In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH. BEFORE my face the picture hangs, But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die. I often look upon a face, Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; Where eyes and nose have sometime been ; I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must: Do think indeed, that I must die! Continually at my bed's head An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I, ere morning, may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well : But yet, alas! for all this, I The gown which I do use to wear, All these do tell me I must die, My ancestors are turn'd to clay, Not Solomon, for all his wit, Nor Sampson, though he were so strong, No king, nor ever person yet Could 'scape, but Death laid him along! Though all the east did quake to hear And all the west did likewise fear Yet both by death in dust now lie; If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart, If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to scape shall have no way. O grant me grace, O God, that I SPENSER. BORN ABOUT 1553-DIED 1599. EDMUND SPENSER was born in London about the year 1553. He was of good descent, and was educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. Spenser has sometimes been styled, by pre-eminence, the DIVINE POET of ENGLAND. With Milton and Cowper before us, we must hesitate in this belief. All his writings have however a pure, elevating, and beautiful spirit of humanity, and his "Divine Hymns" are indeed divine. Of Spenser Mr Southey has said, "Yet not more sweet Than pure was he; and not more pure than wise: This, however, with all reverence for authority so high. and so good, must be received in the spirit of all things being pure to the pure in mind; for although the enemy. and the exposer of vice, Spenser has sometimes painted its captivation in a tone of voluptuous languishment, which shews that his love of poetical beauty occasionally overcame his zeal for nobler objects. Spenser's history has the romance which misfortune throws around life when connected with genius. He was made Secretary for Ireland, an office afterwards held by Addi son and other distinguished men, and obtained a grant of forfeited lands in the county of Cork. He went to live on his estate; but, on the breaking out of Tyrone's rebellion, was obliged to abandon his new home so abruptly, that one of his children perished in the flames to which the insurgents devoted his dwelling. Spenser died in London early in 1599, of a broken heart, and, it is alleged, in very distressed circumstances. As a poet he was highly popular in his own lifetime, a distinction more rare in the age of Elizabeth than at present. By his own desire he was buried near the tomb of Chaucer. Ben Jonson supported the pall at his funeral; and all the contemporary poets-Shakspeare probably of the number, says Mr Campbell-threw tributary verses into his grave. HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR. O BLESSED Well of Love! O Flower of Grace! Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love, Had it been wrong to ask his own with gain? Then life were least, that us so little cost. But he our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band; And bound thereto with an eternal band, Him first to love great right and reason is, Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even he himself, in his dear sacrament, To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent. Then next, to love our brethren, that were made And were they not, yet since that loving Lord Such mercy he by his most holy reede |