[ANDREW MARVEL was born at Hull, and educated at Cambridge. During the Commonwealth he was assistant to Milton in his official duties; and, about the time of the Restoration, became member for Hull, with a salary from his constituents. He is believed to have been the last member who was thus paid. Though much disliked by the ministers of Charles II., he was a great favourite with that monarch. His integrity was incorruptible; he refused a present of one thousand pounds from the King, although, immediately afterwards, he was obliged to borrow a guinea; and in his writings he continued to attack the vices of the Court. His sudden death, without any previous sickness, caused it to be supposed that he was poisoned. His poems show him to have been a good and amiable man. The long and justly celebrated poem of the " Spacious Firmament" was first contributed to "The Spectator," anonymously, whence it has often been attributed to Addison.]

HE spacious firmament on high,

THE

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim:

Th' unwearied sun from day to day

Does his Creator's powers display,

And publishes to every land

The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly to the list'ning earth
Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What, though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.

HOW vainly men themselves amaze,

To win the palm, the oak, or bays:

And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flow'rs, and trees, do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you there
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but our own be found.

What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach.
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness :

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made.

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was the happy garden state,

While man there walk'd without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there :
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew

Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers?

HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM

IRELAND.

HE forward youth that would appear,

THE

Must now forsake his Muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star :

And like the three-fork'd lightning first,
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide :

For 'tis all one to courage high
The emulous, or enemy;

And with such, to enclose

Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere

(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot)