carry with us into the deepest gloom. It is, indeed, impoffible for the world to go on without it: there is no domestic peace, no national prosperity, where love is wanting."*

An old critic, Edward Bolton, fays: "Never must be forgotten St. Peter's Complaint, and those other serious poems, faid to be Father Southwell's; the English whereof, as it is very proper, fo the fharpness and light of wit is moft rare in them."† And as we have no defire to part with the poet on other than the most friendly terms, we will conclude by quoting a poem which we can heartily praife. It is a devotional poem; and is a really good one. The fubject is in itself beautiful, and the author writes with all his heart, and with more than his wonted fires. Numerous as are the Numerous as are the poems which

have been written to the Child Jefus, we know of no one which in all refpects equals Southwell's.

"A CHILD MY CHOICE.

"Let folly praise that fancy loves,

I praife and love that child

Whofe heart no thought, whofe tongue no word,
Whofe head no deed defiled;

"I praise him most, I love him best,

All praise and love is his ;

While him I love, in him I live,

And cannot live amifs.

* Edward Capern.

+ Quoted in Warton's "Hiftory of English Poetry," vol. iii.

p. 227.

"Love's sweetest mark, land's highest theme,

Man's most defirèd light,

To love him life, to leave him death,

To live in him delight.

"He mine by gift, I his by debt,

Thus each to other due,

First friend he was, best friend he is,

All times will try him true.

"Though young, yet wife; though small, yet strong;
Though man, yet God he is ;
As wife he knows, as ftrong he can,

As God he loves to bless.

"His knowledge rules, his strength defends,
His love doth cherish all;
His birth our joy, his life our light,
His death our end of thrall.

"Alas! he weeps, he fighs, he pants,
Yet doth his angels fing;

Out of his tears, his fighs and throbs,
Doth bud a joyful spring.

"Almighty babe, whose tender arms
Can force all foes to fly,

Correct my faults, protect my life,
Direct me when I die."

And fo with a tear for his fate; with admiration for his courage; with love for his gentleness of mind and kindness of heart; and with a moderate estimation of his genius, and a not extravagant admiration of his poetry, we bid farewell to the Catholic Martyr Poet, Robert Southwell!

GEORGE WITHER.

GEORGE WITHER was born at Bentworth, in Hampshire, in the year 1588. Little is known. refpecting either his early life, or the condition of his parents. If we are literally to interpret his own words, they must have been wealthy, and his youth must have been spent in almost luxurious affluence. In his poem written on the plague, and entitled "Britain's Remembrancer," he says:

"When daily I on change of dainties fed,
Lodged night by night upon an easy bed,
In lordly chambers, and had wherewithal
Attendants forwarder than I to call,

Who brought me all things needful; when at hand,
Hounds, hawks, and horses, were at my command,
Then choose I did my walks on hills or valleys,
In groves, near springs, or in sweet garden alleys,
Repofing either in a natural shade

Or in neat arbours which by hands were made,
Where I might have required, without denial,
The lute, the organ, or deep sounding viol,
To cheer my spirits; with what else beside
Was pleasant, when my friends did thus provide
Without my coft or labour."

He "received his early education in the village of Colemore, under one John Greaves, a school