Whilst she, unheard, does rip'ning growth dispence,
So were her virtues busie without noise.

Whilst her great mistress, Nature, thus she tends,
The busie houshold waits no less on her;
By secret law, each to her beauty bends;
Though all her lowly mind to that prefer.

**

The just historians, Birtha thus express,
And tell how, by her syre's example taught,
She serv'd the wounded duke in life's distress,
And his fled spirits back by cordials brought.

Black melancholy mists, that fed despair

Through wounds' long rage, with sprinkled vervin cleer'd, Strew'd leaves of willow to refresh the air,

And with rich fumes his sullen senses cheer'd.

He that had serv'd great Love with rev'rend heart,
In these old wounds, worse wounds from him endures;
For Love makes Birtha shift with Death his dart,
And she kills faster than her father cures.

Her heedless innocence as little knew

The wounds she gave, as those from Love she took;
And Love lifts high each secret shaft he drew;
Which at their stars he first in triumph shook!

Love he had lik'd, yet never lodg'd before;
But finds him now a bold unquiet guest;
Who climbs to windows when we shut the door;
And, enter'd, never lets the master rest.

So strange disorder, now he pines for health,
Makes him conceal this reveller with shame;
She not the robber knows, yet feels the stealth,

And never but in songs had heard his name.

Yet then it was, when she did smile at hearts

Which countrey lovers wear in bleeding seals;
Ask'd where his pretty godhead found such darts,
As make those wounds that onely Hymen heals.
And this, her ancient maid with sharp complaints
Heard and rebuk'd; shook her experienc'd head,
With tears besought her not to jest at saints,

Nor mock those martyrs, Love had captive led.
Nor think the pious poets ere would waste
So many tears in ink, to make maids mourn,
If injur'd lovers had in ages past

The lucky mirtle, more than willow, worn.

This grave rebuke, officious memory

Presents to Birtha's thought; who now believ'd

Such sighing songs, as tell why lovers die,

And prais'd their faith, who wept when poets griev'd.

She, full of inward questions, walks alone,

To take her heart aside in secret shade;
But knocking at her breast, it seem'd, or gone,
Or by confed'racie was useless made;

Or else some stranger did usurp its room;
One so remote, and new in ev'ry thought,
As his behaviour shews him not at home,

Nor the guide sober that him thither brought.
Yet with this foreign heart, she does begin

To treat of love, her most unstudy'd theam;
And like young conscienc'd Casuists, thinks that sin,
Which will by talk and practice lawfull seem.

With open ears, and ever-waking eyes,

And flying feet, love's fire she from the sight
Of all her maids does carry, as from spies;

Jealous, that what burns her, might give them light.

Beneath a mirtle covert now does spend

In maids' weak wishes, her whole stock of thought; Fond maids! who love, with mind's fine stuff would mend, Which nature purposely of bodies wrought.