IX.-SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGNE.

WHEN the Scottish covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the English borders in 1639, many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expense. Among these none were more distinguished than the gallant Sir John Suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred that cost him £12,000. The like expensive equipment of other parts of the army made the king remark, that "the Scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the Englishmen's fine cloaths."— Lloyd's Memoirs. When they came to action, the rugged Scots proved more than a match for the fine showy English, many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of Sir John Suckling's.

This humorous pasquil has been generally supposed to have been written by Sir John as a banter upon himself, though some of his contemporaries, however, attributed it to Sir John Mennis, a wit of those times.

X.-TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON,

THIS excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old cavaliers, was written by Colonel Richard Lovelace during his confinement in the gate-house, Westminster, to which he was committed by the House of Commons in April 1642, for presenting a petition from the county of Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government.

This song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems, entitled Lucasta, 1649, 12mo, collated with a copy in the Editor's folio MS.

WHEN love with unconfined wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates; When I lye tangled in her haire,

And fetter'd with her eye,

The birds that wanton in the aire,
Know no such libertye.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,*

Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,
When healths and draughts goe free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such libertie.

When, linnet-like, confined I

With shriller note shall sing
The mercye, sweetness, majestye,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voyce aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood,
Know no such libertie.

Stone walls doe not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage,
Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soule am free,
Angels alone, that soare above,
Enjoy such libertic.

XI. THE DOWNFALL OF CHARING CROSS. CHARING CROss, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful Gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by Edward I., who built such a one wherever the hearse of his beloved Eleanor rested on its way from Lincolnshire to Westminster. But neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: for, in 1647, it was demolished by order of the House of Commons as popish and superstitious. This occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times.

The plot referred to in ver. 17 was that entered into by Mr. Waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, Nathaniel Tomkins and Richard Chaloner, suffered death, July 5, 1643. Vid. Athen. Ox. II. 24.

UNDONE, undone the lawyers are,

They wander about the towne,

* Thames is here used for water in general.

Nor can find the way to Westminster,

Now Charing Cross is downe :

At the end of the Strand they make a stand,
Swearing they are at a loss,

THIS excellent old song is preserved in David Lloyd's Memoires of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I., London 1668. The author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by Sir Roger L'Estrange.

These manacles upon my arm

I, as my mistress' favours, wear; And for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell,

Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lockt up,

Like some high-prized margarite,
Or, like the great mogul or pope,

Am cloyster'd up from publick sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,
And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great as
thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in : Malice of late's grown charitable sure, I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,*
Thinking t' have made his purpose

sure,

By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to a cure:

I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;

But though they do my corps confine,
Yet maugre hate, my soul is free:
And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and
sing

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

meant

Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th

event.

See this remarkable story in Cicero, de Nat. Deorum, Lib. iii. c. 28; Cic. de Offic. Lib, i. c. 30. See also Val. Max. i. 8.

My soul is free, as ambient air,

Although my baser part's immew'd, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair

T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body binde, My king alone can captivate my minde.

XIII. VERSES BY KING CHARLES I.

"THIS prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose. Bishop Burnett has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by Charles in Carisbrook Castle [in 1648]. The poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety."-Mr. Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors, vol. i. And Hume hath remarked of these stanzas, "that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of the expression, renders them very pathetic."

GREAT monarch of the world, from whose

power springs

The potency and power of kings,
Record the royal woe my suffering sings;

And teach my tongue, that ever did confine
Its faculties in truth's seraphick line,
To track the treasons of thy foes and mine.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree (The only root of righteous royaltie), With this dim diadem invested me:

With it, the sacred scepter, purple robe,
The holy unction, and the royal globe :
Yet am I levell'd with the life of Job.

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my grey discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their
bread.

They raise a war, and christen it The
Cause,

While sacrilegious hands have best ap-
plause,

My royal consort, from whose fruitful womb
So many princes legally have come,

Plunder and murder are the kingdom's Is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb.

laws;

Tyranny bears the title of taxation,
Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestra-
tion.

My loyal subjects, who in this bad season
Attend me (by the law of God and reason),
They dare impeach, and punish for high
treason,

Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes ad-

vance:

Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

With my own power my majesty they wound,

In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd:

So doth the dust destroy the diamond,