For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get:

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Kichard Crashaw.

{

Born 16

Died 1650.

During

A RELIGIOUS poet born in London, but the date unknown. the civil wars, having refused to conform to the rules of the Parliament, he was ejected from a fellowship he enjoyed. He removed to France, where he became a Roman Catholic. He was afterwards made canon in the church of Loretto, in Rome, where he died about 1650. He wrote a volume of Latin poems, as well as several volumes of English poetry.

HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS.

I SING the Name which none can say,

But touched with an interior ray;

The name of our new peace; our good;
Our bliss, and supernatural blood;

The name of all our lives and loves
Hearken and help, ye holy doves!
The high-born brood of day; you bright
Candidates of blissful light,

The heirs-elect of love; whose names belong
Unto the everlasting life of song;

All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast
Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest.
Awake, my glory! soul-if such thou be,
And that fair word at all refer to thee-
Awake and sing,
And be all wing!

Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see
What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee.
O thou art poor

Of noble powers, I see,

And full of nothing else but empty me;
Narrow and low, and infinitely less
Than this great morning's mighty business.
One little world or two,

Alas! will never do ;

We must have store;

Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more;
Go and request

Great Nature for the key of her huge chest
Of heav'ns, the self-involving set of spheres,
Which dull mortality more feels than hears;
Then rouse the nest

Of nimble art, and traverse round
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound:
And beat a summons in the same

All-sovereign name,

To warn each several kind

And shape of sweetness-be they such
As sigh with supple wind

Or answer artful touch

That they convene and come away

To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day. Come, lovely name! life of our hope!

Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope!

Unlock thy cabinet of day,

Dearest sweet, and come away.

Lo, how the thirsty lands

Gasp for thy golden show'rs, with long-stretched hands!

Lo, how the labouring earth,
That hopes to be

All heaven by thee,

Leaps at thy birth

The attending world, to wait thy rise,

First turned to eyes;

And then, not knowing what to do,

Turned them to tears, and spent them too.
Come, royal name! and pay the expense

Of all this precious patience :

Oh, come away

And kill the death of this delay.

Oh see, so many worlds of barren years
Melted and measured out in seas of tears!
Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope-
Love's eastern windows-all wide ope
With curtains drawn,

To catch the daybreak of thy dawn!
Oh, dawn at last, long-looked-for day!
Take thine own wings and come away.
Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes among
The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng
Like diligent bees, and swarm about it.
Oh, they are wise,

And know what sweets are sucked from out it.
It is the hive

By which they thrive,

Where all their hoard of honey lies.

Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's
Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves.
Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day!
Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display
The birth of our bright joys.

Oh, thou compacted

Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted!
Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers,

Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us
In balmy showers!

Oh, fill our senses, and take from us

All force of so profane a fallacy,

To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.
Fair flow'ry name! in none but thee,
And thy nectareal fragrancy,

Hourly there meets

An universal synod of all sweets;
By whom it is defined thus--

That no perfume

For ever shall presume

To pass for odoriferous,

But such alone whose sacred pedigree

Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee

Sweet name! in thy each syllable

A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense;

Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices,
And ten thousand paradises,

The soul that tastes thee takes from thence.
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping!
Happy he who has the art

To awake them,

And to take them

Home, and lodge them in his heart.

Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,

When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee,

Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase To persecutions; and against the face

Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave

And sober pace march on to meet a grave.

On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee;

In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee, Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach thee. Little, alas! thought they

Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,

Their fury but made way

For thee, and served them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire

That impatient fire

The heart that hides thee hardly covers?
What did their weapons, but set wide the doors
For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising;
The ruby windows which enriched the east

Of thy so oft-repeated rising.

Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,
And re-enthroned thee in thy rosy nest,

With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning

It was the wit of love o'erflowed the bounds

Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds Welcome, dear, all-adored name!

For sure there is no knee

That knows not thee;

Or if there be such sons of shame,

Alas! what will they do,

When stubborn rocks shall bow,

And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
To seek for humble beds

Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,

And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty
They that by love's mild dictate now

Will not adore thee,

Shall then, with just confusion, bow

And break before thee.

TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY.

Two went to pray? O rather say,

One went to brag, the other to pray:

One stands up close and treads on high,
Where the other dares not lend his eye.
One nearer to God's altar trod,
The other to the altar's God.

Dr Samuel Butler.

Born 1612

Died 1680.

THE only work of note written by Butler is "Hudibras," a burlesque upon the Puritans. It is a witty, comic poem on the model of "Don Quixote," and of course gives a very extravagant view of the peculiarities of the Puritan times. Butler was born in 1612 at Strensham, in Worcestershire. His father was only able to give him a limited education, and it appears that Butler's whole life was a struggle with poverty. He seems to have made little or nothing by his work, which was originally published in parts; the first part in 1663, the second three years later, and the third not till 1678. He died in London in 1680.

RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS.

FOR his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit.
'Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant

To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by