to have weakened bis constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
Oh, let him tell me ere I die
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;

Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold or lead,

Quicken or dull the head:
I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask ! whoe'er

Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eyo
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:

The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed

To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;

A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace

Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing

Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;

So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,

We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:

Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires

We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,

And out of cures do poisons make.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side ;
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name ;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

When now the incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force ; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed and check'd the flood. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire : His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand : Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell. But the devoted stand enrayèd more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain’d the field.

Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew :
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing
We valour call, which time and reason bring ;
But a diviner fury, fierce and high,
Valour transported into ecstasy,
Which angels, looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.
You now that boast the spirit, and its sway,
Shew us his second, and we'll give the day:
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die:
And though you thank God that you lost none there,
'Cause they were such who lived not when they were
Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispense,
Either a — or his excellence)
Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.
Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers
Do make or cherish flowers;
Where discontented things in sadness lie,
And Nature grieves as I.
When I am parted from those eyes,
From which my better day doth rise,
Though some propitious power
Should plant me in a bower,
Where amongst happy lovers I might see
How showers and sunbeams bring
One everlasting spring,
Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me;
Nature herself to him is lost,
Who loseth her he honours most.
Then, fairest, to my parting view display
Your graces all in one full day;
Whose blessed shapes I 'll snatch and keep till when
I do return and view again :
So by this art fancy shall fortune cross,
And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE. This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that nobleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.