There is not much to be said about his poetry. It may be compared to his person--beautiful, but dressed in a stiff mode. We do not, in every point, homologate the opinions of Prynne, as to the 'unloveliness of love-locks;' but we do certainly look with a mixture of contempt and pity on the self-imposed trammels of affectation in style and manner which bound many of the poets of that period. The wits of Charles II. were more disgustingly licentious; but their very carelessness saved them from the conceits of their predecessors; and, while lowering the tone of morality, they raised unwittingly the standard of taste. Some of the songs of Lovelace, however, such as 'To Althea, from Prison,' are exquisitely simple, as well as pure. Sir Egerton Brydges has found out that Byron, in one of his be-praised paradoxical beauties, either copied, or coincided with, our poet. In the 'Bride of Abydos' he says of Zuleika--

'The mind, the _music_ breathing from her face.'

Lovelace had, long before, in the song of 'Orpheus Mourning for his Wife,' employed the words--

'Oh, could you view the melody
Of every grace,
And _music of her face_,
You'd drop a tear;
Seeing more harmony
In her bright eye
Than now you hear.'

While many have praised, others have called this idea nonsense; although, if we are permitted to speak of the harmony of the tones of a cloud, why not of the harmony produced by the consenting lines of a countenance, where every grace melts into another, and the various features and expressions fluctuate into a fine whole? Whatever, whether it be the beauty of the human face, or the quiet lustre of statuary, or the mild glory of moonlight, gives the effects of music, and, like that divine art,

'Pours on mortals a beautiful disdain,'

may surely become music's metaphor and poetic analogy.

SONG.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

1 When Love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty.

2 When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty.

3 When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king;[1] When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

4 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

[1] Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison.

SONG.

1 Amarantha, sweet and fair, Forbear to braid that shining hair; As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee, let it fly:

2 Let it fly as unconfined As its ravisher, the wind, Who has left his darling east, To wanton o'er this spicy nest.

3 Every tress must be confess'd But neatly tangled at the best, Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled: