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ANDREW MARVELL.

ANDREW MARVELL was born at Hull, in 1620. He received a good education, and, after travelling for improvement, was appointed secretary to the English embassy at Constantinople. It is probable that he also assisted Milton as Latin Secretary to Cromwell. After the Restoration, he was elected a member of Parliament; and such was his simplicity of manners and integrity, that no offers could turn him aside from the exactest path of duty. His poetry is remarkable for warmth of feering and for elegance. He died in 1678.

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WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received their song,

“What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own.
Where He the huge sea-monster racks,
That lift the deep upon their backs ;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage.

He gives us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing ;
And sends the fowls to us, in care,
On daily visits through the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranate close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet ;
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land.

He cast—of which we rather boasta
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.

Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which, thence perhaps rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.”

Thus sang they in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

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See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,

Round it itself encloses ;
And in its little globe's extent
Frames as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies !
But, gazing back upon the skies,

Shines with a mournful light; Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere, Restless it rolls and insecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure;

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