THE SAINT'S ENCOURAGEMENT. -A SONG, Fight on, brave soldiers, for the cause; Their threat'nings are as senseless, as 'Tis you must perfect this great work, And all malignants slay, You must bring back the King again 'Tis for Religion that you fight And for the kingdom's good, When these are gone, we shall be blest, When Charles we've bankrupt made like us, And all his loyal subjects slain, 'Tis to preserve his majesty, Who fight for us, fight for the king At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York, The like ne'er seen before! How often we Prince Rupert kill'd, And bravely won the day; The wicked cavaliers did run The clean contrary way. The true religion we maintain, The kingdom's peace and plenty; The privilege of parliament Not known to one of twenty; The ancient fundamental laws; And teach men to obey Their lawful sovereign; and all these We subjects' liberties preserve, By them the gospel is advanced The clean contrary way. And though the king be much misled By that malignant crew! He'll find us honest, and at last Give all of us our due. For we do wisely plot, and plot, He sees we stand for peace and truth, The public works shall save our souls, And ships shall save our lives, that stay But when our faith and works fall down, Our acts will bear us up to heaven, SIR JOHN SUCKLING, whom we next notice, possessed such a natural liveliness of fancy, and exuberance of animal spirits, that he often broke through the artificial restraints imposed upon him by the literary taste of the age, but he never rose into the poetry of passion and imagination. He is a delightful writer of what are called 'occasional poems.' His polished wit, playful fancy, and knowledge of life and society enabled him to give interest to trifles, and to clothe familiar thoughts in the garb of poetry. Suckling was born at Witham, in Essex, in 1608. He was of a very eminent family, his father Sir John Suckling being Secretary of State to James the First, and afterward Comptroller of the household of that monarch's successor, Charles. The poet was distinguished almost from his infancy, being able to speak Latin at five years of age, and to write it with accuracy at nine. When sixteen years old he entered into public life as a soldier under the celebrated Gustavus Adolphus, with whom he served out an entire campaign. On his return to England he entered warmly into the cause of Charles the First, and raised a troop of horse in his support. He also intrigued with his brother cavaliers to rescue the Earl of Stratford, and was impeached by the House of Commons. To evade a trial he fled to France, but a fatal accident befell him on the way. His servant having robbed him at an inn, Suckling learning the circumstances, drew on his boots hurriedly to pursue him; but a rusty nail, or the blade of a knife, had been concealed in one of them, which, wounding him, produced mortification, of which he soon after died, in 1641, and in his thirty-fourth year. The works of Suckling consist of miscellaneous poems, five plays, and some letters. His poems are all short, and the best of them are dedicated to love and gallantry. With the freedom of a cavalier he has greater purity of expression than most of his contemporaries. His sentiments are sometimes voluptuous, but rarely coarse; and there is so much elasticity and vivacity in his verses, that he never becomes tedious. His Ballad upon a Wedding is inimitable for witty levity and choice beauty of expression. It contains touches of graphic description and liveliness equal to the pictures of Chaucer. The following well-known stanza has, perhaps, never been excelled : Her feet beneath her petticoat, Is half so fine a sight. This 'Ballad,' and the fine lines on Detraction which follow it, are the only poems that our space will allow us to introduce from this spirited writer. A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, At Charing Cross, hard by the way There is a house with stairs; Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Our landlord looks like nothing to him: Should he go still so drest. 1 Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes at Whit sunday. No grape that's kindly ripe could be Her finger was so small, the ring It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must), Her feet beneath her petticoat, No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get: But she so handled still the matter They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride: The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand When all the meat was on the table, And this the very reason was, Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; The bride's came thick and thick; O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; By this time all were stol'n aside But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind. DETRACTION EXECRATED. Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds, Where each meant more than could by both be said. Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale; |