One while, a scorching indignation burns And changeth unmown-grass to parched hay; So comfort on temptation still attends. BOOK II. EMBLEM XX. The Emblem of Love is lively, ingenious, and delightful. If to his thoughts my comments have assented, As is the boy, which here you pictured see, Each word he speaks, will presently appear The very looks, and motions of his eyes Will touch your heart-strings with sweet harmonies; "Twill cause a thousand quaverings in your breast. Will make your music much the sweeter far. As none but Love, can ever play the like. Book IV. EMBLEM I. From the next extract, the reader will see the peculiar tone in which Wither frequently concludes his illustrations. When, with a serious musing, I behold Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays; Still bending towards him her small tender stalk: By an inferior eye; or, did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him. When this I meditate, methinks, the flowers But, oh my God! though grovelling I appear That imitating him in what I may, The most popular of our books of Emblems is that written by Francis Quarles, the darling, as Phillips calls him, of our plebeian judgements, and, we may add, the scorn of our refined wits. The contempt with which he has been treated is, however, at a much greater distance from a just appreciation of his works than the vulgar preference. In his poetical compositions, which are chiefly of a religious cast, there is a passionate earnestness well calculated to please the common sort of people, and a want of taste and propriety in his application of the terms and feelings of earthly to divine love, likely enough to disgust the man of cultivated mind. Perhaps nothing more readily captivates the unlearned than quaint and antithetical phraseology, which has frequently the appearance without the reality of pithiness. Quarles is particularly distinguished by this quality of style, with which, however, he combines a great variety of new and poetical turns of expression. This character applies to his other works as well as to his Emblems, which alone demand our attention at this time; but as they still enjoy a considerable portion of public favour, we shall on that account appropriate a much less space to them than we should otherwise have done. They consist of five books, the prints and mottoes of the two last of which are exactly copied from the Pia Desideria of Herman Hugo, the title of whose work stands amongst those placed at the head of this article. The subject being the same, Quarles has frequently taken ideas from his prototype; but he has so added to and improved them, that the imitation detracts little from his originality. The few extracts we shall make are the best, according to our judgement, to be found in the volume. BOOK I. EMBLEM XIV. Will't ne'er be morning? Will that promis'd light Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, Whose canq'ring ray May chase these fogs; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. How long! How long shall these benighted eyes Languish in shades, like feeble flies Expecting Spring? How long shall darkness soil The face of earth, and thus beguile Our souls of sprightful action? When, when will day Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray May gild the weathercocks of our devotion, And give our unsoul'd souls new motion? Sweet Phosphor, bring the day: Thy light will fray These horrid mists; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Let those have night, that slily love to immure Let those have night, that blush to let men know The baseness they ne'er blush to do; Let those have night, that love to have a nap, Let those, whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light, How sad delay Afflicts dull hopes! sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Alas! my light-in-vain expecting eyes Can find no objects, but what rise From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark Here's all the suns that glitter in the sphere Haste, haste away, Heaven's loit'ring lamp; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Blow, Ignorance: O thou, whose idle knee. Rocks earth into a lethargy, And with thy sooty fingers has benight If e'er that breath-exiled flame return, Thou hast not blown, as it will burn: Sweet Phosphor, bring the day: Light will repay do The wrongs of night; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. The world's a hive, From whence thou cans't derive No good, but what thy soul's vexation brings : Some pretty-pretty sweet, Each drop is guarded with a thousand stings. Why dost thou make These murm'ring troops forsake The safe protection of their waxen homes? No sweet that's worth thy pains; There's nothing here, alas! but empty combs. For trash and toys, And grief-engend'ring joys, What torment seems too sharp for flesh and blood; What bitter pills, Compos'd of real ills, Men swallow down to purchase one false good! The dainties here, Are least what they appear; Though sweet in hopes, yet in fruition sour; Is found not always mellow; The fairest tulip's not the sweetest flow'r. Fond youth, give o'er, And vex thy soul no more, In seeking what were better far unfound; Alas! thy gains Are only present pains To gather scorpions for a future wound. What's earth? or in it, That longer than a minute Can lend a free delight that can endure? O who would droil, Or delve in such a soil, Where gain's uncertain, and the pain is sure? Book V. EMBLEM VI. I love (and have some cause to love) the earth; She is my mother, for she gave me birth; She is my tender nurse; she gives me food: But what's a creature, Lord, compar'd with thee? Or what's my mother, or my nurse, to me? |