And all because, fair maid, thou art And of those evil days that be The gods are easy and condemn UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES. I have lost, and lately, these White, and heaven-like crystalline : Only Herrick's left alone, RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. LU CAST A. THE life of Lovelace is a melancholy chapter of literary biography, for in whatever light we regard him he possesses a strong claim to our admiration and pity. He figures in English Literature as a poet of the first order, and in the History of his time as an accomplished gentleman and a valiant soldier-the beau ideal of a cavalier: Charles Stewart had no more faithful servant than Richard Lovelace. His attachment to the royal family may be dated from his eighteenth year, when he was made master of arts at Oxford, at the intercession of a great lady belonging to the queen. When he quitted the University he came up to London, and lived at court for some time in great splendour. He served against the Scotch in two expeditions, and returning to England when the hopes of his party were at an end, he retired to his estates in Kent, and stirred up the people of his neighbourhood in behalf of their monarch. He was chosen by the whole body of the county to deliver to the House of Commons a petition for settling the government, and restoring the king to his rights. For presenting this petition he was committed to the Gate House at Westminster, and kept in strict confinement for nearly four months. Here he wrote his famous lyric, "To ALTHEA," which, Southey says, will last as long as the language. He was at length released, on giving bail to the amount of forty thousand pounds, but was restricted from stirring beyond the lines of communication, without a pass from the Speaker. This forced inactivity chafed his proud spirit, and drove him into living extravagantly to keep up the credit of the king. He furnished his two brothers, Frank and William, with men and arms for the royal cause, and sent his third brother, Dudley Posthumous, to Holland to study tactics and fortification. He devoted himself to the king, body and soul, only reserving his heart, which about this time was taken captive by Lucy Sacheverel, the Lucasta of his poems. She was rich and beautiful, we are told, but not so steadfast as she should have been; for when Lovelace, who, after the rendition of the Oxford garrison in 1646, formed a regiment and entered the service of the French king, was wounded at Dunkirk, she engaged herself to another. It is true that Lovelace was reported killed, and that a year or two elapsed before he reappeared; still she should have waited until it was known that he was dead, and his great heart was cold. He returned to England in 1648, to find her married, and to undergo again the horrors of imprisonment; for immediately on their landing, he and his brother, Dudley, were confined in Peter House. He bore up manfully under this double calamity, and busied himself in preparing his poems for the press, but his heart was broken. "After the murther of Charles I.," says Anthony à Wood, "Lovelace was set at liberty, and having by that time consumed all his estate, grew very melancholy, (which brought him at length into a consumption;) became very poor in body and purse; was the object of charity; went in ragged cloathes, (whereas, when he was in his glory he wore cloth of gold and silver,) and mostly lodged in obscure and dirty places, more befitting the worst of beggars and poorest of servants, &c. He died in a mean lodging in Gunpowder-alley, near Shoe-lane, and was buried at the west end of the Church of S. Bride, alias Bridget, in London, near to the body of his kinsman Will. Lovelace of Grays-Inn, esqr., in sixteen hundred fifty and eight." Aubrey says that he died in a cellar in Long Acre. "Mr. Edm. Wyld had made collections for him, and given him money." "Geo. Petty, haberdasher in Fleet-street, carried XXs to him every Monday morning from Sir Many and Charles Cotton esqr., for months, but was never repayd." He also adds that "he was an extraordinary handsome man, but prowd." Poor Lovelace! His poems were published in 1649, under the title of "LUCASTA: EPODES, ODEs, SONNETS, Songs, etc." They were very popular at the time, and are so still with poets, though not so generally known as they deserve to be, owing to their not being included in any of the popular collections of English poetry. "A man may discern therein,” says Edward Phillips, "sometimes those sparks of a Poetic fire, which had they been the main design, and not Parergon in some work of Heroic argument, might happily have blazed out into the perfection of sublime Poesy." TO LUCASTA. THE ROSE. Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, From thy long cloudy bed, New-startled blush of Flora! Who will contest no more; Vermilion ball that's given Love's couch's coverlid; Haste, haste to make her bed. Dear offspring of pleased Venus, Haste, haste to deck the hair See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower; Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? TO LUCASTA. GOING BEYOND THE SEAS. If to be absent were to be Or that, when I am gone, You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. But I'll not sigh one blast or gale, To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or not, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land be 'twixt us both, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after fate, And are alive i' th' skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. When love with unconfinéd wings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, When flowing cups run swiftly round When healths and draughts go free, Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I The mercy, sweetness, majesty, |