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UNTO the boundless ocean of thy beauty

Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal; Returning thee the tribute of my duty,

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,
Where I have cast the accounts of all my care:
Here have I summed my sighs; here I enroll
How they were spent for thee; look what they are :
Look on the dear expenses of my youth,

And see how just I reckon with thine eyes;
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,

And cross my cares, ere greater suns arise.

Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly, Who can shew all his love, doth love but lightly.

AND whither, poor Forsaken, wilt thou go,
To go from Sorrow, and thine own Distress?
When every place presents like face of woe,
And no remove can make thy sorrows less?
Yet go, Forsaken; leave these woods, these plains:
Leave her and all, and all for her, that leaves
Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains;
Seek out some place; and see if any place

Can give thee, least release unto thy grief:
Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace,
Steal from thyself, and be thy care's own thief.
But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain?
Bearing the wound I needs must feel the pain.

WILLIAM HABINGTON,

descended from an ancient Romanist family of Hendlip in Worcestershire, was born on the 5th of November, 1605. He received his education at the Jesuit's college, St. Omer's, intending to have become one of its members; but his tastes and feelings led him differently. On his return from France, he became deeply enamoured of Lucy Herbert, daughter of Lord Powis, (the immortalized Castara of the Poet's true affection). She was of noble birth, and descended from the gallant and heroic Percys, on both sides of high lineage; her haughty relations did not approve of their union; the opposition of her friends was, however, only sufficient to excite more ardour on his side, and to call forth more tenderness on hers.

Habington's Poems were divided into three parts; first, "The Mistress," or Poems to the Lady Lucy, during his courtship; the second, "The Wife," on which is engrafted, "The Friend;" the third, "The Holy Man," which consists of devotional pieces. "The Mistress" is a lovely picture of Lucy Herbert in the days of their courtship; and who ever wrote more sweetly on a mistress? but "Only she, who hath as great a share in virtue, as in beautie, deserves a noble love to serve her, and a free poesie to speak her." His was a pure and noble passion, "built upon that rock which may safely contemn the battery of the waves, and the threatenings of the wind." Truly did she deserve the warm and virtuous heart that celebrated her under that title. But, as "The Wife," his devoted affection to her is still more beautiful; he truly experienced that

"The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Locked up in woman's Love!"

She was his friend, and his companion-the sharer of all his joys, and all his sorrows. The amatory poetry of Habington is that of a man who regards woman as a highly intellectual being. This admirable husband survived his beloved Castara, the date of whose death is unknown; but it must have been early, as he himself died in the prime of life, on the 30th of November, 1654.

F

TO CASTARA, PRAYING.

I SAW Castara pray; and from the skie
A winged legion of bright angels flie,

To catch her vowes, for feare her virgin prayer
Might chance to mingle with impurer aire.
To vulgar eyes, the sacred truth I write
May seem a fancie. But the eagle's sight
Of saints, and poets, miracles oft view,
Which to dull heretickes appear untrue.
Faire zeal begets such wonders. O divine
And purest beauty! let me thee enshrine
In my devoted soule, and from thy praise
T'enrich my garland-pluck religious bays.

Shine thou the starre by which my thoughts shall move,
Best subject of my pen, queene of my love.

TO CASTARA, SOFTLY SINGING TO HERSELFE.

SING forth, sweete cherubim, (for we have choice
Of reasons, in thy beauty and thy voyce,
To name thee so and scarce appeare prophane ;)
Sing forth, that while the orbs celestiall straine
To echo thy sweet note, our human eares
May then receive the musicke of the spheres.
But yet take heede, lest if the swans of Thames,
That adde harmonious pleasure to the streames,
O' th' sudden heare thy well divided breath,
Should listen, and in silence welcome death:
And ravisht nightingales, striving too high
To reach thee, in the emulation die.

And thus there will be left no bird to sing
Farewell to the waters, welcome to the spring.

TIME TO THE MOMENTS, ON SIGHT OF CASTARA.

You younger
children of your father, stay,
Swift flying moments (which divide the day,
And with your number measure out the yeare
In various seasons) stay and wonder here.
For since my cradle, I so bright a grace
Ne'er saw, as you see in Castara's face;
Whom Nature to revenge some youthfull crime
Would never frame, till age had weakened time.
Else spight of fate, in some faire forme of clay
My youth I'de 'bodied, throwne my scythe away,
And broke my glasse. But since that cannot be,
I'll punish Nature for her injurie.

On, nimble moments! on your journie flie;
Castara shall, like me, grow old, and die.

TO CASTARA, UPON A TREMBLING KISSE AT DEPARTURE.

THE Arabian wind, whose breathing gently blows
Purple to the violet, blushes to the rose,
Did never yield an odour such as this:
Why are you then so thrifty of a kisse,
Authorized even by custome? Why doth feare
So tremble on your lip, my lip being neare?
Thinke you I, parting with so sad a zeale,
Will act so blacke a mischiefe, as to steale
Thy roses thence? And they, by this device
Transplanted, somewhere else force Paradise?
Or else you feare, lest should heart skip
Up to my mouth, t'encounter with your lip,
Might rob me of it; and be judged in this,
T'have Judas-like betraid me with a kisse.

you,

my

TO CASTARA, VENTURING

TO WALKE TOO FAR IN THE

NEIGHBOURING WOOD.

DARE not too farre, Castara; for the shade,
This courteous thicket yields, hath man betrayed
A prey to wolves: to the wilde pow'rs o' th' wood,
Oft travellers pay tribute with their blood.

If careless of thy selfe, of me take care;
For, like a ship, where all the fortunes are
Of an adventurous merchant, I must be,

If thou shouldst perish, vanquerout in thee.

My feares have mocked me. Tygers, when they shall
Behold so brighte a face, will humbly fall
In adoration of thee. Fierce they are
To the deformed, obsequious to the faire.
Yet venture not; 'tis nobler far to sway
The heart of man, than beasts, who man obey.

TO THE WINTER.

WHY dost thou looke so pale, decrepit man?
Why doe thy cheekes curle, like the ocean,
Into such furrows? Why dost thou appeare
So shaking like an ague to the yeare?

The sunne is gone. But yet Castara stayes,
And will add stature to thy pigmy days,
Warm moisture to thy veynes; her smile can bring
Thee, the sweet youth and beauty of the spring.
Hence with thy palsie then, as a bridegroom led
To th' holy fane. Banish thy agèd ruth,
That virgins may admire and court thy youth;

And the approaching sunne, when he shall find
A spring without him, fall, since uselesse, blinde.

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