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Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee die,

And all earth's glory, on which men do gaze,
Seem dirt and dross in thy pure-sighted eye,

Compared to that celestial beauty's blaze,
Whose glorious beams all fleshly sense doth daze,
With admiration of their passing light,
Blinding the eyes and ’lumining the sprite.
Then shall thy ravisht soul inspiréd be

With heavenly thoughts far above human skill,
And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see

Th’ idea of his pure glory present still

Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill
With sweet enragement of celestial love,
Kindled through sight of those fair things above.

And is there care in heaven ? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base
That may compassion of their evils move?
There is : else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts: But 0! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so;
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels He sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked man--to serve his wicked foc!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant !
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for love and nothing for reward:
O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard ?


Such is the weakness of all mortal hope,
So tickle is the state of earthly things,
That, ere they come unto their aiméd scope,
They fall too short of our frail reckonings,

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And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings,
Instead of comfort which we should embrace :
This is the state of kaisars and of kings !
Let none, therefore, that is in meaner place,
Too greatly grieve at any his unlucky case!


In vain do men
The Heavens of their fortune's fault accuse;
Sith they know best which is the best for them:
For they to each such fortune do diffuse
As they do know each can most aptly use.
For not that which men covet most, is best;
Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse;
But fittest is, that all contented rest
With that they hold: each hath his fortune in his breast.

It is the mind that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor :
For some, that hath abundance in his will,
Hath not enough, but wants in greatest store;
And other, that hath little, asks no more,
But in that little is both rich and wise;
For wisdom is most riches: fools, therefore,
They are, which fortunes do by vows devise,
Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize.


(1552--1618.) SIR WALTER RALEIGH was born at Hayes Farm, in the parish of East Budeleigh, in Devonshire. He was the youngest son of Walter Raleigh, Esq., the representative of an ancient family of comparatively limited fortune. He spent three years at Oriel College, Oxford; and left the university, at the age of seventeen, to join a troop of a hundred gentlemen volunteers whom Queen Elizabeth permitted Raleigh's relative, Henry Champernoun, to transport to the continent in the interest of the Protes. tant princes. After some years spent in varied military service, both on the continent and in Ireland, and in an unfortunate venture by sea, he colonized Virginia, which he so named in honour of the queen, by whom he had been taken into favour. About the time of the accession of James I., in 1603, he was accused of furthering the claims of Arabella Stuart to the English throne, and brought in guilty of high treason. He was sentenced to die, but reprieved, and detained in the Tower for twelve years, during which he wrote his “History of the World.” A large bribe to Villiers, the king's new favourite, procured his release in 1616. Next year he went out in command of a fleet against the Spaniards in South America. Every particular of his force and of his designs was betrayed by the king to Gondomar, the Spanish ambassador, who transmitted the information to his own government. Sir Walter returned unsuccessful, was arraigned before the Court of King's Bench, and executed under his former sentence, his offence-although it had been condoned by his commission from the king-never having been formally pardoned. He closed a life of brilliant versatility by an undaunted death, October 29th, 1618.

To him eminently belonged "the courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword;" but from the difficulty of authenticating many of the pieces ascribed to him, arises a difficulty in forming a competent estimate of his poetical genius. His muse, which Spenser praises as "sweetly tempered” and “lofty," was rather bold and vigorous than minutely elegant. “His Pilgrimage" is

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