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Will no one tell me what she sings?
ANDREW MARVELL. - Born 1620-Died 1678. Andrew Marvell is little known as a poet, but the poetry which he left, is, , according to Mr. Campbell, worthy of higher consideration than has been bestowed upon it. He lived in the time of Oliver Cromwell, and was a sincere republican, but he held a seat in the British parliament after the restoration of the Stuarts, and is remarkable for the independence and honesty with which le, avowed his sentiments. He had visited foreign countries, had studied and meditated much : thus his conversation was adorned with original thought and various knowledge; and as his manners were simple but polished, he was in his private intercourse singularly agreeable. Charles H. once met with this respectable man, and being struck with him, thought he would be a valuable acquisition to the royalists.--To gain Marvell's favour the King sent him a present of money, which was refused, and Mr. Marvell giving a rational and dignified exposition of his sentiments, preferred his poverty with integrity to the favour of princes.
This excellent man loved poetry, and vindicated Milton when his character was aspersed. His religious sentiments, like those of Milton, were in favour of liberty, and he sympathized with those who were compelled to emigrate to foreign lands that they might enjoy freedom of conscience. In 1620, the famous emigration to New-England took place. One year before that time a emall company of religious persons, who were not permitted to worship God in England in the manner which seemed to them right, removed to the Bermuda islands. These islands are in a healthful and pleasant climate, but they have never had many inhabitants-still the first English who went thither, anticipated much satisfaction in their retreat. Mr. Marvell wrote a song which may be supposed to express, the grateful emotions of these voyagers as they entered their desired
What should we do but sing his praise,
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs. He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
He cast (of which we rather boast).
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
HENRY VAUGHAN. "Henry Vaughan was a Welsh gentleman, born on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, who was bred to the law, but 'relinquished it for the profession of physic.” The extraordinary beauty of Vaughan's poetry makes it desirable that the few remains of it which follow should become popular.
EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God as flowers do to the sun; Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Himn company all day, and in him sleep. - Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours
'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good - After sun-rising; for day sullies flowers:
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, • And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow creatures: note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush And oak doth know I AM.-Canst thou not sing? O leave thy cares and follies! go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day, Serve God before the world ; let himn not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevail'd by wrestling cre the sun did shine ; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n. · Mornings are mysteries: the first, world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shrowd in their births ; the crown of life, light, truth,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Past o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living towers. And still a new succession sings and flies,
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot, Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.
THE RAINBOW. Still young and fine, but what is still and in view We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnish'd flaming arch did first descry; When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, T'he youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair ; Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; Rain gently spends to honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tye If thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!