vast thing and
his minor poems show, had fancy, taste, and almost genius on opportunity;
but the prevailing mistake of his school, the idea that poetry is a fit
vehicle for merely prosaic expression, is painfully apparent in him.

First, for various reasons, among the nondescripts of the Caroline school,
deserves to be mentioned William Habington, a Roman Catholic gentleman of
good upper middle-class station, whose father was himself a man of letters,
and had some trouble in the Gunpowder Plot. He was born at Hindlip Hall,
near Worcester, in the year of the plot itself, courted and married Lucy
Herbert, daughter of his neighbour, Lord Powis, and published her charms
and virtues in the collection called _Castara_, first issued in 1634.
Habington also wrote a tragic comedy, _The Queen of Aragon_, and some other
work, but died in middle life. It is upon _Castara_ that his fame rests. To
tell the truth it is, though, as had been said, an estimable, yet a rather
irritating work. That Habington was a true lover every line of it shows;
that he had a strong infusion of the abundant poetical inspiration then
abroad is shown by line after line, though hardly by poem after poem, among
its pieces. His series of poems on the death of his friend Talbot is full
of beauty. His religion is sincere, fervent, and often finely expressed;
though he never rose to Herbert's pure devotion, or to Crashaw's flaming
poetry. One of the later _Castara_ poems may be given:--

"We saw and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.

"Let wilder youths, whose soul is sense,
Profane the temple of delight,
And purchase endless penitence,
With the stolen pleasure of one night.

"Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay,
For though the sun do set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day.

"Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent,
The troubled stream is still impure;
With virtue flies away content.

"And though opinions often err,
We'll court the modest smile of fame,
For sin's black danger circles her,
Who hath infection in her name.

"Thus when to one dark silent room
Death shall our loving coffins thrust:
Fame will build columns on our tomb,
And add a perfume to our dust."

But _Castara_