Where, O royal infant, be The ensigns of thy majesty; Thy Sire's equalizing state; And thy sceptre that rules fate? Where's thy angel-guarded throne, Whence thy laws thou didst make known-- Laws which heaven, earth, hell obeyed? These, ah! these aside he laid; Would the emblem be--of pride By humility outvied. I pass by Abraham Cowley, mighty reputation as he has had, without further remark than that he is too vulgar to be admired more than occasionally, and too artificial almost to be, as a poet, loved at all. Andrew Marvell, member of Parliament for Hull both before and after the Restoration, was twelve years younger than his friend Milton. Any one of some half-dozen of his few poems is to my mind worth all the verse that Cowley ever made. It is a pity he wrote so little; but his was a life as diligent, I presume, as it was honourable. ON A DROP OF DEW. See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born, Round in itself encloses, _used intransitively._ And in its little globe's extent, Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere: Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure, Till the warm sun pity its pain, And to the skies exhale it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in an heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away, So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day; Dark beneath but bright above, Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go! How girt and ready to ascend! Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil-- White and entire,[141] though congealed and chill-- Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun. Surely a lovely fancy of resemblance, exquisitely wrought out; an instance of the lighter play of the mystical mind, which yet shadows forth truth. THE CORONET.