old. He is as fresh as the spring, as blithe as summer, and as ripe as autumn. We know of no English poet who is so abandonné, as the French term it, who so wholly gives himself up to his present feelings, who is so much heart and soul in what he writes, and this not on one subject only but on all subjects alike. The spirit of song dances in his veins, and flutters around his lips-now bursting into the joyful and hearty voice of the Epicurean; sometimes breathing forth strains soft as the sigh of "buried love ;" and sometimes uttering feelings of the most delicate pensiveness. His poems resemble a luxuriant meadow, full of king-cups and wild flowers, or a July firmament sparkling with a myriad of stars. His fancy fed upon all the fair and sweet things of nature; it is redolent of roses and jessamine; it is as light and airy as the thistle-down, or the bubbles which laughing boys blow into the air, where they float in a waving line of beauty. Like the sun, it communicates a delightsome gladness to every thing it shines upon, and is as bright and radiant as his beams; and yet many of his pieces conclude with the softest touches of sensibility and feeling. Indeed it is that delicate pathos, which is, at the same time, natural and almost playful, which most charms us in the writings of Herrick. And as for his versification, it presents one of the most varied specimens of rhythmical harmony in the language, flowing with an almost wonderful grace and flexibility.

We shall first give a few specimens of our author's amatory poetry, which is exceedingly buoyant and graceful.

To his Mistress objecting to his neither toying nor talking.

"You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away;
You blame me too, because I can't devise
Some sport to please those babies in your eyes:
By love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it!
Small grief finds tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound;

Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below:
So when love speechless is, it doth express
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
Who speak so little, 'cause I love so much."

If so be you ask me, where
They do grow? I answer, there,
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land or cherry isle;
Whose plantations fully show,
All the year, where cherries grow."

The Kiss, a Dialogue.

1. "Among thy fancies, tell me this:
What is the thing we call a kiss?—
2. I shall resolve ye what it is:

It is a creature born, and bred
Between the lips, all cherry red;
By love, and warm desires fed;
Chor.

And makes more soft the bridal bed:

2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes,

And charms them there with lullabies;

Chor.

And stills the bride too when she cries:

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,

It frisks, and flies; now here, now there;
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near;

Chor. And here, and there, and every-where.

1. Has it a speaking virtue?-2. Yes.1. How speaks it, say?-2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; Chor. And this love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body?-2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings,

Chor.-Love honey yields, but never stings."

The Rock of Rubies and the Quarry of Pearls. "Some ask'd me where the rubies grew;

And nothing I did say,

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where;

Then spoke I to my girl

To part her lips, and shew them there

The quarrelets of pearl."

Upon Mrs. Elizabeth Wheeler, under the name of Amaryllis. "Sweet Amaryllis by a spring's

Soft, and soul-melting murmurings
Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
A robin-red-breast, who, at view
Not seeing her at all to stir,

Brought leaves and moss to cover her;
But while he perking there did pry
About the arch of either eye,

The lid began to let out day:

At which poor robin flew away;

And seeing her not dead, but all disleav'd,
He chirpt for joy to see himself deceiv'd."
The captived Bee, or the little Filcher.
"As Julia once a slumb'ring lay,
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like show'r,
To tipple freely in a flow'r,

For some rich flow'r he took the lip

Of Julia, and began to sip:

But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence;

He drank so much he scarce could stir;
So Julia took the pilferer:

And thus surpris'd, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t'excuse:
Sweet lady-flow'r! I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking those rare lips of your's
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flow'rs;
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrup ran at waste:
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flow'r that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship;
And told her, as some tears did fall,

That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smil'd; and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a pilf'ring so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive."

Be she fat, or be she lean;
Be she sluttish, be she clean;
I'm a man for every scene."

The following is inserted, with some variations, in the collection of Carew's poems. There is also another poem, addressed by Herrick to Mrs. Elizabeth Wheeler, in the same collection, under the title of the Enquiry. But both appear to have been erroneously attributed to Carew.

Those which succeed are in a more pathetic strain.

The cruel Maid.

"And, cruel maid, because I see
You scornful of my love and me,

I'll trouble you no more; but go
My way, where you shall never know
What is become of me; there I
Will find me out a path to die,
Or learn some way how to forget
You and your name for ever: yet
Ere I go hence, know this from me,
What will in time your fortune be;
This to your coyness I will tell,
And having spoke it once, farewell!
The lilly will not long endure,
Nor the snow continue pure;

The rose, the violet, one day

See; both these lady-flow'rs decay;
And you must fade as well as they: