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If of justice, Judgment sheweth
If of bounty, 'tis his blessing;
If of place, 'tis his possessing.
If of triumph, 'tis his merit;
If perfection, 'tis his spirit. If above all these thou singest, Ravisht in thy reason's glory; Tell the world, whate'er thou bringest, Admiration's, wonder's story,
To such height my Saviour raiseth,
As above all praises praiseth.
In his only mercy seeing,
Oh that my poor soul were near them,
Then should Faith in Love's submission,
of her comfort's high commending,
But, ah! wretched, sinful creature!
That doth tune the angels' voices,
Whilst the host of heaven rejoices ! No, the song of deadly sorrow, In the night that hath no morrow And their pains are never ended, That have heavenly powers offended
Is more fitting to the merit
Of my foul infected spirit.
While the hand of heaven is giving
No, my soul, be no more sorry;
Where the soul the comfort getteth,
That the angels' music setteth. There when thou art well conducted, And by heavenly grace instructed How the faithful thoughts to fashion Of a ravished lover's passion,
Sing with saints, to angels nighest,
(ABOUT 1566—1635.) SIMON WASTELL was a native of Westmoreland, and descended from those of his name living at Wastellhead, in the same county. He was entered a student of Queen's College, Oxford, or about the year 1580. - He took one degree in arts five years after, at which time," says Anthony à Wood, “ being accounted a great proficient in classical learning and poetry, he was made master of the free school at Northampton, whence, by his sedulous endeavours, many were sent to the universities.” From a tabular arrangement of the incumbents of Daventry, given in Bridges' “ History of Northamptonshire,” it appears that Wastell was vicar of that parish from 1631 to 1635, in which year he was succeeded by Thomas Easton. Considering the advanced period of Wastell's life at the time of the latter date, we have presumed that death alone could have caused his removal from the living, and have accordingly ventured to give the year of his decease as above.
Wastell published, in 1623, “The True Christian's Daily Delight: being a sum of every chapter of the Old and New Testament, set down alphabetically in English verse, that the Scriptures we read may more happily be remembered.” In 1629, this work was enlarged and reprinted under the the title of “Microbiblion; or, the Bible's epitome in verse.” It seems to have been intended to fix the history of the Bible in the memory of young persons; and for this purpose the author begins each stanza with the various letters of the alphabet in regular succession, except that the last four letters being hopelessly profane or untractable, are systematically excluded from such initial honour. The poetry is pretty much on a level with the mnemonic verse which used to be in vogue to facilitate the comprehension of the mysteries of the multiplication table, and the acquirement and retention of other useful or ornamental information. To the edition of the “Microbiblion " published in 1629, were affixed two poems, one of which, “Upon the Image of Death,” is more properly referred to Robert Southwell. The following stanzas have sometimes been inserted amongst the poems of Quarles. They can scarcely claim a very copious inspiration. To say that they exhibit a fairly judicious selection from the first fifty types of fleetness and evanescence that occurred to the memory or challenged observation, would be almost sufficiently to characterize them. But the kind of aggregation of which they are an example-of illustration after illustration, of “line upon line "-has a certain picturesqueness of aspect and popularity of interest which may justify their insertion.
OF MAN'S MORTALITY.
Like as the damask rose you see,
Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearléd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan : Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death : The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, The hour is short, the span not long; The swan's near death--man's life is done. Like to the bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of the stream: Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death: The bubble's cut, the look's forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot; The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides-man's life is done. Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like swift course of watery flow; Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb, Or like the spider's tender web; Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole: Even such is man,
whose brittle stato Is always subject unto fate: The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent, The time no time, the web soon rent; The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt-man's life first done. Like to the lightning from the sky, Or like a post that quick doth hie, Or like a quaver in short song, Or like a journey three days long; Or like the snow when summer's come, Or like the pear, or like the plum: