Driving the small sandpiper before us. FOG[497] Thou drifting meadow of the air, Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, And in whose fenny labyrinths The bittern booms and curlew peeps, The heron wades and boding rain-crow clucks; Low-anchored cloud, Newfoundland air, Fountain-head and source of rivers, Ocean branch that flowest to the sun, Diluvian spirit, or Deucalion shroud, Dew-cloth, dream drapery, And napkin spread by fays, Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, Sea-fowl that with the east wind Seek'st the shore, groping thy way inland, By whichever name I please to call thee, Bear only perfumes and the scent Of healing herbs to just men's fields. I am amused with the manner in which Quarles and his contemporary poets speak of Nature,—with a sort of gallantry, as a knight of his lady,—not as lovers, but as having a thorough respect for her and some title to her acquaintance. They speak manfully, and their lips are not closed by affection. "The pale-faced lady of the black-eyed night." Nature seems to have held her court then, and all authors were her gentlemen and esquires and had ready an abundance of courtly expressions. Quarles is never weak or shallow, though coarse and untasteful. He presses able-bodied and strong-backed words into his service, which have a certain rustic fragrance and force, as if now first devoted to literature after having served sincere and stern uses. He has the pronunciation of a poet though he stutters. He certainly speaks the English tongue with a right manly accent. To be sure his poems have the[498] musty odor of a confessional. How little curious is man, Who hath not searched his mystery a span, But dreams of mines of treasure Which he neglects to measure, For threescore years and ten Walks to and fro amid his fellow men O'er this small tract of continental land, His fancy bearing no divining wand. Our uninquiring corpses lie more low Than our life's curiosity doth go; Our most ambitious steps climb not so high As in their hourly sport the sparrows fly. Yonder cloud's blown farther in a day Than our most vagrant feet may ever stray. Surely, O Lord, he hath not greatly erred Who hath so little from his birthplace stirred. He wanders through this low and shallow world, Scarcely his bolder thoughts and hopes unfurled, Through this low wallèd world, which his huge sin Hath hardly room to rest and harbor in. Bearing his head just o'er some fallow ground, Some cowslip'd meadows where the bitterns sound, He wanders round until his end draws nigh, And then lays down his aged head to die. And this is life! this is that famous strife! His head doth court a fathom from the land, Six feet from where his grovelling feet do stand.