HENRY KING. HENRY KING, author of miscellaneous poems, and a version of the Psalms, was born in 1591. He was successively Chaplain to James the First, Dean of Rochester, and Bishop of Chichester, and died in 1669. All the writings of King are religious, and there is a peculiar charm in his poetry, arising more from this circumstance than from its style. THE DIRGE. WHAT is the existence of man's life And never feels a perfect peace, Till death's cold hand signs his release? It is a storm, where the hot blood Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats his bark with many a wave, It is a flower, which buds and grows, Where its first being was enrolled. It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth; As wandering as his fancies are; The dreamer vanished quite away. It is a dial, which points out It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes, include: THE LABYRINTH. LIFE is a crooked labyrinth, and we We scarce think what to do, but when too late, What she unlearnt, and still by learning on Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise, Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view, Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last, Those never clouded, nor that overcast. SÍC VITA. LIKE to the falling of a star, Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, The wind blows out, the bubble dies; JOHN MILTON. THIS divine poet was born in London in 1608. He was educated with the most sedulous care, and the intensity of his boyish studies was the probable cause of his future blindness. After leaving Cambridge, he remained some time at his father's house in Horton, Buckinghamshire; when turned of thirty he went to Italy, and returned to England about the breaking out of the civil wars. He after a while took office under Cromwell, and being the literary champion of the Commonwealth, on the Restoration, he had no reason to expect anything but destruction; he was, however, included in the act of anmesty, and he retired to Chalfont St. Giles, Bucks, where the house in which he lived still stands almost entire. It was here that he produced in total darkness, that incomparable poem, his Paradise Lost; which to praise would be vain. He afterwards, at the same place, produced his Paradise Regained, a work of inferior merit. He died in 1674, and was buried in Cripplegate Church. A monument is erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey. THE SON OF GOD OFFERING HIMSELF TO BECOME The Father having foretold the fall of Man, and the only means of his recovery being an expiatory sacrifice, inquires :~ "SAY, heavenly powers, where shall we find such love? Man's mortal crime, and just, the unjust to save? He asked, but all the heavenly quire stood mute, Patron or intercessor none appeared, And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell In whom the fulness dwells of love divine, His dearest mediation thus renewed: "Father, thy word is past, man shall find grace; And shall grace not find means, that finds her way, The speediest of thy winged messengers, To visit all thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplored, unsought? Well pleased; on me let death wreak all his rage; Life in myself for ever; by Thee I live, But I shall rise victorious, and subdue My vanquisher, spoiled of his vaunted spoil: Death his death's-wound shall then receive, and stoop Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed. I through the ample air in triumph high, Shall lead hell captive, maugre hell! and show The powers of darkness bound. Thou at the sight, Pleased, out of heaven shalt look down and smile; |