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REASON:

THE USE OF IT IN DIVINE MATTERS.

Some blind themselves, 'cause possibly they may Be led by others a right way;

They build on sands, which if unmoved they find, "Tis that there was no wind.

Less hard 'tis not to err ourselves, than know
If our forefathers erred or no,
When we trust men concerning God, we then
Trust not God concerning men.

Visions and inspirations some expect
Their course here to direct;

Like senseless chymists their own wealth destroy,
Imaginary gold t' enjoy:

So stars appear to drop to us from sky,

And gild the passage as they fly;

But when they fall, and meet the opposing ground,
What but a sordid slime is found?

Sometimes their fancies they 'bove reason set,
And fast, that they may dream of meat;
Sometimes ill spirits their sickly souls delude,
And bastard forms obtrude;

So Endor's wretched sorceress, although

She Saul through his disguise did know, Yet, when the devil comes up disguised, she cries, "Behold the gods arise.'

In vain, alas! these outward hopes are tried;
Reason within 's our only guide;

Reason, which (God be praised!) still walks, for all
Its old original fall;

And, since itself the boundless Godhead joined,

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With a reasonable mind,

It plainly shows that mysteries divine

May with our reason join.

The holy book, like the eighth sphere, does shine
With thousand lights of truth divine;

So numberless the stars, that to the eye
It makes but all one galaxy.

Yet reason must assist too; for in seas
So vast and dangerous as these,

Our course by stars above we cannot know,
Without the compass too below.

Though reason cannot through Faith's mysteries see,
It sees that there and such they be;

Leads to heaven's door, and there does humbly keep,
And there through chinks and keyholes peep;
Though it, like Moses, by a sad command
Must not come into th' Holy Land,

Yet thither it infallibly does guide,
And from afar 'tis all descried.

THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE AND UNCERTAINTY OF RICHES.

Why dost thou heap up wealth which thou must quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it?

Why dost thou load thyself when thou'rt to fly,

Oh man! ordained to die?

Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
Thou who art under ground to lie?

Thou sowest and plantest, but no fruit must see,
For Death, alas! is reaping thee.

Suppose thou Fortune could'st to tameness bring,
And clip or pinion her wing;

Suppose thou could'st on fate so far prevail,

As not to cut off thy entail;

Yet Death at all that subtlety will laugh,

Death will that foolish gard'ner mock,
Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff

Upon a lasting stock.

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem;

A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;

Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while
Dost but for others sweat and toil.

Officious fool! that needs must meddling be
In business that concerns not thee;

For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares,
Thou deal'st with other men's affairs.

Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were
Children again, for age prepare;
Provision for long travel they design,
In the last point of their short line.

Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards
The stock which summer's wealth affords;
In grasshoppers, that must at autumn die,
How vain were such an industry!

Of power and honour the deceitful light
Might half excuse our cheated sight,
If it of life the whole small time would stay,
And be our sunshine all the day.

Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud
(Though shining bright, and speaking loud),
Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race,
And where it gilds, it wounds the place.

Oh, scene of fortune! which dost fair appear
Only to men that stand not near:
Proud Poverty, that tinsel bravery wears,
And, like a rainbow, painted tears!

Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep!
In a weak boat trust not the deep;
Placed beneath envy-above envying rise;
Pity great men-great things despise.

The wise example of the heavenly lark,
Thy fellow-poet, Cowley, mark;

Above the clouds let thy proud music sound
Thy humble nest build on the ground.

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JOHN QUARLES, son of Francis Quarles, who has already come under our notice, was born in Essex, about the year 1624. According to Wood, he "became a battler of Exeter College in the latter end of 1642, and in that of his age eighteen bore arms within the garrison of Oxon for his majesty, and was afterwards, as 'tis said, a captain in one of his armies; but upon the declining of his majesty's cause, he retired to London in a mean condition, where he wrote several things merely for maintenance' sake; among which were these:-' Elegy upon that never-to-be-forgotten Charles I., late (but too soon martyr'd) King of England;' 'Jeremiah's Lamentations paraphrased, with Divine Meditations;' 'Divine Meditations upon several subjects; whereunto is annexed God's Love and Man's Unworthiness, with several Divine Ejaculations.' It is from the last of these that the following stanzas are selected. Besides the works mentioned by Wood as having been written by John Quarles, may be mentioned "An Elegie on James Usher, Lord Archbishop of Armagh," published in London in 1656. Of this learned prelate he appears to have been a protegé, as his father was sometime secretary, and to have cherished for his person and his memory a profound and reverent attachment. About the year 1649, Quarles seems to have been banished for a time to Flanders.

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"This person," to return to Wood's account of him,

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was esteemed by some a good poet and a great royalist, for which he suffered, and lived therefore mostly in a poor condition. At length, upon the raging of the plague in and near London, he was swept away there among thousands that died of that disease in 1665; but where his carkass was lodged I cannot tell. One John Quarles occurs Archdeacon of Northampton an. 1640, and was living after the restoration of Charles II.; but he is not to be taken the same with John Quarles the poet."

DIVINE EJACULATIONS.

In all extremes, Lord, Thou art still
The mount whereto my hopes do flee;
O make my soul detest all ill,
Because so much abhorred by Thee:
Lord, let thy gracious trials show
That I am just, or make me so.

Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree
Yield to that heavenly voice of thine;
And shall that voice not startle me,
Nor stir this stone, this heart of mine?
No, Lord, till Thou new bore mine ear
Thy voice is lost, I cannot hear.

Fountain of light and living breath,
Whose mercies never fail nor fade,
Fill me with life that hath no death,
Fill me with light that hath no shade;
Appoint the remant of my days

To see thy power and sing thy praise.

O Thou that sitt'st in heaven, and see'st
My deeds without, my thoughts within,
Be Thou my prince, be Thou my priest;
Command my soul, and cure my sin:
How bitter my afflictions be
I care not, so I rise to Thee.

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