PATRICK CAREY. But little is known of Carey, except that he was of the established church and a loyalist. His poems, some of which possess great merit, were first printed by Sir Walter Scott, from a MS. dated 1651. CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION. LOOK, how He shakes for cold! Wherein his limbs to fold, Yet mantle has He none. His pretty feet and hands (Of late more pure and white That pains them so) He's frozen everywhere: All the heat He has, Gives in a groan, or Mary in a tear. Look! how He glows for heat! What flames come from his eyes! "Tis blood that He doth sweat, Blood his bright forehead dyes. See, see! it trickles down, Look, how it showers amain! His blood runs o'er, And empty leaves each vein. 1 Whiteness. 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. 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! They make Him wear A crown of piercing thorns. Through hands and feet, Sharp nails they beat. And now the cross they rear; Mary looks on, But only John Stands by to sigh, Mary to shed a tear. Why did He quake for cold? Why did He glow for heat? Dissolve that first 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 lossWhy, oh! 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. WILLIAM HABINGTON. THIS amiable man and pleasing poet was born at Hendlip, in Worcestershire, in 1605. His family being Catholics, he was educated at St. Omer's, and afterwards at Paris. At an early age he married Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, first Lord Powis; this lady was the Castara of his poems. He died in 1654. The poems of Habington were introduced for the first time in a general collection, by Mr. Chalmers. "The great charm of these poems," says Mr. Wilmot, “is their purity, and domestic tenderness: the religion of his fancy is never betrayed into any unbecoming mirth, or rapturous enthusiasm. He is always amiable, simple, and unaffected; if he has not the ingenuity of some of his rivals, he is also free from their conceits." LAUDATE DOMINUM DE CŒLIS.-DAVID. You Spirits! who have thrown away Which your celestial flight denied ; So broken in the angel's pride! O you! whom your Creator's sight Sing forth the triumphs of his name; All enamored souls, agree you In a loud symphony, To give expression to your flame! To Him his own great works relate, Who deigned to elevate You 'bove the frailty of your birth, By the rebellion of our earth. While a corrupted air beneath Each hour some passion us assails. Now lust casts wildfire in the blood, Itself in wit or beauty veils. Then envy circles us with hate, And lays a siege so strait, No heavenly succor enters in: But if revenge admittance find Forever hath the mind Made forfeit of itself to sin. Assaulted thus, how dare we raise Who is eternal and immense ? To speak him infinite, So far above the search of sense? O you! who are immaculate, His name may celebrate In your soul's bright expansion: You, whom your virtues did unite To his perpetual light, That ever with Him you now shine one. While we who to earth contract our hearts, And only study arts To shorten the sad length of time, In place of joys, bring humble fears, And a new sigh, for every crime. NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.-DAVID. WHEN I survey the bright Celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that night My soul her wings doth spread, For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name. No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, Removed far from our human sight, But, if we steadfast look, We shall discern In it, as in some holy book, How man may heavenly knowledge learn It tells the conqueror, That far-stretched power, Which his proud dangers traffic for, Is but the triumph of an hour. That from the farthest north Some nations may, Yet undiscovered, issue forth, And o'er his new-got conquest sway. Some nation, yet shut in With hills of ice, May be let out to scourge his sin, And then they likewise shall For, as yourselves, your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave. |