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Whose perfect whiteness made a circling light,
That where it stood, it silvered o'er the night.

As a writer of prose, he deserves very high applause. His style is remarkably flowing, and animated by a Christian benignity of spirit. Without the copious richness of Taylor, or the mystical eloquence of Brown, or the poignant terseness of South, he possesses sufficient

force and sweetness to entitle him to a seat in the midst of these great masters of our language. Quarles was not only a fruitful author; he was also a learned and laborious student, and while Secretary to Archbishop Usher, contributed materially to promote the progress of his theological researches. This interesting fact has, I believe, never been noticed; but Usher alludes to his services in a letter to G. Vossius, and speaks of him as a poet held in considerable esteem, among his own countrymen, for his sacred compositions *.

Of the widow of Quarles, no records exist. With what patience she endured the loss of one whom she so tenderly loved, or how long she survived him, we know not; but we may be assured that the blow was tempered to her strength, and that her husband's dying words, that God would be a husband to the widow, received a full and merciful fulfilment.

Of the poet's numerous family, John is alone remembered. He was born in Essex, and afterwards became, Wood says, a member of Exeter College, Oxford, where he bore arms for the King in the garrison of the town;

*The letter is printed in the appendix to Parr's life of the Archbishop, p. 484. The passage referring to Quarles is as follows::-"Ut autem intelligas quibus in Locis Cottonianum Libri primi et tertii Chronicon a vulgato differat; Florentinum Wigorniensem nunc ad te mitto, quem Francisci Quarlesii Operá, qui mihi tum erut ab Epistolis (vir ob sacratiorem poesin apud Anglos suos non incelebris) cum illo conferendum curavi ad annum DCCCC. Dionysianum a quo quatenus prius missus initium duxit."

but it is not clear that he ever belonged to the University. We find, from his own relation, that he was indebted for his education to Archbishop Usher, in whose house he appears to have resided.

That little education I dare own

I had, I'm proud to say, from him alone.
His grave advice would oftentimes distill
Into my ears, and captivate my will.

The example of his life did every day
Afford me lectures *.

Upon the decease of this prelate, to whom he was sincerely attached, he composed an elegy beginning with those beautiful lines :

Then weep no more; see how his peaceful breast,
Rock'd by the hand of death, takes quiet rest.
Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take
A full repose; he hath been long awake.

The feet of Sion's watchman must have been weary, and his eyes heavy with sleep! While the royal cause offered any hopes of a prosperous issue, John Quarles continued an active and faithful servant of the king, in whose army he obtained the rank of captain'; but when the strength of the loyalists was exhausted by the repeated victories of the Parliament, he "retired to London in a mean condition," and about 1649 bade farewell to England, and went abroad, but in what capacity Wood was ignorant. Upon his return he supported himself by his pen, until he was swept away in the plague of 1665. The place of his burial is unknown. His compositions were very numerous, and by some he was "esteemed a good poet," though deficient in the power and originality of his father.

An Elegie on the most Reverend and learned James Usher, L. Archbishop of Armagh, 1656.

230

GEORGE HERBERT.

THE literature of our country is rich in the biography of illustrious men. The names of Spenser, of Shakspeare, and of Milton, have been enshrined in strains of eloquence and beauty, almost as lasting as their own. But it abounds also in histories more simple, and yet not less delightful; sheaves of gentle and religious thoughts bound together by the hands of humbleminded Christians: such are the celebrated lives of Izaak Walton. The accomplishments of Wotton, the learning of Donne, the piety of Herbert, and the sufferings of Sanderson, are faithfully and tenderly recorded in his page

With moistened eye

We read of faith and purest charity,

In statesman, priest, and humble citizen.
Oh! could we copy their mild virtues, then
What joy to live, what happiness to die!

Methinks their very names, shine still and bright,
Satellites turning in a lucid ring,

Around meek Walton's heavenly memory.

WORDSWORTH.

The life of Herbert possesses the greatest charm, and has long been blended in the heart with scenes of serenity and peace; with the path of the quiet fields to church, and the sweet solemnity of the village pastor's fire-side. "Tis an honour to the place," says Aubrey, "to have had the heavenly and ingenious contemplation of this good man."

The writer of the following memoir has found it impossible to read of Herbert, and not to love him.

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