ANDREW MARVEL.
BORN, 1620; DIED, 1678.

Works.-Chiefly Political Writings and a few Poems.

THE EMIGRANTS.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song;-

"What should we do but sing His praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own.

"Where He the huge sea-monsters racks, That lift the deep upon their backs,

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storm and billow's ragc.

"He gives us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us, in care,
On daily visits through the air.

"He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranate close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

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ANDREW MARVEL.

"He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
With cedars chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land.

"He cast-of which we rather boast-
The gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And, in these rocks, for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.

"Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven's vault,
Which thence perhaps resounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."

Thus sang they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note,

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

"The borough of Hull, in the reign of Charles II., elected Marvel to represent them in parliament. He lived in obscure lodgings. The ministry of that day sent his old schoolfellow, the Lord Treasurer Danby, to renew acquaintance with him in his garret. At parting, the Lord Treasurer slipped into his hand an order on the Treasury for £1000. Marvel looked at the paper, and then called to the Lord Treasurer to return. They went up to the garret, and the servant boy was called. 'What had I for dinner yesterday?' said Marvel. The little shoulder of mutton you ordered me to buy from a woman in the market,' replied the boy. 'And what have I today ?' The blade-bone broiled, sir.' 'Quite right, go away. My Lord, do you hear that? Andrew Marvel's dinner is providedthere is your piece of paper, I want it not.' He was incorruptible."

JOHN DRYDEN.

BORN, 1631; DIED, 1700.

Principal Works.—Poems, Plays, Satires, Ode on St. Cecilia's Day. THE HOLY SCRIPTURES

WHENCE but from heav'n could men unskill'd in arts,

In several ages born, in several parts,
Weave such agreeing truths? or how or why
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice,
Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price.
If on the Book itself we cast our view,
Concurrent heathens prove the story true:
The doctrine, miracles, which must convince,
For heaven in them appeals to human sense;
And though they prove not, they confirm the cause,
When what is taught agrees with Nature's laws.
Then for the style; majestic and divine,
It speaks no less than God in every line:
Commanding words, whose force is still the same,
As the first fiat that produced our frame.
All faiths beside, or did by arms ascend,
Or sense indulged has made mankind their friend;
This only doctrine does our lust oppose;
Unfed by nature's soil on which it grows;
Cross to our interests, curbing sense and sin,
Oppressed without, and undermined within,
It thrives through pain, its own tormentors tires,
And with a stubborn patience still aspires.
To what can reason such effects assign
Transcending nature, but to laws divine,
Which in that sacred volume are contained,
Sufficient, clear, and for that use ordain'd?

BISHOP THOMAS KEN.

BORN, 1637; DIED, 1711.
Principal Works.-Poems and Hymns.

EVENING HYMN.

GLORY to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings.

Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ill that I this day have done;
That with the world, myself, and thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.

Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed;
Teach me to die, that so I may
Rise glorious in the judgment day.

O may my soul on thee repose,

And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close; Sleep that may me more vig'rous make To serve my God when I awake.

If in the night I sleepless lie,

My soul with heavenly thoughts supply;
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest,
No powers of darkness me molest.

JOSEPH ADDISON.
BORN, 1672; DIED, 1719.

Principal Works.-The Campaign, On the Battle of Blenheim, Travels in Italy, Essays in Tatler, Spectator, Guardian, and Freeholder, Plays, The Omnipresence of the Deity.

THE TRAVELLER'S HYMN OF GRATITUDE.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!

How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help, Omnipotence !

In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,

Through burning climes I passed unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweetened every soil,
Made every region please:
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed,

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

And when in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;

And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if Thou preservest my life,

Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, when death shall be my doom,
Shall join my soul to Thee.

F