[ANDREW MARVEL was born at Hull, and educated at Cambridge. During the Commonwealth he was assistant to Milton in his official duties; and, about the time of the Restoration, became member for Hull, with a salary from his constituents. He is believed to have been the last member who was thus paid. Though much disliked by the ministers of Charles II., he was a great favourite with that monarch. His integrity was incorruptible; he refused a present of one thousand pounds from the King, although, immediately afterwards, he was obliged to borrow a guinea; and in his writings he continued to attack the vices of the Court. His sudden death, without any previous sickness, caused it to be supposed that he was poisoned. His poems show him to have been a good and amiable man. The long and justly celebrated poem of the " Spacious Firmament" was first contributed to "The Spectator," anonymously, whence it has often been attributed to Addison.] HE spacious firmament on high, THE With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim: Th' unwearied sun from day to day Does his Creator's powers display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the list'ning earth Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What, though in solemn silence, all THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. HOW vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays: And their incessant labours see Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, What wondrous life in this I lead! Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less The mind, that ocean where each kind To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, My soul into the boughs does glide; Such was the happy garden state, While man there walk'd without a mate: How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! How could such sweet and wholesome hours HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND. HE forward youth that would appear, THE Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, So restless Cromwell could not cease And like the three-fork'd lightning first, His fiery way divide : For 'tis all one to courage high And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. Then burning through the air he went Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame Who, from his private gardens, where (As if his highest plot |