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PUBLISHED  BY  WILLIAM  COLLINS  GLASGOW 
 
.  a 
 
 j  -y 
 
 THE 
 
 CHRISTIAN  POET; 
 
 OR, 
 
 SELECTIONS  IN  VERSE, 
 
 ON 
 
 SACRED  SUBJECTS. 
 
 JAMES  MONTGOMERY, 
 
 AUTHOR  OF  “  THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD,”  “  SONGS  OF  ZION,” 
 “  THE  CHRISTIAN  PSALMIST,”  &C. 
 
 WITH  AN 
 
 INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 
 
 “  if  1  were  a  nightingale,  I  would  sing  like  a  nightingale ;  but, 
 since  I  am  a  man,  I  will  sing  the  praises  of  God  while  I  live, 
 and  I  would  have  you  to  sing  with  me.” — Saying  of  a  Heathen. 
 
 THIRD  EDITION. 
 
 GLASGOW: 
 
 PRINTED  FOR  WILLIAM  COLLINS; 
 
 WILLIAM  WHYTE  &  CO.  AND  WM.  G^IPHANT,  EDINBURGH  ; 
 
 R.  M.  TEMS,  AND  WM.  CURRY,  JUN.  &  CO.  DUBLIN  ; 
 
 G.  B.  WHITTAKER,  AND  HAMILTON,  ADAMS,  &  CO.  LONDON. 
 
 1828 
 
Printed  by  W.  Collins  Sc  Co. 
 Glasgow. 
 
nB'TGS 
 
 VtHSQGGGIG 
 
 INTRODUCTORY  ESSAY. 
 
 t  vv  y  v  v'v  v  nj  ‘ 
 
 These  abilities  are  the  inspired  gift  of  God,  rarely 
 bestowed ;  and  are  of  power  to  inbreed  and  cherish  in 
 a  great  people  the  seeds  of  virtue  and  public  civility; 
 to  allay  the  perturbations  of  the  mind,  and  set  the 
 affections  in  right  tune;  to  celebrate  in  glorious  and 
 lofty  hymns  the  throne  and  equipage  of  God’s  al- 
 mightiness,  and  what  he  works,  and  what  he  suffers  to 
 be  wrought  with  high  providence  in  his  church ;  to 
 sing  victorious  agonies  of  martyrs  and  saints,  the  deeds 
 and  triumphs  of  just  and  pious  nations,  doing  valiantly 
 through  faith  against  the  enemies  of  Christ;  to  deplore 
 the  general  relapses  of  kingdoms  and  states  from  justice 
 and  God’s  true  worship.  Lastly,  whatsoever  in  reli¬ 
 gion  is  holy  and  sublime,  in  virtue  amiable  or  grave, 
 whatsoever  hath  passion  or  admiration  in  all  the 
 changes  of  that  which  is  called  fortune  from  without, 
 or  the  wily  subtleties  and  refluxes  of  man’s  thoughts 
 from  within ;  all  these  things,  with  a  solid  and  treat¬ 
 able  smoothness,  to  paint  out  and  describe: — Teach¬ 
 ing  over  the  whole  book  of  sanctity  and  virtue,  through 
 all  the  instances  of  example,  with  such  delight  to 
 those  especially  of  soft  and  delicious  temper,  who  will 
 
\’l 
 
 not  so  much  as  look  upon  truth  herself,  unless  they 
 see  her  elegantly  dressed, — that  whereas  the  paths  of 
 honesty  and  good  life  appear  now  rugged  and  difficult, 
 though  they  be  indeed  easy  and  pleasant,  they  will  then 
 appear  to  all  men  easy  and  pleasant,  though  they  were 
 rugged  and  difficult  indeed.” — Milton,  on  Church 
 Government,  Book  II. 
 
 The  art,  of  which  this  is  a  true  description,  must  be 
 the  highest  of  all  arts,  and  require  the  greatest  powers 
 to  excel  in  it.  That  art  is  Poetry,  and  the  special 
 subjects  on  which  it  is  here  exhibited  as  being  most 
 happily  employed  are  almost  all  sacred.  The  writer 
 of  this  splendid  panegyric  of  the  art,  in  which  he  him¬ 
 self  equalled  the  most  gifted  of  its  adepts,  was  Milton, 
 who,  in  his  subsequent  works,  exemplified  all  the  va¬ 
 rieties  of  poetical  illustration  here  enumerated,  and 
 justified  his  lofty  estimate  of  the  capabilities  of  verse, 
 hallowed  to  divine  themes,  by  the  success  with  which 
 he  celebrated  such,  in  Paradise  Lost,  Paradise  Re¬ 
 gained,  and  Samson  Agonistes.  Yet  we  are  continually 
 told,  that  religious  subjects  are  incapable  of  poetic 
 treatment.  Nothing  can  be  more  contrary  to  common 
 sense;  nothing  is  more  unanswerably  contradicted  by 
 matter  of  fact.  There  are  only  four  long  poems  in  the 
 English  language,  that  are  often  reprinted,  and  conse¬ 
 quently  better  known  and  more  read  than  any  other 
 similar  compositions  of  equal  bulk.  Three  of  these 
 are  decidedly  religious  in  their  whole  or  their  prevail¬ 
 ing  character,— -Paradise  Lost,  the  Light  Thoughts,  and 
 The  Task:  and  of  the  fourth,  The  Seasons,  it  may  be 
 said,  that  one  of  its  greatest  charms  is  the  pure  and 
 elevated  spirit  of  devotion  which  occasionally  breathes 
 out  amidst  the  reveries  of  fancy  and  the  descriptions 
 
vn 
 
 of  nature,  as  though  the  poet  had  sudden  and  trans¬ 
 porting  glimpses  of  the  Creator  himself  through  the 
 perspective  of  his  works ;  while  the  crowning  Hymn 
 of  the  whole  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  specimens 
 of  verse  in  any  language,  and  only  inferior  to  the  in¬ 
 spired  original  in  the  Book  of  Psalms,  of  which  it  is  for 
 the  most  part  a  paraphrase.  As  much  may  be  said  of 
 Pope’s  Messiah,  which  leaves  all  his  original  produc¬ 
 tions  immeasurably  behind  it,  in  elevation  of  thought, 
 affluence  of  imagery,  beauty  of  diction,  and  fervency  of 
 spirit.  Indeed  this  poem  is  only  depreciated  in  the 
 eyes  of  ordinary  and  prejudiced  readers  by  that  which 
 constitutes  its  glory  and  supreme  worth — that  every 
 sentiment  and  figure  in  it  is  taken  directly  from  the 
 prophecies  of  Isaiah  ;  compared  with  which  it  is  indeed 
 but  as  the  moon  reflecting  light  borrowed  from  the 
 sun  ;  yet,  considered  in  itself,  it  cannot  be  denied,  that 
 had  Pope  been  the  entire  author  of  the  poem  just  as 
 it  stands,  (or  with  no  other  prototype  than  Virgil’s 
 Pollio  before  him)  and  drawn  the  whole  from  the  trea¬ 
 sures  of  his  own  imagination,  he  would  have  been  the 
 first  poet  in  rank,  to  whom  this  country  has  given 
 birth;  for  in  the  works  of  no  other  will  be  found  so 
 many  and  such  transcendant  excellences  as  are  com¬ 
 prised  in  this  small  piece.  It  follows,  that  poetry  of 
 the  highest  order  maybe  composed  on  sacred  themes; 
 and  the  fact,  that  three  out  of  the  only  four  long  poems 
 in  English  literature,  which  can  be  called  popular,  are  at 
 the  same  time  religious — this  fact  ought  forever  to 
 silence  the  cuckoo  note,  which  is  echoed  from  one 
 fool’s  mouth  to  another’s,  (for  many  of  the  wise  in  this 
 respect  are  fools,)  that  religion  and  poetry  are  incom¬ 
 patible;  no  man,  in  his  right  mind,  who  knows  what 
 
Vlll 
 
 both  words  mean,  will  ever  admit  the  absurdity  for  a 
 moment.  It  is  true,  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  reli¬ 
 gious  verse,  which,  as  poetry,  is  worthless;  but  it  is 
 equally  true,  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  genuine 
 poetry  associated  with  pure  and  undefiled  religion. 
 With  men  of  the  world,  however,  to  whom  religion  is 
 an  abomination,  all  poetry  associated  with  it  loses  caste, 
 and  becomes  degraded  beyond  redemption  by  that 
 which  most  exalts  it  in  the  esteem  of  those  who  really 
 know  what  they  judge. 
 
 But  the  prejudice  alluded  to  is  not  confined  to  scep¬ 
 tics  and  profligates ;  many  well-meaning  people,  who 
 never  took  the  trouble  to  inquire  any  thing  about  the 
 matter,  in  perfect  simplicity  believe  this  slander  against 
 the  two  most  excellent  gifts  which  God  has  conferred 
 on  intelligent  and  immortal  man,  upon  the  authority 
 of  Dr.  Johnson.  Let  us  see  what  that  authority  is. 
 In  his  life  of  Waller  occurs  the  following  passage. 
 “  It  has  been  the  frequent  lamentation  of  good  men, 
 that  verse  has  been  too  little  applied  to  the  purposes  of 
 worship,  and  many  attempts  have  been  made  to  ani¬ 
 mate  devotion  by  pious  poetry ;  that  they  have  very  sel¬ 
 dom  attained  their  end  is  sufficiently  known,  and  it  may 
 not  be  improper  to  inquire  why  they  have  miscarried. 
 
 “  Let  no  pious  ear  be  offended  if  I  advance,  in  op¬ 
 position  to  many  authorities,  that  poetical  devotion 
 cannot  often  please.  The  doctrines  of  religion  may 
 indeed  be  defended  in  a  didactic  poem ;  and  he  who 
 has  the  happy  power  of  arguing  in  verse  will  not  lose 
 it  because  his  subject  is  sacred.  A  poet  may  describe 
 the  beauty  and  the  grandeur  of  nature,  the  flowers  of 
 the  spring  and  the  harvests  of  autumn,  the  vicissitudes 
 of  the  tide  and  the  revolutions  of  the  sky,  and  praise 
 
ix 
 
 his  Maker  in  lines  which  no  reader  shall  lay  aside; 
 The  subject  of  the  disputation  is  not  piety,  but  the 
 motives  to  piety;  that  of  the  description  is  not  God, 
 but  the  works  of  God.  Contemplative  piety,  or  the 
 intercourse  between  God  and  the  human  soul,  cannot 
 be  poetical.  Man,  admitted  to  implore  the  mercy  of 
 his  Creator,  and  plead  the  merits  of  his  Redeemer,  is 
 already  in  a  higher  state  than  poetry  can  confer. 
 
 “  The  essence  of  poetry  is  invention;  such  inven¬ 
 tion  as,  by  producing  something  unexpected,  surprises 
 and  delights.  The  topics  of  devotion  are  few,  and  be¬ 
 ing  few  are  universally  known  ;  but  few  as  they  are, 
 they  can  be  made  no  more;  they  can  receive  no  grace 
 from  novelty  of  sentiment,  and  very  little  from  novelty 
 of  expression.  Poetry  pleases  by  exhibiting  an  idea 
 more  grateful  in  the  mind  than  things  themselves  af¬ 
 ford.  This  effect  proceeds  from  the  display  of  those 
 parts  of  nature  which  attract,  and  the  concealment  of 
 those  that  repel  the  imagination  ;  but  religion  must  be 
 shown  as  it  is ;  suppression  and  addition  equally  cor¬ 
 rupt  it;  and  such  as  it  is,  it  is  known  already.  From 
 poetry  the  reader  justly  expects,  and  from  good  poetry 
 always  obtains,  the  enlargement  of  his  comprehension 
 and  the  elevation  of  his  fancy;  but  this  is  rarely  to  be 
 hoped  by  Christians  from  metrical  devotion.  What¬ 
 ever  is  great,  desirable,  or  tremendous,  is  comprised  in 
 the  name  of  the  supreme  Being.  Omnipotence  can¬ 
 not  be  exalted  ;  Infinity  cannot  be  amplified ;  Perfec¬ 
 tion  cannot  be  improved. 
 
 “  The  employments  of  pious  meditation  are  faith , 
 thanksgiving ,  repentance ,  and  supplication.  Faith,  in¬ 
 variably  uniform,  cannot  be  invested  by  fancy  with  de¬ 
 corations.  Thanksgiving,  though  the  most  joyful  of 
 
 a  3 
 
X 
 
 all  holy  effusions,  yet  addressed  to  a  Being  without 
 passions,  is  confined  to  a  few  modes,  and  is  to  be  felt 
 rather  than,  expressed.  Repentance,  trembling  in  the 
 presence  of  the  Judge,  is  not  at  leisure  for  cadences 
 and  epithets.  Supplication  to  man  may  diffuse  itself 
 through  many  topics  of  persuasion;  but  supplication  to 
 God  can  only  cry  for  mercy. 
 
 “  Of  sentiments  purely  religious,  it  will  be  found, 
 that  the  most  simple  expression  is  the  most  sublime. 
 Poetry  loses  its  lustre  and  its  power,  because  it  is  ap¬ 
 plied  to  the  decoration  of  something  more  excellent 
 than  itself.  All  that  pious  verse  can  do  is  to  help  the 
 memory,  and  delight  the  ear,  and  for  these  purposes 
 it  may  be  very  useful;  but  it  supplies  nothing  to  the 
 mind.  The  ideas  of  Christian  Theology  are  too  simple 
 for  eloquence,  too  sacred  for  fiction,  and  too  majestic 
 for  ornament;  to  recommend  them  by  tropes  and 
 figures,  is  to  magnify  by  a  concave  mirror  the  sidereal 
 hemisphere.” 
 
 The  more  steadily  we  examine  this  dazzling  passage, 
 the  more  indistinct  and  obscure  it  becomes,  and  in  the 
 end  it  will  be  found  to  throw  light  upon  a  single  point 
 only  of  the  subject, — a  point  on  which  there  was  no 
 darkness  before.  It  will  be  seen  that  didactic ,  descrip¬ 
 tive ,  and  narrative  poetry  of  a  sacred  character,  cannot 
 be  included  in  the  proscription  of  “  pious  verse,”  which 
 the  Critic  seems  to  have  meditated  when  he  began  to 
 deliver  his  judgment,  for,  in  the  very  outset,  he  is 
 compelled  to  make  exceptions  in  favour  of  the  “  happy 
 power  of  arguing  in  verse,”  and  to  allow,  that  just  de¬ 
 scriptions  of  the  glory  and  goodness  of  God  in  creation 
 may  be  poetical.  The  distinction  which  he  makes  be¬ 
 tween  subjects  of  piety,  and  motives  to  piety,  amounts 
 
XI 
 
 to  nothing,  for  motives  to  piety  must  be  of  the  nature 
 of  piety,  otherwise  they  would  never  incite  to  it : — the 
 precepts  and  sanctions  of  the  gospel  might  as  well  be 
 denied  to  be  any  part  of  the  gospel.  Of  narrative 
 poetry  of  this  kind  he  makes  no  mention,  except  it  be 
 implicated  with  the  statement,  that  “  the  ideas  of 
 Christian  Theology  are  too  sacred  for  fiction — a  sen¬ 
 timent  more  just  than  the  admirers  of  Milton  and 
 Klopstock  are  willing  to  admit,  without  almost  plenary 
 indulgence  in  favour  of  those  great  but  not  infallible 
 authorities. 
 
 The  sum  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  arguments  amounts  to 
 this,  that  “contemplative  piety,  or  the  intercourse  be¬ 
 tween  God  and  the  human  soul,  cannot  be  poetical;” 
 and  in  the  sense  in  which  he  employs  the  words  poetry 
 and  poetical ,  this  may  be  readily  admitted ;  but  that 
 sense  is  imperfect,  for  it  is  limited  to  the  style,  rather 
 than  comprehending  the  spirit,  of  poetry,  a  distinction 
 quite  as  allowable  as  his  own,  between  piety  and  mo¬ 
 tives  to  piety.  He  says,  “  the  essence  of  poetry  is 
 invention  his  own  romance  of  Rasselas  is  a  poem, 
 on  this  vague  principle.  Poetry  must  be  verse ,  and  all 
 the  ingenuity  of  man  cannot  supply  a  better  definition. 
 Every  thing  else  that  may  be  claimed  as  essential  to 
 good  poetry,  is  not  peculiar  to  it,  but  may  be  associated, 
 occasionally  at  least,  with  prose.  Prose,  on  the  other 
 band,  cannot  be  changed  into  verse,  without  ceasing 
 to  be  prose.  It  is  true,  according  to  common  parlance, 
 that  poetry  may  be  prosaic,  that  is,  it  may  have  the 
 ordinary  qualities  of  prose,  though  it  be  in  metre  ;  and 
 prose  maybe  poetical,  that  is,  it  maybe  invested  with 
 all  the  ordinary  qualities  of  poetry,  except  metre. 
 There  is  reason  as  well  as  usage,  in  the  conventional 
 
simplicity  which  distinguishes  prose,  and  the  conven¬ 
 tional  ornament  which  is  allowed  to  verse;  but  gor¬ 
 geous  ornament  is  no  more  essential  to  verse,  than 
 naked  simplicity  is  essential  to  prose.  This,  however, 
 is  a  subject  which  cannot  be  discussed  here;  the  as¬ 
 sertion  of  the  fact  (and  it  cannot  be  contradicted)  is 
 sufficient  to  prove,  that  there  must  be,  in  the  compass 
 of  human  language,  a  style  suitable  for  “  contemplative 
 piety”  in  verse  as  well  as  in  prose;  consequently, 
 there  may  be  devotional  poetry,  capable  of  animating 
 the  soul  in  its  intercourse  with  God,  and  suitable  for 
 expressing  its  feelings,  its  fears,  its  hopes,  and  its  de¬ 
 sires.  Of  course,  this  species  of  poetry  will  not  parade 
 invention,  for  the  purpose  of  “  producing  something 
 unexpected,  which  surprises  and  delights;”  it  will  not 
 be  “  invested  by  fancy  with  decorations;”  it  will  not 
 attempt  to  exalt  omnipotence,  amplify  infinity,  or  im¬ 
 prove  perfection;  but,  to  “  sentiments  purely  reli¬ 
 gious,”  it  will  give  “  the  most  simple  expression,” 
 which  will  also  be  “  the  most  sublime,”  and  certainly 
 not  the  less  poetical,  on  that  account.  Its  topics  will 
 be  “  few,  and,  being  few,”  will  be  “  universally 
 known,” — an  inestimable  advantage,  in  this  kind  of 
 verse,  because,  if  properly  worded,  (and  more  is  not 
 required)  they  will  be  instantly  understood,  and  im¬ 
 pressively  felt,  according  to  the  predisposition  of  the 
 reader’s  mind,  in  all  their  force  and  tenderness  of 
 meaning.  If  nothing  can  be  poetry  which  is  not  ele¬ 
 vated  above  pure  prose,  by  “  decorations  of  fancy, 
 tropes,  figures,  and  epithets,”  many  of  the  finest  pas¬ 
 sages,  in  the  finest  poems  which  the  world  has  ever 
 seen,  must  be  outlawed,  and  branded  writh  the  igno¬ 
 miny  of  being  prose.  The  severest  critics  allow 
 
Xlll 
 
 tragedy  to  be  the  highest  style  of  poetry;  yet  the 
 noblest,  the  most  impassioned,  the  most  dramatic 
 scenes  are  frequently  distinguishable  from  prose  only 
 by  the  cadence  of  the  verse,  which,  in  this  species  of 
 composition,  is  permitted  to  be  so  loose,  that  the  dic¬ 
 tion,  even  when  excellent,  is  sometimes  scarcely  dis¬ 
 tinguishable  even  by  that.  An  example  from  Shake¬ 
 speare  will  elucidate  the  paradox.  King  Lear ,  driven 
 to  madness  by  the  ingratitude  and  cruelty  of  his  two 
 elder  daughters,  is  found  by  Cordelia,  his  youngest, 
 asleep  on  a  bed,  in  a  tent,  in  the  French  camp,  after 
 having  passed  the  night  in  the  open  air,  exposed  to  the 
 fury  of  the  elements  during  a  dreadful  thunder-storm. 
 A  Physician  and  attendants  are  watching  over  the 
 sufferer;  to  whom  Cordelia,  accompanied  by  the  Earl 
 of  Kent,  enters.  After  some  brief  inquiries  and  an¬ 
 swers,  the  Physician  asks : 
 
 “  So  please  your  majesty. 
 
 That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?  He  hath  slept  long. 
 
 Cord.  Be  govern’d  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 
 I’  the  sway  of  your  own  will.  Is  he  array’d  ? 
 
 Gent.  Aye,  Madam ;  in  the  heaviness  of  his  sleep 
 We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 
 
 Phys.  Be  by,  good  Madam,  when  we  do  awake  him  j 
 I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 
 
 Cord.  f  Very  well. 
 
 Phys.  Please  you,  draw  near. — Louder,  the  music  there! 
 
 Cord.  O  my  dear  father !  Restoration,  hang 
 
 Thy  medicine  on  my  lips ;  and  let  this  kiss 
 Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
 Have  in  thy  reverence  made ! 
 
 Kent.  Kind  and  dear  Princess ! 
 
 Cord.  Plad  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
 Had  challenged  pity  of  them.  Was  this  a  face 
 To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds  ? 
 
 To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 
 
 In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
 
XIV 
 
 Of  quick,  cross  lightning  ?  *  *  * 
 
 *  *  *  *  Mine  enemy’s  dog. 
 
 Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
 Against  my  fire.  And  wast  thou  fain,  poor 'father. 
 
 To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 
 
 In  short  and  musty  straw  ?  Alack!  alack ! 
 
 ’Tis  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 
 Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes;  speak  to  him. 
 
 Phys.  Madam,  do  you ;  ’tis  fittest. 
 
 Cord.  How  does  my  royal  lord  ?  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 
 Lear.  You  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me  out  of  the  grave : — 
 
 Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  but  I  am  bound 
 Upon  a  wheel  of  fire. 
 
 Cord.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 
 
 Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know;  when  did  you  die? 
 
 Cord.  Still,  still,  far  wide ! 
 
 Phys.  He’s  scarce  awake ;  let  him  alone  awhile. 
 
 Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?  Where  am  I  ?  Fair  day-light ! 
 
 I  am  mightily  abused. — I  should  even  die  with  pity 
 To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what  to  say. 
 
 I  will  not  swear,  these  are  my  hands : — let’s  see ; 
 
 I  feel  this  pin  prick. — Would  I  were  assured 
 Of  my  condition ! 
 
 Cord.  O,  look  upon  me.  Sir, 
 
 And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o’er  me : — 
 
 Nay,  Sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 
 
 Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 
 
 I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man. 
 
 Fourscore  and  upward;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
 
 I  fear,  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
 
 Methinks,  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man  ; 
 
 Yet  I  am  doubtful ;  for  1  am  mainly  ignorant 
 What  place  this  is ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
 Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  knew  I  not 
 Where  I  did  lodge  last  night : — Do  not  laugh  at  me; 
 
 For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
 To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 
 
 Cord.  And  so  I  am,  I  am !” 
 
 It  cannot  be  questioned,  that  the  whole  of  this 
 scene  is  poetry  of  the  highest  proof,  and  yet,  except  in 
 the  passage  referring  to  the  storm  (in  which  the  won- 
 
XV 
 
 derful  lines  describing  the  lightning  might  have  been 
 struck  out  by  the  flash  itself,)  there  is  scarcely  a  phrase 
 which  could  not  have  been  employed  in  the  plainest 
 prose  record  of  this  identical  conversation.  Let  the 
 experiment  be  tried.  Break  up  the  rhythm,  and  mark 
 the  issue  the  same  sentiments  will  remain,  in  nearly 
 the  same  words,  yet  the  latter,  being  differently  collo¬ 
 cated,  and  wanting  the  exquisite  and  inimitable  cadence 
 of  such  verse,  as,  perhaps,  Shakespeare  alone  could 
 write,  the  charm  will  be  broken,  and  the  pathos  of 
 the  scene  exceedingly  subdued,  though  no  mutilation 
 could  destroy  it.  Now,  to  construct  devotional  poetry, 
 nothing  more  is  necessary  (at  the  same  time  nothing 
 is  more  difficult)  than  to  reduce  the  language  and  sen¬ 
 timents  belonging  to  its  few  topics  into  verse,  as  un¬ 
 constrained,  and  as  finished,  as  the  foregoing  model  of 
 what  is  most  perfect  in  art,  yet  most  consonant  to 
 nature;  for,  there,  the  verse  is  so  natural,  that  it  seems 
 not  to  be  verse  at  all,  till  curiously  examined.  It  is 
 begging  the  question  to  say,  that  “  man,  admitted  to 
 implore  the  mercy  of  his  Creator,  and  plead  the  merits 
 of  his  Redeemer,  is  already  in  a  higher  state  than 
 poetry  can  confer.”  He  is;  but  what  of  that?  he 
 must  follow  the  counsel  of  the  prophet:  “  Take  with 
 you  words,  and  turn  unto  the  Lord :  say  unto  Him , 
 Take  away  all  iniquity,  and  receive  us  graciously,  so 
 will  we  render  the  calves  of  our  lips.  Ashur  shall  not 
 save  us;  we  will  not  ride  upon  horses;  neither  will 
 we  say  any  more  to  the  work  of  our  hands,  Ye  are  our 
 gods;  for  in  Thee  the  fatherless  findeth  mercy.” 
 (Ilosea,  xiv.  2,  3.)  Here  is  a  prayer,  dictated  by  the 
 Spirit  of  God  Himself,  which  is  verse  in  the  original, 
 and  ought  to  be  rendered  into  verse,  when  it  would 
 
XVI 
 
 appear  to  be  poetry,  not  of  the  simplest,  and  severest, 
 but  of  the  loftiest  and  most  embellished  style: — “  the 
 calves  of  our  lips;” — “  Ashur  shall  not  save  us;” — 
 “  we  will  not  ride  upon  horses;” — “  neither  will  we 
 say  any  more  to  the  work  of  our  hands,  Ye  are  our 
 gods.”  Are  not  these  “  tropes  and  figures;”  and 
 does  poetry  here  “  lose  its  lustre  and  its  power,  because 
 it  is  applied  to  the  decoration  of  something  better  than 
 itself?” 
 
 Our  Critic  says,  “  the  employments  of  pious  medi¬ 
 tation  are  faith,  thanksgiving,  repentance,  and  supplica¬ 
 tion .” — He  who  denies  that  there  can  be  a  strain  of 
 poetry,  suited  to  the  expression  of  each  of  these,  in 
 the  most  perfect  manner,  without  either  extravagance 
 or  impiety,  must  he  prepared  to  deny,  that  there  is 
 poetry  in  those  very  passages  of  the  Psalms,  in  which, 
 according  to  the  judgment  of  all  ages  since  they  were 
 written,  there  may  be  found  the  greatest  sublimity, 
 power,  and  pathos.  Take  a  single  example  of  each. 
 
 Faith, — “  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  I  shall  not 
 want.  He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures: 
 he  leadetli  me  beside  the  still  waters.  He  restoreth 
 my  soul:  he  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  righteousness 
 for  his  name’s  sake.  Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the 
 valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil :  for 
 thou  art  with  me;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort 
 me.  Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  pre¬ 
 sence  of  mine  enemies:  thou  anointest  my  head  with 
 oil ;  my  cup  runneth  over.  Surely  goodness  and 
 mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life ;  and  I 
 will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever.” — 
 Psalm  xxiii. 
 
 Thanksgiving , — “  O  sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song ; 
 
XVII 
 
 for  he  hath  done  marvellous  things :  his  right  hand, 
 and  his  holy  arm,  hath  gotten  him  the  victory. — Make 
 a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord,  all  the  earth :  make  a 
 loud  noise,  and  rejoice,  and  sing  praise.  Sing  unto 
 the  Lord  with  the  harp;  with  the  harp,  and  the  voice 
 of  a  psalm.  With  trumpets,  and  sound  of  cornet, 
 make  a  joyful  noise  before  the  Lord,  the  King.  Let 
 the  sea  roar,  and  the  fulness  thereof;  the  world  and 
 they  that  dwell  therein.  Let  the  floods  clap  their 
 hands:  let  the  hills  be  joyful  together.” — Psalm  xcviii. 
 
 Repentance,— “  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  God,  ac¬ 
 cording  to  thy  loving-kindness;  according  unto  the 
 multitude  of  thy  tender  mercies  blot  out  my  trans¬ 
 gressions.  Wash  me  throughly  from  mine  iniquity, 
 and  cleanse  me  from  my  sin.  For  I  acknowledge  my 
 transgressions;  and  my  sin  is  ever  before  me — Purge 
 me  with  hyssop,  and  I  shall  be  clean ;  wash  me,  and 
 I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow.  Make  me  to  hear  joy 
 and  gladness ;  that  the  bones  which  thou  hast  broken 
 may  rejoice. — Cast  me  not  away  from  thy  presence; 
 and  take  not  thy  Holy  Spirit  from  me.  Restore  unto 
 me  the  joy  of  thy  salvation  ;  and  uphold  me  with  thy 
 free  Spirit. — The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit : 
 a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not 
 despise.” — Psalm  li. 
 
 Supplication, — “  Deliver  me  in  thy  righteousness, 
 and  cause  me  to  escape:  incline  thine  ear  unto  me 
 and  save  me.  Be  thou  my  strong  habitation,  where- 
 unto  I  may  continually  resort :  thou  hast  given  com¬ 
 mandment  to  save  me ;  for  thou  art  my  rock  and  my 
 fortress. — For  thou  art  my  hope,  O  Lord  God  :  thou 
 art  my  trust  from  my  youth. — Cast  me  not  off  in  the 
 time  of  old  age ;  forsake  me  not  when  my  strength 
 
XV111 
 
 faileth. — O  God,  be  not  far  from  me :  O  my  God, 
 make  haste  for  my  help. — Now  also,  when  I  am  old 
 and  gray-headed,  O  God,  forsake  me  not,  until  I  have 
 showed  thy  strength  unto  this  generation,  and  thy 
 power  to  every  one  that  is  to  come.” — Psalm  lxxi. 
 
 It  may  he  added,  that  these  are  embellished  in  the 
 highest  degree;  the  blue  and  purple  and  scarlet,  and 
 the  fine-twined  linen  of  the  curtains  of  the  ark;  the 
 holy  garments,  the  mitre  and  breast-plate,  set  with 
 jewels,  of  the  High  Priest;  the  clothing  of  wrought 
 gold,  and  raiment  of  needle-work  of  the  King’s 
 daughter,  all-glorious  within;— were  not  more  pre¬ 
 cious  in  materials,  ornamental  in  design,  and  beautiful 
 in  texture,  than  these  exercises  of  “pious  meditation;” 
 these  expressions  of  “  Faith,  Thanksgiving,  Repen¬ 
 tance  and  Supplication,”  which  need  only  to  be  turned 
 into  metre  as  felicitous  as  the  specimen  afore  quoted, 
 to  be  acknowledged  by  every  intelligent  reader,  as 
 poetry  of  the  most  perfect  kind. 
 
 It  is,  after  all,  only  in  the  simplest,  humblest, 
 closest  acts  of  personal  communion  with  the  Father  of 
 Spirits,  that  Dr.  Johnson  (when  all  his  own  allowances 
 and  exceptions  are  made,)  has  deemed  poetry  incom¬ 
 patible  with  piety;  and  his  objection  even  here  is  one, 
 which  will  be  unhesitatingly  admitted  by  those  who 
 most  sincerely  and  strenuously  contend  against  his 
 dogma; — for  when  his  meaning  is  followed  to  its  only 
 tangible  point,  it  merely  rejects  splendid  diction, 
 subtile  arguments,  fantastic  trappings,  and  extravagant 
 figures  from  devotional  exercises;  and  that  these 
 should  be  excluded  from  them,  in  prose  as  well  as  in 
 verse,  all  men  in  their  right  senses  agree :  but  so  long 
 as  verse  is  capable  of  expressing  the  sentiments  of 
 
XIX 
 
 Faith,  Thanksgiving,  Repentance,  and  Supplication,  in 
 pure  language  and  harmonious  numbers,  with  the 
 liberty  of  employing  scriptural  illustrations,  there 
 must  he,  and  there  is,  a  style  of  poetry  suited  for 
 “  contemplative  piety,”  and  proper  to  be  used  in 
 “  the  intercourse  between  God  and  the  human  soul.” 
 
 It  has  already  been  shown,  that  all  the  eloquent 
 dictation  above  quoted,  affects  neither  argumentative, 
 descriptive,  nor  narrative  poetry  on  sacred  themes,  as 
 exemplified  in  the  great  works  of  Milton,  Young,  and 
 Cowper.  That  man  has  neither  ear,  nor  heart,  nor 
 imagination  to  know  true  poetry,  or  to  enjoy  its  sweet¬ 
 est  and  sublimest  influences,  who  can  doubt  the 
 poetical  supremacy  (if  the  phrase  may  be  allowed,)  of 
 such  passages  as  the  Song  of  the  Angels  in  the  third, 
 
 and  the  morning  Hymn  of  our  first  Parents  in  the 
 
 / 
 
 Fifth  Book  of  Paradise  Lost;  the  first  part  of  the 
 Ninth  Book  of  the  Night  Thoughts;  and  the  antici¬ 
 pation  of  millennial  blessedness  in  the  Sixth  Book  of 
 the  Task;  yet  these  are  on  sacred  subjects,  and  these 
 are  religious  poetry.  The  same  may  be  fearlessly 
 affirmed  concerning  many  other  portions  of  the  same 
 poems,  which,  notwithstanding  their  religious  bias, 
 are  ranked  by  unbelievers  themselves,  among  the 
 noblest  efforts  of  intellect  and  imagination  combined, 
 which  modern  times  can  produce,  and  which  have 
 been  rarely  equalled  in  the  most  illustrious  ages  of 
 antiquity. 
 
 It  is,  however,  acknowledged  without  reserve,  that 
 rich  as  our  native  tongue  is  found  in  every  other 
 species  of  poetry,  it  is  deficient  in  this.  The  reasons 
 have  been  more  particularly  insisted  upon,  in  the  pre¬ 
 face  to  the  Christian  Psalmist,  and  it  is  unnecessary  to 
 
XX 
 
 expatiate  on  them  here;  the  sum  of  the  whole  is  simply 
 this,— and  let  who  will  be  offended,  the  fact  cannot 
 e  disproved,— that  our  good  poets  have  seldom  been 
 good  Christians,  and  our  good  Christians  have  seldom 
 been  good  poets.  Those  of  the  latter  class  who  have 
 attempted  to  write  verse  have  not  succeeded  from 
 want  of  skill  in  the  art,  even  when  they  were  other¬ 
 wise  richly  endowed  with  intellectual  qualifications; 
 such  were  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Richard  Baxter, 
 of  whose  performances  (though  they  may  be  con¬ 
 sidered  as  failures,)  some  specimens  worthy  of  their 
 great  talents  will  be  found  in  this  Volume.  Among 
 the  former  class,  Waller  and  Prior  may  be  mentioned. 
 It  was  on  occasion  of  reviewing  Waller’s  Divine  Poems, 
 wi  itten  in  his  old  age,  after  having  spent  his  youth  and 
 manhood  in  sheer  vanity,  or  in  that  vexation  of  spirit 
 which  haunts  ambition,  whether  prosperous  or  disap¬ 
 pointed,— that  Dr.  Johnson  uttered  the  oracular  de¬ 
 nunciation  of  “  pious  poetry,”  already  noticed.  But 
 "Waller  was  at  best  a  feeble  writer,  though  none  of  his 
 contemporaries  commanded  more  admiration;  and  to 
 honour  him  with  such  a  magnificent  execution  for  his 
 petty  offences  in  this  way,  was  indeed  «  to  break  a 
 butterfly  upon  a  wheel.”— Prior  was  a  sprightly 
 author,  of  the  same  class  with  Waller,— a  little  more 
 
 facetious,  a  little  less  affected,  but  quite  as  artificial, _ 
 
 and  his  Solomon  was  the  very  kind  of  elaborate  and 
 veibose  composition,  which  he  himself  would  probably 
 have  admired  as  little  as  any  body,  had  it  been  written 
 by  another  man.  In  Chalmers’  farrago  of  “  English 
 Poets,  there  are  several  long  poems  on  sacred  or 
 scriptural  subjects,  particularly  by  Blackmore,  Boyce, 
 Harte,  Broome,  W.  Thompson,  Henry  Brooke, 
 
XXI 
 
 Christopher  Smart,  &c.  &c.  Though  it  may  be 
 granted,  that  every  one  of  these  has  considerable 
 merit,  and  might  well  repay  the  patient  perusal  of  a 
 reader,  who  would  honestly  take  the  pains  to  do  jus¬ 
 tice  to  them, — yet,  to  have  filled  the  pages  of  such  a 
 volume  as  the  present,  with  extracts  from  these,  or 
 any  other  of  the  larger  labours  of  mediocrity,  would 
 have  been  no  recommendation  of  the  work  to  the 
 public,  but  a  positive  hindrance  to  that  extensive  cir¬ 
 culation  and  proportionate  usefulness,  which  may 
 fairly  be  anticipated  in  favour  of  a  selection  of  smaller, 
 livelier,  and  more  diversified  articles,  in  almost  every 
 species  of  verse,  that  can  be  adapted  to  the  convey¬ 
 ance  of  religious  sentiments,  ft  is  in  vain  to  reprint 
 what  nobody  will  read.  From  no  disrespect,  there¬ 
 fore,  to  the  memory  of  the  authors  above-named  have 
 their  compositions  been  wholly  passed  over,  or  spar¬ 
 ingly  gleaned,  in  the  present  case ;  but  from  the  per¬ 
 fect  conviction,  that  a  volume  of  sacred  Poetry  might 
 be  made  up  of  materials,  not  only  calculated  to  be 
 more  popular,  but  intrinsically  more  valuable,  both  as 
 regarded  its  poetry  and  its  piety. 
 
 Such  a  volume  has  been  compiled ;  and  the  Editor 
 cannot  fear  to  present  it  to  the  public,  as  a  literary 
 treasure,  for  the  excellence  of  the  greater  portion  of 
 its  contents,  not  less  than  as  a  literary  curiosity  for  the 
 rarity  of  at  least  one  half  of  the  pieces  contained  in  it, 
 and  which  are  almost  as  little  known  to  the  reading  as 
 to  the  religious  public.  As  he  has  neither  personal 
 interest  nor  vanity  to  gratify  by  the  assertion,  he  will 
 unhesitatingly  add,  that  it  would  be  difficult,  among 
 the  countless  miscellanies  in  verse,  with  which  the 
 press  has  been  teeming  for  two  centuries  past,  to  name 
 
XXII 
 
 one,  which,  in  the  same  compass,  comprehends  more 
 of  genuine  and  even  exalted  poetry,  than  will  he  traced 
 in  the  following  pages  by  every  competent  judge, 
 though  comparatively  few  quotations  are  offered  from 
 oui  more  illustrious  writers,  and  the  selections  are  con¬ 
 fined  to  specimens  of  what  Dr.  Johnson  denominates 
 pious  poetiy ;  a  phrase  of  itself  sufficient  to  disg'ust 
 men  of  taste.  L>y  the  latter,  so  far  as  they  are  men 
 of  the  world  only,  the  hook  may  be  contemned,  be¬ 
 cause  in  plain  truth  they  do  not  understand  the  sub¬ 
 ject-matter  of  it;  but  by  “  men  of  taste,”  so  far  as  they 
 aie  men  of  piety,  its  admirable  and  diversified  merits 
 will  be  duly  appreciated,  and  the  critic’s  dogma,  that 
 “  poetical  devotion  cannot  often  please,”  will  be  con¬ 
 futed  by  their  personal  experience  of  true  devotional 
 pleasure,  not  in  reading  only,  but  in  self-application  of 
 the  devout  sentiments  expressed  in  many  of  these 
 compositions,  in  their  own  exercises  of  “  contemplative 
 piety,”  and  the  intercourse  between  God  and  their 
 own  souls. 
 
 If  a  knowledge  of  religion,  as  the  chief  concern  of 
 beings  created  for  glory,  honour,  and  immortality,  were 
 only  as  common  as  a  taste  for  genuine  poetry,  (which, 
 after  all,  is  sufficiently  rare,)  it  would  be  found  that 
 there  is  already  much  more  genuine  devotional  poetry 
 in  our  language  than  is  generally  imagined,  and  it  re¬ 
 quires  no  extraordinary  sagacity  to  say,  that  there 
 would  soon  be  much  more.  Our  great  authors,  un¬ 
 happily,  have  too  often  wanted  the  inspiration  of  piety, 
 and  religious  poetry  has  been  held  in  contempt  by 
 many  learned,  and  wise,  and  elegant  minds,  because 
 religion  itself  was  either  perfectly  indifferent,  trouble- 
 somely  intrusive,  or  absolutely  hateful  to  them.  An 
 
XX111 
 
 undevout  poet,  pretending  to  write  devotional  verse, 
 is  like  Anna  Seward  turning  into  rhyme  the  prose 
 translations  of  Horace,  furnished  to  her  by  a  scholar; 
 and  fondly  thinking  that  she  had  power  to  give  English 
 life  to  an  original  thus  twice  dead  to  herself.  Reli¬ 
 gious  poetry,  however,  in  one  very  peculiar  way,  is  a 
 test  of  poetic  talent.  A  middling  poet,  without  piety, 
 sinks  below  his  own  mediocrity  whenever  he  attempts 
 it ;  whereas  a  writer  of  comparatively  inferior  skill, 
 when  rapt  and  elevated  by  the  love  of  God  in  his 
 heart,  becomes  exalted  and  inspired  in  proportion. 
 Many  of  the  finest  strains  of  poesy  truly  divine,  con¬ 
 tained  in  this  volume,  were  the  productions  of  per¬ 
 sons,  who,  on  every  other  theme,  were  but  humble 
 versifiers.  So  neglectful  of  religion,  have  many  of  our 
 chief  Poets  been,  that  it  cannot  be  discovered  from 
 their  writings  whether  they  were  of  any  religion  at  all ; 
 — except  that  it  may  be  fairly  presumed  they  were  pro¬ 
 fessing  Christians,  because  they  made  no  profession 
 whatever;  for  had  they  been  Jews,  Turks,  or  Pagans, 
 they  would  have  shown  some  tokens  of  reverence  for 
 their  faith,  if  not  openly  gloried  in  it,  and  made  its  re¬ 
 cords  and  legends  the  themes  of  their  most  animated 
 compositions.  What  God  is  intended  in  the  last  line 
 of  the  “  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church-yard?” 
 
 “  The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God  !” 
 
 Search  every  fragment  of  the  writings  of  the  celebrated 
 author,  and  it  will  be  difficult  to  answer  this  question, 
 simple  as  it  is,  from  them;  from  the  Elegy  itself  it 
 would  be  impossible,  except  that  the  God  of  the 
 “youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown”  is  meant; 
 and  that  this  may  have  been  the  true  God,  must  be  in- 
 
XXIV 
 
 ferred  from  his  worshipper  having  been  buried  “  in  a 
 country  Church-yard.”  There  is  indeed  a  couplet 
 like  the  following,  in  the  body  of  the  poem : 
 
 “  And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 
 
 To  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die  — 
 
 but,  throughout  the  whole  there  is  not  a  single  allusion 
 to  “  an  hereafter,”  except  what  may  be  inferred,  by 
 courtesy,  from  the  concluding  line  already  mentioned. 
 After  the  couplet  above  quoted,  the  Poet  leaves  his 
 “  rustic  moralist  to  die,”  and  very  pathetically  refers  to 
 the  natural  unwillingness  of  the  humblest  individual  to 
 be  forgotten,  and  the  “longing,  lingering,  look,”  which 
 even  the  miserable  cast  behind,  on  leaving  “  the  warm 
 precincts  of  the  cheerful  day;”  but  hope,  nor  fear, 
 doubt,  nor  faith,  concerning  a  future  state,  seems  ever 
 to  have  touched  the  poet’s  apprehensions,  exquisitely 
 affected  as  he  must  have  been  with  all  that  interests 
 “  mortal  man,”  in  the  composition  of  these  unrivalled 
 stanzas ;  unrivalled  truly  they  are,  though  there  is  not 
 an  idea  in  them,  beyond  the  Church-yard,  in  which 
 they  are  said  to  have  been  written.  No  doubt  this 
 deficiency  may  be  vindicated  by  phlegmatic  sceptics 
 and  puling  sentimentalists,  who  will  cordially  agree  to 
 reprobate  what,  in  their  esteem,  would  have  been 
 contrary  to  good  manners  ;  but  is  it  consistent,  in  a 
 “  Christian  Poet,”  to  be  thus  “  ashamed  of  the  gospel 
 of  Christ,”  by  which  “  life  and  immortality  were 
 brought  ,  to  light,”  on  occasions,  when  it  ought  to  be 
 his  glory  to  acknowledge  it,  at  the  peril  of  his  reputa¬ 
 tion?  These  remarks  are  not  made,  to  throw  obloquy 
 on  the  name  of  an  author,  who  has  justly  acquired 
 a  greater  reputation  than  almost  any  other,  by  literary 
 
XXV 
 
 remains,  so  few  and  small  as  his  are ;  they  have  been 
 introduced  here  to  show  with  what  meditated  precau¬ 
 tion  piety  is  shunned  by  Christian  Poets,  who,  like 
 Gray,  seem  to  be  absolutely  possessed  by  the  mytholgy, 
 not  only  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  but  even  of  the 
 Goths  and  Vandals. 
 
 The  ingredients  of  the  present  Volume  are  certainly 
 of  a  very  different  character  from  the  foregoing  master¬ 
 piece  of  moralizing;  yet,  brilliant  as  were  the  talents 
 of  the  writer  of  the  “  Elegy,”  there  are  many  passages 
 among  these,  by  inferior  hands,  on  the  very  subject 
 which  he  has  so  studiously  evaded,  that  would  not 
 have  been  unworthy  of  his  own  pen,  and  which  un¬ 
 equivocally  demonstrate  the  possibility  of  combining 
 poetry  and  piety,  “  to  celebrate  in  glorious  and  lofty 
 hymns — what  in  religion  is  most  holy  and  sublime;” 
 and,  consequently,  most  repulsive  to  the  formalist,  not 
 less  than  to  the  scorner.  These  compositions  are  se¬ 
 lected  from  the  writings  of  a  great  number  of  persons, 
 living  at  different  periods,  many  of  whom  were  not 
 authors  by  profession,  but  men  of  rank  or  eminence 
 in  their  age,  whose  deeds  and  sufferings  have  been  re¬ 
 corded  in  the  history  of  their  country,  and  who  are,  to 
 this  day,  as  nobles,  statesmen,  warriors,  philosophers, 
 or  patriots,  enrolled  among  “  British  Worthies.” 
 Exact  chronological  succession,  from  various  circum¬ 
 stances,  could  not  be  preserved  in  all  the  particular 
 arrangements,  hut  it  has  been  so  generally  observed, 
 that  the  progress  of  our  native  language,  and  the  vary¬ 
 ing  style  of  our  national  poetry,  may  be  clearly  marked 
 by  the  attentive  reader.  One  irregularity  requires  ex¬ 
 planation;  no  uniform  system  of  orthography  has  been 
 •adopted.  The  articles  were  collected  from  a  multitude 
 
 32 
 
 £ 
 
XXVI 
 
 of  publications,  old  and  new;  and  the  mode  of  spelling, 
 as  found  in  each  copy,  was  followed  in  the  transcript. 
 Had  the  Editor  been  able  to  recur,  in  every  instance, 
 to  the  original  works  of  the  various  authors,  he  would 
 certainly  have  preferred  to  accommodate  the  reprints  to 
 the  primitive  texts ;  because,  whatever  advantage,  in 
 point  of  more  easy  perusal,  may  be  gained  by  modern¬ 
 izing  the  obsolete,  and  even  anomalous,  orthography 
 of  past  centuries,— there  is  a  natural  repugnance  in 
 the  mind  sincerely  attached  to  our  ancient  literature, 
 against  any  desecration  of  its  relics  that  can  be  avoided. 
 Indeed  there  are  reasons,  connected  with  the  finest 
 associations  of  good  feeling  and  pure  taste,  which  for¬ 
 bid  such  disfigurement  of  what  is  not  only  excellent  in 
 itself,  but  rendered  venerable  by  circumstances  which 
 connect  it,  and  thereby  connect  ourselves,  with  beings, 
 and  times,  and  usages  gone  by  for  ever.  But  the  ori¬ 
 ginal  works  of  many  of  the  writers  here  assembled,  are 
 of  extreme  rarity,  and  specimens  only  could  be  ob¬ 
 tained  where  they  happened  to  be  scattered  through 
 miscellanies ;  in  almost  every  one  of  which  a  different 
 plan  (or  rather  no  plan  at  all)  in  regard  to  antique 
 spelling  was  observed.  The  reader,  after  a  little  prac¬ 
 tice,  will  experience  no  serious  hindrance  in  the  most 
 uncouth  of  the  following  pages,  and  he  will  occasion¬ 
 ally  find  the  benefit  of  exploded  forms  of  spelling,  in 
 discovering  to  him  certain  delicate  shades  of  meaning 
 in  words,  which  would  betray  no  such  hidden  beauty 
 in  the  shapes  through  which  he  is  wont  to  recognize 
 them.  Besides  this,  the  cadence,  the  emphasis,  and 
 the  beauty  of  the  verse,  not  unfrequently  depend  on 
 the  different  tone,  in  which  the  reader,  at  first  sight, 
 would  pronounce  syllables  in  their  old  fashioned  re- 
 
xxvn 
 
 dun  dance  of  letters.  An  entirely  modernized  system 
 of  spelling,  would  have  shorn  away  much  of  the  char- 
 acteristic  gravity  of  our  vernacular  tongue  in  the  old 
 time.  On  this  topic,  however,  there  will  be  conflict¬ 
 ing  sentiments :  the  Editor,  without  pertinacious  at¬ 
 tachment  to  his  own,  can  only  say,  that  he  has  adopted 
 the  plan,  which  circumstances  and  not  choice  imposed 
 
 upon  him. 
 
 No  apology  can  be  necessary  for  the  adoption  in 
 such  a  work,  of  some  ancient  poems,  which,  to  the 
 unpractised  reader,  may  appear  so  rough  in  style  and 
 harsh  in  metre,  on  a  first  perusal,  that  he  may  be  dis¬ 
 heartened  from  even  attempting  to  read  others  of  a 
 similarly  forbidding  aspect.  He  may  safely  take  the 
 Editor’s  assurance,  that  not  one  of  these  stumbling- 
 blocks  have  been  introduced  as  mere  subjects  of  curi¬ 
 osity.  Every  piece  has  some  peculiar  merit  or  interest 
 of  its  own,  and  will  repay  the  little  effort  of  attention 
 which  may  be  required  to  understand  it.  Who  would 
 think  his  time  misemployed  in  conning  over  eleven 
 dull  lines  by  Anne  Collins,  (page  240),  for  the  sake  of 
 meeting  in  the  twelfth  an  original  and  brilliant  emana¬ 
 tion  of  fancy?  Can  the  very  humble  stanzas,  which 
 Anne  Askewe  made  and  sung  in  Newgate,  while 
 waiting  for  her  crown  of  martyrdom,  be  read  without 
 emotions  more  deep  and  affecting,  than  far  more 
 powerful  poetry  would  awaken  on  a  subject  of  ficti¬ 
 tious  woe?  Can  any  of  the  Prison  Poems,  in  this 
 
 volume, _ Sir  Thomas  More’s,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  s, 
 
 Sir  Thomas  Overbury’s,  Sir  Francis  Wortley’s,  George 
 Wither’s,  John  Bunyan’s,— can  any  of  these  be  read 
 with  ordinary  sympathy,  such  as  the  verses  them¬ 
 selves,  if  written  under  other  circumstances,  would 
 
 b  2 
 
XXV1I1 
 
 liave  excited?  Surely  not;  the  situation  of  the  un¬ 
 fortunate  beings,  who  thus  confessed  on  the  rack  of 
 personal  and  mental  torture,  or  in  the  immediate  pros¬ 
 pect  of  eternity,  give  intense  and  overwhelming  in- 
 terest  to  lines,  which  have  no  extraordinary  poetic 
 fervour  to  recommend  them.  With  what  strange 
 curiosity  do  we  look  even  on  animals  driven  to  the 
 slaughter,  which  we  should  have  disregarded  had  we 
 seen  them  grazing  in  the  field!  Who  can  turn  away 
 his  eyes  from  a  criminal  led  to  execution,  yet  who  can 
 fix  them  on  his  amazed  and  bewildered  countenance? 
 I  he  “  common  place”  of  the  gallows,  his  «  last  dying 
 speech  and  confession,”  though  consisting  of  a  few 
 hurried,  broken  words,  which  almost  every  felon  re¬ 
 peats,  and  hardly  understands  their  meaning  himself 
 while  he  utters  them,  may  produce  feelings  which  all 
 the  breath  of  eloquence,  from  lips  not  about  to  be  shut 
 tor  ever,  would  fail  to  awaken.  But  a  good  man  strug¬ 
 gling  with  adversity,  which  even  the  heathen  deemed  a 
 -spectacle  worthy  of  the  gods  to  contemplate  with  ad¬ 
 miration,  becomes  an  oracle  in  his  agony;  and  to  know 
 how  he  looked,  and  spoke,  and  felt,  for  the  last  time, 
 does  literally  elevate  and  purify  the  soul  by  terror,— ter¬ 
 ror  in  which  just  so  much  compassion  is  mingled  as  to 
 identify  him  with  ourselves  in  sensibility  to  suffering, 
 while  we  are  identified  with  him  in  exaltation  of  mind 
 abo\e  the  infirmity  of  pain  and  the  fear  of  death.  No 
 eccentricity  or  perversity  of  taste,  manifested  in  literary 
 effusions  under  such  circumstances,  can  destroy  the 
 force  of  nature,  or  render  her  voice  unintelligible  in 
 them,  though  speaking  a  strange  language,  provided  it 
 be  the  language  of  the  times,  and  not  the  affected 
 style  of  the  individual,  assumed  to  express  sentiments 
 
XXIX 
 
 equally  affected.  For  instance  ; — though  the  following 
 stanzas  are  full  of  quaint  conceits,  and  as  mechanically 
 artificial  in  their  structure  as  a  piece  of  inlaid  cabinet¬ 
 work,  yet  that  must  be  a  hard  heart  which  is  not 
 softened  by  a  perusal,  after  the  touching  preamble  of 
 Sir  Henry  Wotton,  among  whose  papers  they  were 
 found:  — 
 
 “  By  Chidick  Tychborn,  being  young,  and  then  in  the  Tower ,  the 
 night  before  his  execution." 
 
 “  My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares. 
 
 My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain. 
 
 My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares. 
 
 And  all  my  good  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain, 
 
 The  day  is  past,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun ; 
 
 And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 
 
 “  The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung, 
 
 The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green. 
 
 My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I  am  but  young, 
 
 I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  was  not  seen. 
 
 My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun ; 
 
 And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done. 
 
 “  I  sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  my  room, 
 
 I  look’d  for  life,  and  saw  it  was  a  shade, 
 
 I  trod  the  earth,  and  knew  it  was  my  tomb. 
 
 And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made. 
 
 The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  glass  is  run ; 
 
 And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done.” 
 
 If  the  cold  critic  will  not  allow  the  burthen — the  last 
 line,  repeated  in  each  stanza, — to  redeem  the  errors  of 
 the  whole,  let  him  return  to  the  preamble,  and  mark 
 the  two  simple  words  “  being  young,”  followed  by  “  the 
 night  before  his  execution,”  and  if  he  be  yet  unmoved, 
 nothing  surely  would  move  him  except  being  himself 
 placed  in  the  same  condemnation  as  the  unfortunate 
 
XXX 
 
 youth,  who  thus  employed  some  of  his  last  moments. 
 -These  indeed  had  been  better  spent  in  solemnly  pre- 
 paiing  tor  the  future,  than  ingeniously  bewailing  the 
 past;  for  it  must  be  confessed  that  these  are  not  the 
 sentiments  of  a  (e  Christian  Poet.”  They  have  been 
 introduced  here  for  the  purpose  of  showing,  how  much 
 of  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  poetry  depends 
 upon  contingent  circumstances,  which  confer  on  the 
 writer  or  the  subject,  a  peculiar,  local,  personal,  or 
 temporary,  interest  and  importance. 
 
 Such  interest  and  importance  belong  to  all  the  sub¬ 
 jects  of  the  present  Volume,  for  all  the  writers  are 
 dead.  These  thoughts,  then,  of  the  departed,  ex¬ 
 pressed  in  their  own  words,  and  brought  to  our  ears 
 in  the  very  sounds  with  which  they  uttered  them,  and 
 affecting  our  hearts  even  more  than  they  affected  their 
 own,  by  the  consideration  that  they  are  no  longer 
 living  voices,  but  voices  from  beyond  the  tomb,  from 
 invisible  beings,  somewhere  in  existence,  at  this  mo¬ 
 ment, — these  thoughts,  thus  awfully  associated,  will 
 prove  noble,  strengthening,  and  instructive  exercises 
 of  mind,  for  us  to  read  and  to  understand;  for  the  ap¬ 
 plication  required  to  comprehend  them  duly,  will 
 heighten  the  enjoyment  of  the  poetry  when  it  is  thus 
 understood;  the  obscurity  and  difficulty,  not  arising 
 from  the  defects  of  the  composition,  but  from  the  un¬ 
 acquaintedness  of  the  reader  with  the  models  in  vogue, 
 when  the  author  wrote.  These  specimens  of  “  pious 
 verse”  will  not  be  idle  amusements  for  a  few  spare- 
 minutes, — yet  for  the  delight  of  spare-minutes  they 
 are  peculiarly  adapted.  They  will  not  glide  over  a 
 vacant  mind,  as  sing-song  verse  is  wont  to  do,  like 
 quicksilver  over  a  smooth  table,  in  glittering,  minute, 
 
XXXI 
 
 and  unconnected  globules,  hastily  vanishing  away,  or 
 when  detained,  not  to  be  moulded  into  any  fixed  shape. 
 They  will  rather  supply  tasks  and  themes  for  medita¬ 
 tion;  tasks,  such  as  the  eagle  sets  her  young  when 
 she  is  teaching  them  to  fly ;  themes,  such  as  are  vouch¬ 
 safed  to  inspired  poets,  in  their  happiest  moods.  Nor 
 can  the  inexpert  reader  be  aware  till  he  has  tried,  how 
 much  the  old  language  improves  upon  familiarity;  and 
 how  the  productions  of  the  old  poets,  like  dried  spices, 
 give  out  their  sweetness  the  more,  the  more  they  are 
 handled.  The  fine  gold  may  have  become  dim,  and 
 the  fashion  of  the  plate  may  be  antiquated,  but  the 
 material  is  fine  gold  still,  and  the  workmanship  as 
 perfect  as  it  came  from  the  tool  of  the  artist;  nor  is  it 
 barbarous,  except  to  eyes  that  cannot  see  it  as  it  was 
 intended  to  be  seen,  in  connection  with  the  whole 
 state  of  human  society  and  human  intellect  at  the  time. 
 Changes  have  taken  place,  within  the  last  century,  in 
 the  style  of  religious  poetry,  which  formerly  was  too 
 much  assimilated  to  the  character  of  Solomon’s  Song, 
 — a  portion  of  Scripture  often  paraphrased,  and,  it 
 may  be  added,  always  unhappily.  In  judging  of  our 
 poets  of  the  middle  age,  from  Elizabeth  to  James  the 
 Second,  we  are  bound  to  make  the  same  allowances 
 which  we  do  naturally,  in  reading  the  works  of  our 
 divines  of  the  same  period,  who,  with  many  extrava¬ 
 gances,  have  left  monuments  of  genius  and  piety  in 
 prose,  unexcelled  by  later  theologians,  in  powerful  ar¬ 
 gument,.  splendid  eloquence,  and  learned  illustration. 
 With  such  a  preparation  of  mind,  the  reader,  sitting 
 down  to  this  Volume,  will  find  every  page  improve  to 
 his  taste,  in  proportion  as  his  taste  improves  to  relish 
 what  is  most  rare  and  exquisite  in  our  language, — the 
 
xxxn 
 
 union  of  poetry  with  piety,  in  the  works  of  men  dis¬ 
 tinguished,  in  their  generation,  for  eminence  in  the  one 
 or  the  other  of  these,  and  frequently  for  pre-eminence 
 ■n  both.  It  is,  however,  greatly  to  be  lamented,  that 
 the  heterogeneous  compositions  of  the  most  popular  of 
 the  Authors,  even  in  the  present  muster-roll,  (with 
 few  exceptions,)  cannot  be  indiscriminately  recom¬ 
 mended.  Few,  indeed,  of  the  poets  of  our  Christian 
 countiy,  previous  to  the  era  of  Cowper,  have  left  such 
 transcripts  of  their  wayward  minds,  as  would  be 
 deemed  altogether  unexceptionable,  even  by  men  of 
 the  world,  who  had  no  particular  reverence  for  vital 
 Christianity,  in  the  present  day.  So  far,  at  least,  has 
 the  indirect  influence  of  our  holy  religion  purified 
 popular  literature,  within  the  last  forty  years-  few 
 books,  which  are  not  notoriously  profligate,  now  con¬ 
 tain  such  indelicacies  as  contaminate  the  pages  of 
 some  of  our  most  celebrated  moralists  in  rhyme,  of 
 former  ages.  The  fact  is  cursorily  mentioned,  lest  the 
 inexperienced  reader  should  imagine,  that  every  writer, 
 from  whose  remains  a  page  or  two  has  been  adopted 
 here,  was  a  “  Christian  Poet.”  With  the  personal 
 characters  of  those  Writers,  the  Editor  had  nothing  to 
 o  in  tns  case.  His  object  was  to  present  to  the 
 public  a  volume  of  miscellanies  in  verse,  which,  when 
 
 p"  '  y,,e*t,mated’  might  be  fairly  called  “  Christian 
 Poetry;  for  though  every  piece  (much  more  every 
 
 me)  may  not  be  directly  devotional,  he  thinks,  that 
 there  is  not  one  which  might  not  have  been  written  by 
 a  Christian  Poet,  or  which  may  not,  in  some  degree, 
 tend  to  ed,fy  or  delight  a  Christian  reader.  Of  course, 
 e  Editor  cannot  be  presumed  to  approve  of  every 
 sentiment  or  phrase  in  such  a  multitude  of  extracts 
 
XXX111 
 
 from  the  works  of  writers,  themselves  so  much  at 
 variance  on  minor  points  of  Christian  doctrine.  What 
 is  here  given,  is  given,  not  as  the  word  of  God,  but  as 
 the  word  of  man,  and  consequently,  no  more  infallible 
 in  sentiment  than  it  can  be  expected  to  be  faultless  in 
 phrase.  They  who  read  for  profit  will  find  profit  in 
 reading;  others,  if  they  be  so  inclined,  may  discover 
 errors  and  imperfections  enough  to  gratify  their  taste, 
 though  not  to  compensate  them  for  the  loss  of  time, 
 which  had  been  better  spent  in  seeking  better  things. 
 
 The  notices  respecting  Authors  are  brief ;  and  no 
 more  is  said  of  any  than  seemed  necessary  to  enable 
 the  reader  to  appreciate  the  quotations.  Of  the 
 greatest  names,  it  would  have  been  irrelevant  to  speak, 
 either  in  praise  or  disparagement;  the  object  of  the 
 Editor  not  being  criticism.  It  was  not  deemed  ex¬ 
 pedient  to  include  extracts  from  the  works  of  any 
 living  writer ;  though  these  pages  might  have  been 
 greatly  enriched  thereby.  The  present  Volume  has 
 been  several  years  in  contemplation.  It  was  pro¬ 
 jected  in  the  summer  of  1823,  when  the  “  Christian 
 Psalmist to  which  it  was  intended  as  a  companion, 
 was  undertaken.  This  date,  and  the  whole  contents 
 of  the  Book,  will  show  that  no  rivalry  of  meritorious 
 publications,  in  some  respects  similar,  which  have  an¬ 
 ticipated  it  from  the  press,  was  intended. 
 
 J.  M. 
 
 Sheffield,  May,  1827. 
 
' 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Geoffrey  Chaucer,  ....  ....  49 
 
 The  Poure  Persone,  ib. 
 
 Good  Counsail  by  Chaucer, . 5 1 
 
 John  Gower, . 51 
 
 The  Origin  of  Idolatry,  . ib. 
 
 Salvation  by  Christ  alone, . 52 
 
 Anonymous, . 54 
 
 A  Ditty  of  the  uncertainty  of  Life,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Anonymous, . 55 
 
 Taking  Leave, . .  .  .  ib. 
 
 William  Billyng, . *  57 
 
 Introduction, . ib. 
 
 The  Wound  in  Christ’s  side, . ib. 
 
 Erth  uppon  Erth, . 58 
 
 John  Skelton, . 59 
 
 A  Prayer  to  the  Father  of  Heauen,  .  ib. 
 
 Sir  Thomas  More, . 60 
 
 A  ruful  lamentacion  of  the  deth  of  quene  Elizabeth,  .  ib. 
 Lines  written  while  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  .  61 
 
 Robert  Henrysoi/n,  .  . . 62 
 
 Thank  God  for  all, . ib. 
 
 Anonymous, . 6" 
 
 Motto, . ib. 
 
 The  Bible,  64 
 
 Anne  Askewe, . 64 
 
 The  Balade  which  Anne  Askewe  made  and  sung  when  she 
 was  in  Newgate, . ib. 
 
XXXVI 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 John  Hall,  .  . gg 
 
 A  Ditty  on  the  wicked  state  and  enormities  of  most  people 
 in  these  present  miserable  days,  ....  ib. 
 
 Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey, 
 
 Quam  bonus  Israel,  Deus, 
 
 Sir  Thomas  Wyat,  .... 
 
 Of  dissembling  Wordes,  ... 
 
 ANONYMOU9, . 
 
 Comparison  of  Life  and  Death,  ’  . 
 The  Pore  Estate  to  be  holden  for  Best, 
 
 George  Peele,  .... 
 Nathan’s  Parable,  .  . 
 
 David  instructing  Solomon,  a  child. 
 
 67 
 
 ib. 
 
 70 
 ib. 
 
 71 
 ib. 
 
 72 
 
 73 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 
 Anonymous,  . .  7, 
 
 A  happy  end  excedeth  all  plesures  and  riches' of  the  world,  ib. 
 
 Nicholas  Grimoald, 
 
 Descripcion  of  Vertue,  . 
 
 George  Gascoigne, 
 
 Good  Morrow, 
 
 Good  Night,  .  . 
 
 Robert  Southwell, 
 
 Love’s  Servile  Lot, 
 
 Scorn  not  the  Least, 
 
 A  Vale  of  Tears, 
 
 Godliness  with  Contentment  is  great  Gain 
 The  Image  of  Death, 
 
 Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
 
 Farewell  to  splendid  Follies, 
 
 Lord  Vaux, 
 
 On  the  instabilitie'of  Youth, 
 
 William  Hunis, 
 
 A  Prayer, 
 
 Gray  Hairs,  . 
 
 Humphrey  Gifford, 
 
 A  Dream, 
 
 Thomas  Tusser, 
 
 Advice  for  every  Season,  ’  . 
 
 Francis  Kinwelmershe, 
 
 All  things  are  vaine. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 Death  a  due  Debt,  . 
 
 75 
 
 ib. 
 
 75 
 
 ib. 
 
 78 
 
 80 
 
 ib. 
 
 81 
 
 82 
 
 84 
 
 85 
 
 86 
 ib. 
 
 87 
 ib. 
 
 88 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 89 
 
 ib. 
 
 92 
 
 ib. 
 
 92 
 
 ib. 
 
 94 
 
 ib. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XXXV11 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 A  Christmas  Carol, 
 
 Page 
 
 95 
 
 ib. 
 
 Archbishop  Parker, 
 Psalm  xcii. 
 
 96 
 
 ib. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 Virtue  immoveable. 
 
 97 
 
 ib. 
 
 Geffrey  Whitney, 
 
 D.  O.  M.  .  •  ,  •  • 
 
 Truth  delivered  from  the  Dungeon, 
 Humility  becometh  Christian  Preachers, 
 The  Lame  and  the  Blynde, 
 
 The  Shroud,  . 
 
 God  and  Mammon, 
 
 The  Pilgrim,  ... 
 
 Roger  Ascham,  .  .  •  • 
 
 On  a  favourite  Pupil  deceased, 
 
 Edmund  Spenser,  •  • 
 
 The  Ruines  of  Time, 
 
 On  Heavenly  Love, 
 
 On  Heavenly  Beautie, 
 
 Alexander  Montgomery, 
 
 The  Deity,  . 
 
 Paraphrase  of  Psalm  cxxi. 
 
 Hudson  *•••-■ 
 On  the’Death  of  Sir  Richard  Maitland,  1586, 
 
 King  James  I. 
 Sonnet, 
 
 Michael  Drayton, 
 
 The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea, 
 The  Law  given  on  Sinai, 
 
 Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  . 
 
 My  Pilgrimage,  . 
 
 Lines  said  to  have  been  written  by 
 before  his  execution, 
 
 him  on  the  night 
 
 98 
 ib. 
 ib. 
 
 99 
 ib. 
 100 
 101 
 102 
 
 103 
 
 ib. 
 
 105 
 
 ib, 
 
 108 
 
 113 
 
 119 
 ib. 
 
 120 
 
 121 
 
 ib. 
 
 122 
 
 ib. 
 
 123 
 
 ib, 
 
 125 
 
 127 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 The  Happy  Life, 
 
 Sir  John  Davies, 
 
 The  Soul,  . 
 
 The  Dignity  of  Human  Nature, 
 
 John  Donne,  . 
 
 Prayer  in  Temptation,  . 
 
 Thought  on  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
 A  Hymn  to  Christ, 
 
 Joseph  Hall,  . 
 
 Antheme, 
 
 For  Christmas  Day, 
 
 128 
 
 .  .  ib. 
 
 128 
 
 .  .  ib. 
 
 131 
 
 .  132 
 
 .  ib. 
 
 ib. 
 133 
 
 .  134 
 
 .  ib. 
 
 .  .  135 
 
XXXV111 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 William  Shakespeare,  .....  135 
 
 The  Duty  of  mutual  Forgiveness,  .  ’  p, 
 
 Mercy,  . . ‘  136 
 
 Cardinal  Wolsey’s  Farewell  to  all  his  Greatness,  .  ib 
 Cardinal  Wolsey’s  Speech  to  Cromwell,  .  137 
 
 William  Alexander,  .... 
 Invocation,  at  the  beginning  of  Doomes-day, 
 God  Visible  in  his  Works, 
 
 1-38 
 
 ib. 
 
 139 
 
 Ben  Jonson, 
 
 On  the  Nativitie  of  my  Saviour, 
 The  good  Life,  long  Life, 
 Eupheme’s  Mind, 
 
 140 
 ib. 
 
 141 
 ib. 
 
 Richard  Corbet,  .... 
 
 An  Elegie  on  Dr.  Ravis,  Bishop  of  London, 
 
 144 
 
 ib. 
 
 .  Thomas  Carew,  ......  145 
 
 To  my  worthy  friend  Master  George  Sandys,'  .  ’  .  ib 
 
 Epitaph  on  the  Lady  S.  .  .  .  .  pig 
 
 William  Drummond,  ......  147 
 
 Life  hastening  away,  .  .  ib 
 
 John  the  Baptist,  .  .  .  .  jb‘ 
 
 To  the  Nightingale,  .  148 
 
 True  Felicity,  ......  ib 
 
 The  Ascension  of  Christ,  ' .  .  .  #  152 
 
 Joshua  Sylvester,  ......  j 54 
 
 The  peopling  of  Europe  after  the  Flood,  .  ib. 
 
 George  Chapman, 
 
 Virtue  the  only  safe  Pilot, 
 
 Guilt,  ...  .  .  . 
 
 The  dangerous  Prosperity  of  the  Wicked, 
 A  King’s  blessing  on  his  Infant  Son,  . 
 Kingly  Justice,  . 
 
 157 
 ib. 
 
 158 
 ib. 
 
 159 
 
 160 
 
 Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  .  161 
 
 Epitaph,  .  .  .  .  .  it,. 
 
 James  Shirley,  ......  161 
 
 Death  the  conqueror  of  all,  .  .  .  "  .  ib. 
 
 Thomas  Randolph,  .  .  ....  162 
 
 On  the  Passion  of  Christ,  .  .  .  .  .  ibT 
 
 Precepts,  .......  ib. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  a  Nightingale,  ....  164 
 
 Henry  King,  ......  164 
 
 My  Midnight  Meditation,  .....  ib. 
 
 The  Exequy,  .  .  .  .  .  .  165 
 
 On  two  Children  dying  of  one  disease,  and  buried  in  one 
 grave,  .  . 167 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Sir  John  Beaumont, 
 
 Of  my  deare  Sonne,  Gervase  Beaumont, 
 
 In  Desolation,  .... 
 
 Giles  Fletcher,  .... 
 
 Justice,  ..... 
 Mercy,  ..... 
 Christ  tempted  in  the  Wilderness, 
 Redemption  by  Christ, 
 
 Christ’s  Triumph  after  Death, 
 
 Phineas  Fletcher,  .... 
 
 The  Triumph  of  the  Church,  . 
 
 The  Dying  Husband’s  Farewell,  . 
 
 William  Habington, 
 
 On  George  Talbot,  .... 
 Night  teacheth  knowledge. 
 
 No  peace  for  the  wicked,  . 
 
 God  exalts  the  humble. 
 
 Retrospection,  .... 
 
 William  Cartwright, 
 
 Confession,  .... 
 
 Richard  Crash  aw,  .... 
 
 Upon  the  Sepulchre  of  our  Lord,  . 
 
 The  Widow’s  Mites, 
 
 Two  went  up  to  the  Temple  to  pray. 
 
 The  blind  cured  by  the  word  of  our  Saviour, 
 I  am  ready  not  onely  to  be  bound  but  to  dye 
 The  Martyrs,  .... 
 Meditation  on  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
 
 Sir  Edward  Sherburne, 
 
 To  the  Eternal  Wisdom, 
 
 On  the  Innocents  slain  by  Herod, 
 
 The  Fountain,  .... 
 
 Alexander  Brome,  .... 
 
 On  the  loss  of  a  Garrison, 
 
 Robert  Herrick,  »  . 
 
 The  Daffodils,  .  . 
 
 Prayer  for  Absolution,  . 
 
 To  God,  .... 
 
 For  comfort  in  Death,  . 
 
 Honours  are  hindrances,  . 
 
 To  my  Saviour,  .... 
 
 Henry  More,  .  ...  . 
 
 Invocation  of  the  Divine  Spirit, 
 
 False  and  True  Religion,  . 
 
 Sensual  and  Spiritual  Life, 
 
 The  Soule  in  and  out  of  the  Body, 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Page 
 
 168 
 
 ib. 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 170 
 
 ib. 
 
 172 
 
 173 
 
 174 
 
 176 
 
 180 
 
 ib. 
 
 184 
 
 185 
 
 ib. 
 
 186 
 
 187 
 
 188 
 
 189 
 
 191 
 
 ib. 
 
 192 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 193 
 
 ib. 
 
 194 
 
 195 
 
 ib. 
 
 196 
 
 ib. 
 
 197 
 
 ib. 
 
 198 
 
 ib. 
 
 199 
 
 ib. 
 
 200 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 201 
 
 • 
 
 201 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 • 
 
 202 
 
 ib. 
 
 203 
 
xl 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Sib  Thomas  Brown,  ......  294 
 
 A  Colloquy  with  God,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 George  Wittier, 
 
 The  comforts  of  the  Muse, 
 The  Marygold,  . 
 
 Hope  in  Death, 
 
 Seed-time  and  Harvest, 
 Divers  Providences, 
 
 206 
 
 ib. 
 
 209 
 
 210 
 ib. 
 211 
 
 Thomas  Storer, 
 Theology, 
 
 212 
 
 ib. 
 
 Sir  Francis  Wortley, 
 Thoughts  on  Liberty, 
 
 214 
 
 ib. 
 
 Henry  Peacham, 
 
 The  Stricken  Deer, 
 
 215 
 
 ib. 
 
 Thomas  Scott, 
 
 A  Righteous  King, 
 
 215 
 
 ib. 
 
 Thomas  Jordan,  . 
 
 On  Lot’s  Wife  looking  back  to  Sodom, 
 On  a  Good  Man, 
 
 216 
 
 ib. 
 
 217 
 
 Anonymous,  .......  218 
 
 On  the  incomparable  treasure  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  ib. 
 
 Francis  Quarles,  ......  220 
 
 Glorying  in  the  Cross,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Fleeing  from  Wrath,  .....  221 
 
 The  sinner  no  where  safe,  .....  222 
 
 Vain  Boasting,  ......  223 
 
 Man’s  Stewardship,  ......  ib. 
 
 Confidence  in  God,  .....  224 
 
 Conquer  thyself,  ......  225 
 
 Dependence  on  God,  .....  227 
 
 Nothing  perfect  on  Earth,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Destruction,  ......  228 
 
 The  mockery  of  Enemies,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Jerusalem  in  Ruins,  .....  229 
 
 Hopeless  Suffering,  ......  ib. 
 
 Mercy  tempering  Justice,  .  .  *  .  .  230 
 
 Hope  in  God,  ......  ib. 
 
 God  estranged,  ......  ib. 
 
 Famine,  .......  231 
 
 No  Escape  from  Destruction,  ....  ib. 
 
 Elegy  on  Dr.  Ailmer,  .....  232 
 
 Man  born  to  Trouble,  .....  ib. 
 
 Robert  Devereux, 
 A  quiet  Life, 
 
 233 
 
 ib. 
 
 Nicholas  Breton, 
 What  I  would  be. 
 
 234 
 
 ib. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Xll 
 
 Page 
 
 Thomas  Lodge,  .  ... 
 
 • 
 
 235 
 
 Retirement,  ..... 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Francis  Davison,  .... 
 
 SS6 
 
 On  the  Death  of  a  rare  Infant, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 God  my  refuge,  .... 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 The  Lord  my  Shepherd, 
 
 2S7 
 
 Lord  Harrington,  .... 
 
 238 
 
 To  his  Mother  and  Sisters, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 To  Religion,  ..... 
 
 . 
 
 ib. 
 
 To  Death,  ..... 
 
 • 
 
 239 
 
 Arthur  Warwick,  .... 
 
 239 
 
 “  This  mortal  shall  put  on  immortality,” 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Anne  Collins,  ..... 
 
 240 
 
 Happiness  not  to  be  found  in  the  Creature,  . 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Thomas  Harvey,  .... 
 
 241 
 
 The  Desire  of  the  Heart, 
 
 ib. 
 
 The  Heart  enlarged. 
 
 • 
 
 242 
 
 Barton  Holyday,  ..... 
 
 . 
 
 243 
 
 Distichs,  ..... 
 
 # 
 
 ib. 
 
 On  Saints,  ..... 
 
 244 
 
 Faithful  Teate,  .... 
 
 244 
 
 Hope,  ...... 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Henry  Delaune,  .... 
 
 245 
 
 The  removal  of  the  Righteous  a  warning  to  the  Wicked, 
 
 ib. 
 
 Anonymous,  ...... 
 
 246 
 
 On  Bishop  Ridley,  .... 
 
 , 
 
 ib. 
 
 On  Bishop  Jewell,  .... 
 
 ib.. 
 
 John  Flavel,  ..... 
 
 247 
 
 Happiness  for  all,  .... 
 
 ib. 
 
 God’s  Husbandry,  .... 
 
 ib. 
 
 “  A  field  which  the  Lord  hath  blessed,” 
 
 248 
 
 The  foolish  Love  of  the  World, 
 
 249 
 
 A  guilty  Conscience,  .  .  ‘  , 
 
 250 
 
 Sir  Henry  Wotton,  . 
 
 250 
 
 Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World, 
 
 ib. 
 
 A  Hymn  to  my  God,  in  a  night  of  my  late  sicknesse. 
 
 252 
 
 The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life, 
 
 253 
 
 The  Crosse  of  Christ, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Fulke  Greville,  .... 
 
 254 
 
 The  Corruptions  of  the  Church,  . 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Thomas  Heywood,  ..... 
 
 255 
 
 Searching  after  God, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
xlii 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 George  Herbert,  .... 
 Public  Worship,  .... 
 Self-Examination, 
 
 The  Temper,  . 
 
 Vanity,  ..... 
 Virtue,  . 
 
 Life,  . 
 
 The  Quip,  .  .  • 
 
 Peace,  ..... 
 
 The  Pilgrimage,  ... 
 
 The  Flower,  .... 
 
 George  Sandys, 
 
 Psalm  xxvii,  .... 
 Psalm  xxxv,  .... 
 
 Psalm  xlv,  .... 
 Psalm  xcii,  ..... 
 Adoration,  .... 
 
 To  my  Redeemer,  .... 
 
 David  Dickson,  .... 
 
 Hymn,  ..... 
 
 Sir  Matthew  Hale, 
 
 On  my  Saviour’s  Birth, 
 
 Anonymous,  ..... 
 The  Penitential  Tear, 
 
 Izaak  Walton,  .... 
 
 The  Angler’s  Song,  .... 
 
 Francis  Nethersole, 
 
 Saints  have  their  Conversation  in  Heaven, 
 
 Page 
 
 258 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 259 
 ib. 
 
 .  260 
 261 
 ib. 
 262 
 
 263 
 
 264 
 
 265 
 ib. 
 
 266 
 268 
 269 
 271 
 
 273 
 
 274 
 ib. 
 
 276 
 .  ib. 
 
 277 
 ib. 
 
 277 
 .  ib. 
 
 279 
 .  ib. 
 
 Abraham  Cowley,  ......  280 
 
 Reason  and  Religion,  .....  ib. 
 
 The  Extasy,  ......  281 
 
 The  Delights  of  a  Garden,  ....  284 
 
 John  Milton,  ......  286 
 
 The  Son  of  God  offering  himself  to  become  the  Saviour 
 
 of  Man,  .....  .  ib. 
 
 Adam  and  Eve’s  Morning  Hymn,  ...  291 
 
 God’s  Omnipresence,  .....  293 
 
 The  Sum  of  Wisdom,  .....  295 
 
 On  Mrs.  Catherine  Thomson,  ....  296 
 
 On  the  Massacre  of  Protestants  in  Piedmont,  .  297 
 
 On  the  Author’s  Blindness,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Andrew  Marvell,  .  ....  298 
 
 The  Emigrants,  ......  ib. 
 
 Eyes  and  Tears,  .  .  .  .  .  .  299 
 
 Henry  Vaughan,  ...  .  .  301 
 
 The  Rainbow,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Heaven  in  Prospect,  .....  ib. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Mrs.  Katherine  Philips,  . 
 
 Against  Pleasure,  . 
 
 A  Prayer, 
 
 The  Soul,  ..... 
 Orinda  upon  little  Hector  Philips, 
 
 Little  Hector  Philips  in  answer  to  Orinda, 
 
 Richard  Flecknoe, 
 
 A  Penitential  Address, 
 
 Jeremy  Taylor,  .... 
 
 On  Christ’s  coming  to  Jerusalem,  . 
 
 A  Meditation  on  Death,  . 
 
 On  Heaven,  .  .  .  .  . 
 
 Immanuel,  .... 
 
 The  Day  of  Pentecost, 
 
 A  Prayer  for  Charity,  . 
 
 John  Norris,  ..... 
 Transient  Delights, 
 
 Angel-visits,  .... 
 
 The  Infidel,  .... 
 
 The  Meditation,  .... 
 
 Posthumous  Fame, 
 
 Resignation,  .... 
 
 George  Hickes,  ...... 
 
 Sorrowing  yet  Rejoicing,  .  .  .  . 
 
 Answer  to  Christ’s  Call, 
 
 The  Plant  of  Renown,  .  .  .  . 
 
 “  All  thy  Works  bless  Thee,” 
 
 xliii 
 
 Page 
 
 S03 
 .  ib. 
 304 
 ib. 
 306 
 ib. 
 
 307 
 
 ib. 
 
 307 
 .  ib. 
 
 308 
 .  309 
 
 ib. 
 
 .  310 
 
 ib. 
 
 311 
 ib. 
 
 312 
 ib. 
 
 313 
 
 314 
 
 315 
 
 315 
 ib. 
 
 316 
 
 317 
 
 318 
 
 R.  Fletcher, . 319 
 
 God  in  Christ  reconciled, . ib. 
 
 Richard  Baxter,  .  320 
 
 God  renewing  Man  in  his  own  Image,  ....  ib. 
 
 Mourning  over  Hard-heartedness, . 321 
 
 What  shall  I  render  unto  the  Lord  ?  ...  .  322 
 
 Fear  growing  into  Love, . 323 
 
 True  and  False  Preachers, . 324 
 
 Forsaking  all  for  Christ,  ......  325 
 
 Faith  amidst  Trials, . 328 
 
 Resignation, . 330 
 
 The  Believer’s  reply  to  Death’s  threatenings,  .  .  331 
 
 The  Exit, . 332 
 
 The  Valediction,  ....  ...  333 
 
 John  Bunyan, . 335 
 
 Prison  Meditations,  ........  ib. 
 
 On  the  Peep  of  Day, . 337 
 
 On  the  Swallow, . .  .  .  ib. 
 
xliv 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 John  Mason,  .  ....  338 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  the  Morning,  ....  ib. 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  the  Evening, . S39 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  a  Gospel-ministry,  .  .  .  340 
 
 Joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost, . 341 
 
 Deliverance  from  danger  of  Death,  ....  342 
 
 Lamenting  the  loss  of  first  Love, . 343 
 
 A  Cry  before  the  Sacrament, . ib. 
 
 The  Scriptures,  ........  345 
 
 Sir  Robert  Howard,  ........  347 
 
 Death  Familiar, . ib. 
 
 Joseph  Beaumont, . 348 
 
 John  the  Baptist  in  the  Wilderness,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Christ  Baptized  by  John, . 352 
 
 Christ  stilling  the  Tempest, . 354 
 
 Thomas  Ken,  .  355 
 
 Christ’s  virtual  presence  on  Earth,  ....  ib. 
 
 Indifference  to  the  Word  of  God,  .  .  .  .  .  356 
 
 A  Good  Priest, . ib. 
 
 Edmund  and  Hilda,  ib. 
 
 Hilda  at  Home, . *  357 
 
 God  is  Love, . 358 
 
 A  Sinner  converted, . ib. 
 
 Sweet  Remembrances, . . 
 
 Anonymous, . 361 
 
 A  Sacramental  Hymn, . ib. 
 
 A  Breathing  after  Rest, . 362 
 
 A  Hue  and  Cry  after  Peace, . 363 
 
 Edmund  Waller,  ......  364 
 
 Youth  and  Age,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Divine  Love,  ......  3 65 
 
 Earl  of  Roscommon,  ....  366 
 
 The  Day  of  Judgment,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 John  Pomfret,  .  .  .  .  -  .  357 
 
 The  Benefits  of  Affliction,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 John  Dryden,  ......  368 
 
 Divine  Revelation,  .....  ib. 
 
 The  Resurrection  of  Poets  at  the  Last  Day,  .  370 
 
 Thomas  Parnell,  ......  371 
 
 A  Night-Piece,  on  Death,  ...  .  ib. 
 
 Hymn  to  Contentment,  .....  373 
 
 Joseph  Addison,  .  .  .  .  .  376 
 
 Paraphrase  of  Psalm  xxm.  •  •  .  .  ib. 
 
 Matthew  Prior, 
 Charity, 
 
 377 
 
 ib. 
 
CONTENT^ 
 
 xlv 
 
 Page 
 
 Alexander  Pope,  ......  379 
 
 Messiah,  .  ...  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  .  .  .  382 
 
 John  Arbuthnot,  .... 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 « 
 
 382 
 
 Know  Thyself, . 
 
 •  • 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 James  Thomson . 
 
 386 
 
 Midnight  Devotion,  .... 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 The  Goodness  of  Providence, 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 • 
 
 387 
 
 On  iEolus  ’  Harp,  .... 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 388 
 
 Isaac  Watts, . 
 
 •  • 
 
 _ 
 
 389 
 
 Happy  Frailty, . 
 
 . 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 False  Greatness,  .... 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 • 
 
 390 
 
 True  Riches, . 
 
 •  • 
 
 • 
 
 391 
 
 Mrs.  Rowe, . 
 
 394 
 
 Adoration, . 
 
 ♦ 
 
 William  Collins, . 
 
 395 
 
 On  Milton . 
 
 Edward  Young, . 
 
 •  • 
 
 396 
 
 Address  to  the  Deity, 
 
 Time,  ...  ... 
 
 #  . 
 
 398 
 
 Employment  of  Time, 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 399 
 
 Dying  Friends,  .  .  .  . 
 
 •  . 
 
 ib. 
 
 Retirement,  .  ... 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 400 
 
 Redemption, . 
 
 Worldly  Pursuits,  . 
 
 •  •  • 
 
 401 
 
 Piety,  ....... 
 
 402 
 
 The  Good  Man,  .... 
 
 The  World  a  Grave,  .... 
 
 404 
 
 Ralph  Erskine,  .... 
 
 405 
 
 Faith  and  Frames  compared, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Samuel  Weslev,  Sen.  . 
 
 407 
 
 The  Transfiguration  of  Christ, 
 
 • 
 
 ib. 
 
 James  Cawthorn,  .... 
 
 410 
 
 On  Two  Daughters,  twins,  who  died  in 
 
 two  days. 
 
 ib. 
 
 Robert  Blair, . 
 
 411 
 
 Friendship,  ... 
 
 ,  , 
 
 ib. 
 
 Death  Unwelcome, 
 
 412 
 
 Dreadful  familiarity  with  Death, 
 
 • 
 
 413 
 
 John  Byrom,  . 
 
 414 
 
 St.  Philip  Neri  and  the  Youth,  . 
 
 •  • 
 
 ib. 
 
 Enthusiasm, . 
 
 415 
 
 Thomas  Chatterton,  .... 
 
 '  • 
 
 421 
 
 The  Resignation,  .... 
 
 »  i  I 
 
 ib 
 
xlvi 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 William  Hamilton, 
 On  a  Dial, 
 
 On  an  Obelisk, 
 
 A  Soliloquy,  . 
 
 Page 
 
 423 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 Christopher  Smart, 
 David, 
 
 .  425 
 
 ib. 
 
 Samuel  Johnson,  .  .  •  •  • 
 
 On  the  death  of  Mr,  Robert  Levet, 
 
 The  Ant,  .  .  • 
 
 Close  of  the  Vanity  of  Human  wishes, 
 
 .  426 
 ib. 
 428 
 ib. 
 
 Samuel  Wesley,  Jun. 
 Epitaph  on  an  Infant, 
 The  Resurrection,  . 
 
 429 
 
 ib. 
 
 ib. 
 
 Charles  Wesley, 
 
 The  English  Martyrs, 
 
 430 
 
 ib. 
 
 John  Gambold,  .... 
 The  Mystery  of  Life,  .  •  • 
 
 On  Listening  to  the  vibrations  of  a  Clock, 
 Epitaph  on  Himself, 
 
 432 
 ib. 
 
 433 
 ib. 
 
 Oliver  Goldsmith, 
 
 The  Country  Clergyman, 
 
 434 
 
 ib. 
 
 Geoffrey  Ekins,  .  •  ... . 
 
 On  the  Birth  of  his  first  Child, 
 
 1766. 
 
 436 
 
 ib. 
 
 Joseph  Hart, 
 Gethsemane, 
 
 437 
 
 ib. 
 
 Moses  Browne, 
 
 To  the  River  Lea,  . 
 Consecrated  Suffering,  . 
 The  Surrender  of  the  Heart, 
 
 439 
 ib. 
 
 440 
 
 441 
 
 Richard  Tago, 
 The  Swallows, 
 
 442 
 
 ib. 
 
 Philip  Doddridge,  . 
 
 God  the  Guide  of  his  People, 
 Dedication  to  God,  . 
 Confidence  in  God,  . 
 
 445 
 ib. 
 
 446 
 ib. 
 
 James  Beattie, 
 The  Hermit, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 William  Cowper,  r 
 The  Poet, 
 
 The  Cant  of  Infidelity, 
 Conviction  and  Pardon, 
 The  Christian  Freeman, 
 
 Richard  Cecil, 
 
 On  the  Death  of  an  Infant, 
 
 Beilby  Porteus, 
 
 Natural  and  Violent  Death, 
 
 Elizabeth  Carter,  . 
 
 A  Night-Piece,  .... 
 
 Anna  Letitia  Barbauld, 
 
 Address  to  the  Deity,  . 
 
 Robert  Burns,  .  ... 
 
 Religion  in  a  Cottage, 
 
 Lines  left  at  a  reverend  Friend’s  house,  . 
 
 James  Grahame,  .... 
 
 A  Sabbath  Walk,  .... 
 The  Resurrection, 
 
 The  Covenanters,  . 
 
 Henry  Kirke  White, 
 
 Music— (a  fragment), 
 
 The  end  of  Time— (a  fragment), 
 
 Farewell  to  the  Lyre, 
 
 xlvii 
 
 Page 
 
 449 
 ,  ib. 
 
 450 
 ,  452 
 
 454 
 
 .  456 
 
 ib. 
 
 .  457 
 
 ib. 
 
 459 
 
 ib. 
 
 “  461 
 
 ib. 
 
 463 
 
 ib. 
 
 466 
 
 467 
 .  ib. 
 
 469 
 .  470 
 
 471 
 .  ib. 
 
 472 
 .  ib. 
 
 Mrs.  Henry  Tighe, . 473 
 
 On  receiving  a  Branch  of  Mezereon,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Herbert  Knowles,  .....  475 
 
 It  is  good  to  be  here,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Mary  Parken, . 477 
 
 To-morrow,  . ib. 
 
 Daniel  Parken,  .  478 
 
 To  my  Father — on  his  Birth-day, . ib. 
 
 Thomas  Henderson  Wightman,  .  .  .  480 
 
 A  Christmas  Hymn,  .....  ib. 
 
 Mrs.  Susan  Huntington, . 482 
 
 On  Reading  Buchanan’s  Christian  Researches,  .  .  ib. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  an  Infant  Son, . 483 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 xlviii 
 
 Page 
 
 Lord  Byron,  ....  .  484 
 
 The  Destruction  of  the  Assyrians,  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 “  We  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion,”  .  .  485 
 
 Jane  Taylor, . . 
 
 The  World  in  the  Heart,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 Poetry  and  Reality, . 489 
 
 Reginald  Heber,  ......  49.3 
 
 The  Followers  of  Christ,  .  *  .  .  ib. 
 
 Robert  Pollok,  ......  494 
 
 The  Christian  Poet,  .  .  .  .  .  ib. 
 
 A  Scene  of  Early  Love,  .  .  .  497 
 
 The  Death  of  a  Mother,  .....  499 
 
V- 
 
 pRlH  0 
 
 THE0^lCiL 
 
 POET 
 
 GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
 
 Born  1328.  Died  J400. 
 
 Principal  Works: — Canterbury  Tales,  Troilus  and  Creseide,  Nine 
 Legends,  Chaucer's  Dream,  the  Romaunt  of  the  Hose,  See. 
 
 The  Poure  Persone. 
 
 [From  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.} 
 
 This  character  has  been  modernized  and  expanded  by  Dryden,  in 
 his  description  of  a  “  Good  Parson,”  but  with  all  its  merit  of 
 added  ornament  and  improved  versification,  the  paraphrase  is 
 far  inferior  in  force  and  tenderness  to  the  rude  original. 
 
 A  good  man  tlier  was  of  religioun, 
 
 That  was  a  poure  Persone  of  a  toun  : 
 
 But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
 He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 
 
 That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche. 
 His  parishens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
 Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
 
 And  in  adversite  ful  patient: 
 
 And  swiche  he  was  ypreved  often  sithes. 
 Ful  loth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 
 
 32 
 
 c 
 
50 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 But  rather  wolde  he  yeven  out  of  doute. 
 
 Unto  his  poure  parishens  aboute, 
 
 Of  his  offring,  and  eke  of  his  substance. 
 
 He  coude  in  litel  thing  have  suffisance. 
 
 Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  fer  asonder. 
 But  he  ne  left  nought  for  no  rain  ne  thonder, 
 
 In  sikenesse  and  in  mischief  to  visite 
 The  ferrest  in  his  parish;  moche  and  lite, 
 
 Upon  his  fete,  and  in  his  hand  a.  staf. 
 
 This  noble  ensample  to  his  shepe  he  yaf, 
 
 That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterward  he  taught. 
 Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 
 
 And  this  figure  he  added  yet  therto, 
 
 That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shuld  iren  do? 
 
 For  if  a  preest  be  foule,  on  whom  we  trust, 
 
 No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  rust. 
 
 He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 
 
 And  lefte  his  shepe  accombred  in  the  mire. 
 
 And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Seint  Poules, 
 
 To  seken  him  a  chanterie  for  soules, 
 
 Or  with  a  brotherhede  to  be  wrthold : 
 
 But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kepte  wel  his  fold. 
 
 So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarie. 
 
 He  was  a  shepherd,  and  no  mercenarie. 
 
 And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 
 
 He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispitous, 
 
 Ne  of  his  speche  dangerous  ne  digne, 
 
 But  in  his  teaching  discrete  and  benigne. 
 
 To  drawen  folk  to  Heveri,  with  fairenesse, 
 
 By  good  ensample,  was  his  besinesse : 
 
 But  if  were  any  persone  obstinat, 
 
 What  so  he  were  of  highe,  or  low  estat, 
 
 Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 
 
 A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  no  wher  non  is. 
 He  waited  after  no  pompe  ne  reverence, 
 
 Ne  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 
 
 But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
 
 He  taught,  but  first  he  folwed  it  himselve. 
 
GOWER 
 
 51 
 
 Good  Counsail  by  Chaucer. 
 
 These  stanzas  are  said  to  have  been  composed  by  the  Author  on 
 his  death-bed,  in  bitter  remorse  on  account  of  the  licentiousness 
 of  many  of  his  former  writings. 
 
 Fly  fro  the  prease,  and  dwell  with  soothfastnesse, 
 Suffise  vnto  thy  good  though  it  be  small, 
 
 For  horde  hath  hate,  and  climbing  tikelnesse, 
 
 Prease  hath  enuy,  and  wele  is  blent  ouer  all, 
 
 Sauour  no  mere  than  thee  behoue  shall, 
 
 Rede  well  thy  selfe  that  other  folke  canst  rede, 
 
 And  trouth  thee  shall  deliuer,  it  is  no  drede. 
 
 Paine  thee  not  ech  crooked  to  redresse 
 In  trust  of  her  that  tourneth  as  a  ball, 
 
 Great  rest  standeth  in  little  businesse, 
 
 Beware  also  to  spurn  againe  a  nail, 
 
 Striue  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall, 
 
 Deme  thy  selfe  that  demest  others  dede, 
 
 And  trouth  thee  shall  deliuer,  it  is  no  drede. 
 
 That  thee  is  sent  receiue  in  buxomnesse, 
 
 The  wrastling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall, 
 
 Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wildernesse, 
 
 Forth  pilgrime,  forth  beast  out  of  thy  stall 
 Looke  vp  on  high,  and  thanke  God  of  all, 
 
 Weiue  thy  lusts,  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lede, 
 
 And  trouth  thee  shall  deliuer,  it  is  no  drede. 
 
 JOHN  GOWER. 
 
 Born  1320.  Died  1402. 
 
 Principal  work  :—Confessio  Amantis  :  also  other  large  poems 
 
 never  printed. 
 
 w> 
 
 The  Origin  of  Idolatry. 
 
 [From 4‘  Confessio  Amantis,”  Book  v.] 
 
 After  the  flood,  fro  whiche  Noe 
 Was  saufe,  the  worlde  in  his  degree 
 
 c  2 
 
52 
 
 GOWER. 
 
 Was  made  as  who  seith  newe  ageyn 
 Of  floure,  of  fruit,  of  gras,  of  greyn, 
 
 Of  beast,  of  byrd,  and  of  mankind, 
 Whiche  euer  hath  be  to  God  vnkind. 
 For  not  withstondinge  all  the  fare, 
 
 Of  that  this  worlde  was  made  so  bare. 
 And  afterward  it  was  restored, 
 
 Amonge  the  men  was  nothyng  mored 
 Toward  God  of  good  liuynge  : 
 
 But  all  was  torned  to  likynge 
 After  the  flesshe,  so  that  foryete 
 Was  he,  whiche  yafe  hem  life  and  mete, 
 Of  heuen  and  erth  creatour. 
 
 And  thus  cam  forth  the  great  errour, 
 That  thei  the  high  God  ne  knewe, 
 
 But  maden  other  goddes  newe, 
 
 As  thou  hast  herde  me  saide  tofore. 
 There  was  no  man  that  tyme  bore, 
 
 That  he  ne  had  after  his  choyce 
 A  god,  to  worn  he  yafe  his  voyce 
 Wherof  the  misbeleue  cam 
 In  to  the  tyme  of  Abraham : 
 
 But  he  fonde  out  the  right  weie, 
 
 Howe  onely  men  shulde  obeie 
 The  high  God,  whiche  weldeth  all. 
 
 And  euer  hath  done,  and  euer  shall, 
 
 In  heuen,  in  erth,  and  eke  in  helle, 
 There  is  no  tonge  his  might  maie  telle. 
 This  Patriarche  to  his  linage 
 Forbad,  that  thei  to  none  ymage 
 Encline  shulde  in  no  wise  : 
 
 But  her  offrende  and  sacrifice, 
 
 With  all  the  hole  hertes  loue, 
 
 Unto  the  mighty  God  aboue 
 Thei  shulden  yeue,  and  to  no  mo. 
 
 Salvation  by  Christ  alone. 
 
 The  high  almighty  maiestee, 
 
 Of  rightousness,  and  of  pitee, 
 
GOWER. 
 
 53 
 
 The  synne,  whiche  that  Adam  wrought, 
 Whan  he  sigh  tyme  ayene  he  bought, 
 And  send  his  Sonne  fro  the  heuen, 
 Whiche  mans  sovvle  hath  set  in  euen, 
 And  hath  his  grace  reconciled, 
 
 Fro  whiche  the  man  was  first  exiled. 
 
 And  in  hym  selfe  so  sore  fall, 
 
 Upon  the  poynt  whiche  is  befall, 
 
 That  he  ne  might  him  selfe  arise. 
 
 Gregorie  saith  in  his  aprise 
 It  helpeth  nought  a  man  be  bore, 
 
 If  Gods  Sonne  were  vnbore. 
 
 For  than  through  the  first  synne, 
 
 Whiche  Adam  whylom  brought  vs  inne, 
 There  shulden  all  men  be  lost : 
 
 But  Christ  restoreth  thilke  lost, 
 
 And  bought  it  with  his  flesshe  and  blood. 
 And  if  we  thynken,  liovve  it  stood 
 Of  thilke  raunson,  whiche  he  paide, 
 
 As  saynt  Gregorie  it  wrote  and  saide, 
 
 All  was  behouely  to  the  man ; 
 
 For  that,  wherof  his  woe  began, 
 
 Was  after  cause  of  all  his  welth, 
 
 Whan  he,  whiche  is  the  well  of  helthe, 
 The  high  creatour  of  life, 
 
 Upon  the  nede  of  suche  a  strife. 
 
 So  wold  he  for  his  creature 
 Take  on  him  selfe  the  forfeiture, 
 
 And  suffer  for  the  mans  sake. 
 
 Thus  maie  no  reason  well  forsake, 
 
 That  thilke  sinne  originall 
 Ne  was  the  cause  in  speciall 
 Of  mans  worship  at  last 
 Whiche  shall  withouten  end  last. 
 
 For  by  that  cause  the  godhede 
 Assembled  was  with  the  manliede, 
 
 In  the  virgine,  where  he  nome 
 Our  flesshe,  and  very  man  become 
 Of  bodely  fraternitee, 
 
 Wherof  the  man  in  his  degree 
 
 \ 
 
54 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Stant  more  worth,  as  I  haue  tolde 
 Than  he  stode  erst  by  many  folde, 
 Through  baptisme  of  the  newe  lawe, 
 Of  whiche  Christe  lorde  is  and  felavve, 
 Through  vertue  of  his  might, 
 
 Whiche  in  Mary  was  alight 
 To  binde  mans  soule  agayne. 
 
 And  this  beleue  is  so  certayne, 
 
 So  full  of  grace  and  of  vertue, 
 
 That  what  man  clepeth  to  Iesu, 
 
 In  clene  life,  forth  with  good  dede, 
 
 He  maie  not  failen  of  heuen  mede ; 
 
 So  that  it  stont  vpon  beleue, 
 
 That  euery  man  maie  well  achetie, 
 Whiche  taken  hath  the  right  feith; 
 For  elles,  as  the  gospell  seith, 
 Saluacion  there  maie  be  none. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 / 
 
 A  Ditty  of  the  uncertainty  of  Life ,  and  the  approach  of 
 
 Death. 
 
 [Mr.  Ellis,  in  his  Specimens  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,  presumes 
 this  to  have  been  written  about  the  year  1250.] 
 
 Winter  wakeneth  all  my  care, 
 
 Now  these  leaves  waxeth  bare : 
 
 Oft  I  sigh  and  mourne  sare, 
 
 When  it  cometh  in  my  thought 
 
 Of  this  world’s  joy,  how  it  go’tli  all  to  nought. 
 
 Now  it  is,  and  now  it  n’is, 
 
 All  so  (a)  it  ne’er,  ne  were,  I  wis ; 
 
 That  so  many  men  saith,  sooth  it  is, 
 
 All  goeth  (b)  but  Goddis  will, 
 
 All  we  shall  die,  though  us  like  ill. 
 
 (a)  As  if  it  never  had  been. 
 
 (S)  Passeth  away. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 55 
 
 All  that  grain  ne  growetli  green ; 
 
 Now  it  followeth  all-by  dene :  (a) 
 
 Iesu,  help  that  it  be  seen, 
 
 And  shield  us  from  hell, 
 
 For  I  n’ot  (6)  whither  I  shall,  ne  how  long  here  dwell. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Taking  Leave . 
 
 Written  about  1450.  This  production  seems  to  be  Scottish. 
 
 Now  bairnes  buird,  (c)  bold  and  blithe, 
 
 To  blessen  you  here  now  am  I  bound: 
 
 I  thank  you  all  a  thousand  sithe,  ( d ) 
 
 And  pray  God  save  you  whole  and  sound  : 
 Where’er  you  go,  on  grass  or  ground, 
 
 He  you  govern  withouten  grieve,  (e) 
 
 For  friendship  that  I  here  have  found, 
 
 Again  my  will  I  take  my  leave. 
 
 Again  my  will,  although  I  wend, 
 
 I  may  not  allway  dwellen  here ; 
 
 For  every  thing  shall  have  an  end, 
 
 And  friendis  are  not  aye  y-fere  :  (/) 
 
 Be  we  never  so  lief  and  dear, 
 
 ,  Out  of  this  world  all  shall  we  meve,  (g) 
 
 And  when  we  busk  unto  our  bier, 
 
 Again  our  will  we  take  our  leave. 
 
 A  nd  wend  we  shall ;  I  wot  not  when, 
 
 Nor  whither- ward  that  we  shall  fare  : 
 
 But  endless  bliss  or  aye  to  brenn,  (//) 
 
 To  every  man  is  garked  yare  :  ( i ) 
 
 («)  Fadeth  quickly.  ( b )  Ne  wot — know  not.  (c)  Gentlemen. 
 (d)  Times.  (e)  Grief.  (/)  Always  together.  (g)  Move. 
 (A)  Burn.  (*)  Prepared  ready. 
 
56 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I1  or  tins  I  rede  (a)  each  man  beware; 
 
 And  let  our  work  our  wordis  preve,  (6) 
 
 So  that  no  sin  our  soul  forfare,  (c) 
 
 When  that  our  life  hath  taken  his  leave. 
 
 When  that  our  life  his  leave  hath  laucht,  (d) 
 Our  bodie  lieth  bounden  by  the  wo  we  (e) 
 
 Our  riches  all  from  us  be  reft,  ’ 
 
 In  clothis  cold  our  corse  is  throw  -  ( f) 
 
 Where  are  our  friends  ?  Who  wol  thee  know  5 
 -Let  see  who  wol  thy  soul  relieve  : 
 
 I  rede  thee,  man,  ere  thou  lie  low, 
 
 Be  ready  aye  to  take  thy  leave. 
 
 Be  ready  aye  whate’er  befall, 
 
 All  suddenly  lest  thou  be  kiht,  (g) 
 
 Ihou  wost  ne  er(/*)  when  thy  Lord  wol  call, 
 Look  that  thy  lamp  be  brerming  bl  ight : 
 
 For  ’lieve  (i)  me  well  but  (k)  thou  have  light. 
 Bight  foul  thy  Lord  will  thee  repreve,  (7) 
 And  fleme  ( m )  thee  far  out  of  his  sight 
 For  all-too-late  thou  took  thy  leave. 
 
 Now  God,  that  was  in  Bethlem  bore,  (n) 
 He  give  us  grace  to  serve  Him  so, 
 
 Fhat  we  may  come  his  face  to-fore,  (o) 
 Out  of  this  world  when  we  shall  go  ; 
 
 And  for  to’  amend  what  we  mis-do, 
 
 (;>)  In  clay  ere  that  we  cling  and  cleave  • 
 And  make  us  even  with  friend  and  foe,  ’ 
 And  in  good  time  to  take  our  leave. 
 
 f  ^?]rAdyise-.  (6)  Prove.  (c)  Forfeit 
 
 (<?)  Woe,  (not  intelligible.)  (f)  Thrown  '  i  \  7v 
 Knowest  not.  (*')  Believe.  (A)  Unless 
 
BILLYNG. 
 
 57 
 
 WILLIAM  BILLYNG. 
 
 The  age  of  this  Author  is  unknown.  A  few  Copies  of  his  Poem, 
 “  The  five  Wounds  of  Christ were  lately  printed  by  R.  &  W, 
 Dean,  Manchester,  from  a  manuscript  on  parchment,  of  great  anti¬ 
 quity,  in  possession  of  William  Bateman,  Esq.  accompanied  bv 
 rude  but  exceedingly  curious  cuts,  representing,  with  a  suitable 
 hieroglyphic,  each  of  our  Saviour’s  wounds,  as  described  in  the 
 corresponding  verses.  The  following  extracts  are  not  wholly  un- 
 poetical. 
 
 Introduction . 
 
 Cometh  Here,  ye  folkes  tempted  in  dreyness 
 With  the  drye  dust  of  thys  erthly  galle, 
 
 Resorte  anone,  wyth  alle  your  vysages, 
 
 To  the  V  stremes,  flowen  over  alle 
 With  precious  payment  for  us  in  generalle; 
 
 Make  no  delaye,  who  lyst  cum  nere  and  drynke, 
 And  fylle  alle  your  liertys  up  unto  the  brynke. 
 
 The  Wound  in  Christ's  side. 
 
 Hayle,  Welle  and  Condyte  of  everlastyng  lyffe, 
 Thorow  launced  so  ferre  wythyn  my  Lorde’s  syde; 
 The  flodys  out-trayling  most  aromatyf; 
 
 Hayle,  precious  hert,  wounded  so  large  and  wyde; 
 Hayle,  trusty  trew-love,  our  joy  to  provide; 
 
 Hayle,  porte  of  glorie,  with  paynes  alle  embrued, 
 On  ahe  y-sprynklyde  lyke  purple  dew  enhuede. 
 
 My  gracious  Lorde,  I  cry  with  humble  hert, 
 
 Let  it  not  slyde  out  of  thy  remembrans, 
 
 That  for  my  loue  thou  sulferde  alle  that  smert. 
 With  ardent  loue  and  compassyfe  greuance, 
 
 Which  to  me,  in  every  perturbance, 
 
 Is  chyef  refuge,  when  thereon  I  may  thynke; 
 
 Now,  Iesu,  graunt  that  I  therof  may  drynke. 
 
 My  Sovei*yn  Tesu,  most  comfortable, 
 
 Receyve  to  the  my  poore  peticion ; 
 
 And  whereas  I  of  synne  am  most  culpable, 
 
58 
 
 BILLYNG. 
 
 Comforte  me,  Iesu,  with  thy  remyssion, 
 
 By  the  lovyng  mercye  and  intercession 
 
 ()t  thys  blody  streme  ;  thereof  take  no  dysdane  ; 
 
 Now,  Iesu,  graunte  it  for  thy  greuous  payne. 
 
 Erth  uppon  Erth. 
 
 [ Prom  the  same  Manuscript  as  the  foregoing;  with  a  drawing  of  a- 
 naked  body,  apparently  new  risen  from  a  grave,  having  a  mattock 
 on  the  right  hand,  and  a  spade  at  the  feet.] 
 
 Erth  oute  of  erth  is  wondyrlye  wrought, 
 
 For  erth  hath  gotten  of  erth  a  nobul  thyng  of  nogbt ; 
 Erth  uppon  erth  hath  set  alle  hys  thogbt, 
 
 How  erth  uppon  erth  may  be  hygh  broght. 
 
 Erth  uppon  erth  yet  wolde  be  a  kyrige, 
 
 But  how  erth  shall  to  erth  thynketh  he  nothyng; 
 
 But  when  erth  hyddeth  erth  hys  dute  hom'bryng, 
 
 1  hen  shall  erth  fro  erth  have  a  peteus  partyng. 
 
 Erth  wynneth  uppon  erth  both  castellys  and  towns. 
 Than  sayth  erth  unto  erth — “  this  is  cille  owres 
 But  Whan  erth  uppon  erth  hath  bylded  all  hys  bowrys, 
 Than  shall  erth  for  erth  suffer  sharpe  showres. 
 
 Erth  byldyth  uppon  erth  as  molde  uppon  molde, 
 
 And  erth  goth  uppon  erth  glyttering  alle  golde, 
 
 Like  as  erth  unto  erth  never  goe  sholde, 
 
 And  justly  than  shalle  erth  go  to  erth  rather  than  he 
 wolde. 
 
 *  \ 
 Memento  hoc ,  quod  cinis  es,  et  in  cinere  reverter  is ; 
 
 Fac  bene  dum  vivis,  post  morte  vivere  si  vis, 
 
 Whan  lyffe  is  most  lovyd,  and  deth  most  hated, 
 
 Than  deth  drawyth  hys  drawght,  and  maketh  man  ful 
 naked. 
 
SKELTON. 
 
 59 
 
 JOHN  SKELTON. 
 
 Died  1529. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — The  Crowne  of  Lawrell,  the  Bouge  of  Courte, 
 and  many  satirical  pieces. 
 
 A  Prayer  to  the  Father  of  Heauen. 
 
 O  radiant  luminary  of  light  interminable! 
 
 Celestiall  father,  potenciall  God  of  might 
 Of  heauen  and  earth.  O  Lorde  incomperable  ! 
 
 Of  al  perfections  the  esseneiall  most  perfighte ; 
 
 O  Maker  of  mankind,  that  formed  day  and  night 
 Whose  power  imperial,  comprehendeth  euery  place  ! 
 Mine  hart,  my  mind,  my  thought,  my  hole  delite 
 Is  after  this  lyfe,  to  se  thy  glorious  face. 
 
 Whose  magnificence  is  incomprehensible, 
 
 Al  arguments  of  reason,  which  far  doth  excede; 
 
 Whose  deite  doutles,  is  indiuisible, 
 
 From  whom  al  goodnes,  and  vertue  doth  procede 
 Of  thy  support,  al  creatures  have  nede 
 Assist  me,  good  Lord,  and  graunt  me  of  thy  grace 
 To  liue  to  thy  pleasure,  in  word  thought  and  dede, 
 And  after  this  lyfe,  to  see  thy  glorious  face. 
 
60 
 
 MORE. 
 
 SIR  THOMAS  MORE. 
 
 Born  1480.  Beheaded  1535. 
 
 Principal  Works  '.—Utopia,  Letter  to  Erasmus,  and  Miscellaneous 
 
 Controversy. 
 
 A  ruJfl  lamentacion  of  the  deth  of  queue  Elisabeth  mother 
 to  Jang  Henry  the  eight,  wife  to  king  Henry  the  seventh, 
 and  eldest  daughter  to  king  Edward  the  fourth,  which 
 queue  Elisabeth  dyed  in  childbed  in  February  in  the 
 yere  of  our  Lord  1503,  and  in  the  18  acre  of  the 
 raigne  of  king  Henry  the  seventh. 
 
 O  ye  that  put  your  trust  and  confidence, 
 
 In  worldly  ioy  and  frayle  prosperite, 
 
 That  so  lyue  here  as  ye  should  neuer  hence 
 Remember  death  and  loke  here  vppon  me. 
 Ensaumple  I  thynke  there  may  no  better  be 
 lour  selfe  wotte  well  that  in  this  realme  was  L 
 Your  quene  but  late,  and  lo  now  here  I  lye. 
 
 Mas  I  not  borne  of  olde  worthy  linage? 
 
 Was  not  my  mother  queene,  my  father  kyng? 
 Was  I  not  a  kinges  fere  in  marriage? 
 
 Had  I  not  plenty  of  euery  pleasaunt  thing? 
 Mercifull  God,  this  is  a  straunge  reckenyng; 
 Rychesse,  honour,  welth,  and  auncestry, 
 
 Hath  me  forsaken,  and  lo  now  here  I  lye. 
 
 If  worship  myght  haue  kept  me,  I  had  not  gone- 
 It  wyt  myght  haue  me  saued,  I  neded  not  fere  •  ’ 
 
 It  money  myght  haue  holpe,  I  lacked  none  •  * 
 
 But,  O  good  God,  what  vayleth  all  this  gere 
 When  deth  is  come,  thy  mighty  messangere* 
 
 Obey  we  must,  there  is  no  remedy, 
 
 Me  hath  he  sommoned,  and  lo  now  here  I  lye. 
 
 Yet  was  I  late  promised  otherwyse, 
 
 This  yere  to  liue  in  welth  and  delice.  * 
 
MORE, 
 
 6£ 
 
 Lo  whereto  cometh  thy  bland  ishyng  promyse, 
 
 O  false  astrolagy  and  deuynatrice, 
 
 Of  Goddes  secretes  makyng  thy  selfe  so  wyse ; 
 IIovv  true  is  for  this  yere  thy  prophecy 
 The  yere  yet  lasteth,  and  lo  nowe  here  I  lye, 
 
 O  bryttill  welth,  as  full  of  bitternesse, 
 
 Thy  single  pleasure  doubled  is  with  payne. 
 
 Account  my  sorrow  first  and  my  distresse, 
 
 In  sondry  wyse,  and  recken  there  agayne, 
 
 The  ioy  that  I  haue  had,  and  I  dare  sayne. 
 
 For  all  my  honour,  endured  yet  haue  I, 
 
 More  wo  then  welth,  and  lo  now  here  I  lye. 
 
 Where  are  our  castels,  now ;  where  are  our  towers? 
 Goodly  Richmonde  sone,  are  thou  gone  from  me? 
 At  Westminster  that  costly  worke  of  yours, 
 
 Myne  owne  dere  lorde  now  shall  I  neuer  see; 
 Almighty  God  vouchesafe  to  graunt  that  ye, 
 
 For  you  and  your  children  well  may  edefy; 
 
 My  palyce  bylded  is,  and  lo  now  here  I  lye. 
 
 Lines  written  while  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower. 
 
 Ey  !  fiatering  Fortune,  loke  thou  never  so  faire, 
 Or  never  so  plesantly  begin  to  smile, 
 
 As  though  thou  wouldst  my  mine  all  repayre. 
 During  my  life  thou  shalt  not  me  begile; 
 
 Trust  shall  I  God,  to  entre  in  a  while 
 Hys  haven  or  heaven  sure  and  uniforme; 
 
 Ever  aftir  thy  calme,  loke  I  for  a  s  tor  me. 
 
henrysoun. 
 
 ROBERT  HENRYSOUN. 
 
 A  Scottish  Poet,  who  flourished  1450  to  1500, 
 
 Thank  God,  for  all. 
 
 Alone,  as  I  went  up  and  down. 
 
 In  abbey  was  fair  to  see, 
 
 Thinking  what  consolation 
 Was  in  adversity; 
 
 On  case  (a)  I  cast  on  side  mine  ee, 
 
 And  saw  this  written  on  a  wall, 
 
 “  °f  what  estate,  Man,  that  thou  be. 
 Obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all.” 
 
 i  hy  kingdom,  and  thy  great  empire, 
 
 I  by  royalty,  nor  rich  array, 
 
 Shall  nought  endure  at  thy  desire, 
 
 But,  as  the  wind,  will  wend  away : 
 
 Thy  gold  and  all  thy  goodis  gay, 
 
 When  Fortune  list  will  fra  thee  fall : 
 
 Sen  thou  sic  samples  sees  each  day 
 Obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all. 
 
 Though  thou  be  blind  or  have  an  halt, 
 
 Or  in  thy  face  deformed  ill, 
 
 So  it  come  not  by  thy  default, 
 
 No  man  shall  thee  reprief  ( b )  by  skill : 
 Blame  not  thy  Lord,  so  is  his  will ; 
 
 Spurn  not  thy  foot  against  the  wall ; 
 
 But,  with  meek  heart  and  prayer  still. 
 Obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all. 
 
 God,  of  his  justice,  man  correct, 
 
 And  of  his  mercy,  pity  have  ; 
 
 He  is  a  Judge,  to  none  suspect, 
 
 To  punish  sinful  man  or  save; 
 
 Though  thou  be  Lord  atour  the  laif,  (c) 
 
 And  afterwards  made  bound  and  thrall, 
 
 (a)  By  chance. 
 
 (b)  Reprove. 
 
 (c)  Above  the  rest. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 63 
 
 A  poor  beggar  with  scrip  and  staff, 
 
 Obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all. 
 
 This  changing  and  great  variance 
 Of  earthly  states  up  and  down, 
 
 Is  not  but  (o)  casualty  and  chance 
 As  some  men  say  without  reasoun  ; 
 
 But  by  the  great  provision 
 Of  God  above,  that  rule  thee  shall ; 
 Therefore  thou  ever  make  thee  boun 
 To’  obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all. 
 
 In  wealth  be  meek,  heich  (b)  not  thyself; 
 Be  glad  in  wilful  poverty  ; 
 
 Thy  power  and  thy  worldis  pelf 
 Is  nought  but  very  vanity: 
 
 Remember  Him  that  died  on  tree, 
 
 For  thy  sake  tasted  bitter  gall, 
 
 Who  heis  low  hearts  and  loweis  high ;  (c) 
 Obey,  and  thank  thy  God  for  all. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 [From  Rare  beate  Marie  Virginis,  ad  usum  insignis  Eccl.  Sarum , 
 totaliter  ad  longum.  Printed  for  Wynkin  de  Worde,  1522 : — 
 being  an  Almanack  for  23  years  from  that  date.] 
 
 i 
 
 Motto. 
 
 God  be  in  my  heed, — and  in  myn  understanding; 
 
 God  be  ia  myn  eyen, — and  in  my  lokynge  ; 
 
 God  be  in  my  mouth, — and  in  my  speakynge ; 
 
 God  be  in  my  lierte, — and  in  my  thynkynge ; 
 
 God  be  in  myn  ende, — and  my  departynge. 
 
 (a)  Mere.  (6)  Exalt,  (c)  Exalts  the  low  and  humbles  the  high. 
 
ASK  EWE 
 
 64 
 
 The  Bible. 
 
 ([From  “  a  compendious  Olde  Treatise ,  shewynge  how  we  ought  fa 
 have  the  Scripture  in  Englyshe.  ”  (No  date,  probably  about  1550.) 
 “  Imprynted  by  me  Rychard  Banckes." — The  Treatise  here 
 named  is  said  to  have  been  written  “  about  the  yere  of  oure 
 torde,  one  thousand  fower  hundred,”  and  a  copy  preserved  in 
 6‘  the  Church  Ouer  agaynst  London  stone  at  this  houre.”] 
 
 The  Excusacyon  of  the  Treatise. 
 
 Thoughe  I  am  olde,  clothed  in  barbarous  wede, 
 Nothynge  garnyshyd  with  gay  eloquensy, 
 
 Yet  I  tell  the  truthe,  if  ye  lyste  to  take  hede, 
 Agaynste  their  froward  furious  fantasy, 
 
 Which  reken  it  for  a  great  heresy, 
 
 And  unto  laye-people  grieuous  outrage 
 To  haue  Godes  worde  in  their  native  langage. 
 Enemyes  I  shall  haue — many  a  shorne  crowne, 
 
 With  forkid  cappes,  gay  croosis  of  gold; 
 
 Which,  to  mantayne  their  ambicious  renowne. 
 
 Are  glad  laye-people  in  ignorance  to  holde ; 
 
 Yet  to  shevve  the  veryte  one  may  be  bolde, 
 
 All  thoughe  it  be  a  prouerbe  dayly  spoken, 
 
 — “  Who  that  tellyth  the  truthe  his  hed  shal  be  broken.  ” 
 
 ANNE  ASKEWE. 
 
 Born  1520.  Burnt  in  Smithfield  1546, 
 
 The  Balade  which  Anne  A  shelve  made  and  sung  when 
 she  was  in  Newgale. 
 
 {From  “  The  Examirtacyon  of  Anne  Askewe,  lately  martyred  in 
 Smyth fielde  by  the  wicked  Sinagogue  of  Antychrist,  with  the 
 elucydacyon  of  Johan  Bale.  Printed  at  Marpurg  in  Hessen  , 
 3546.”] 
 
 Lyke  as  the  armed  Knyghte, 
 
 Appointed  to  the  fielde, 
 
 With  this  world  wyl  I  fyghf. 
 
 And  fayth  shal  be  my  shylde. 
 
ASKEWE. 
 
 65 
 
 Fayth  is  that  weapon  stronge, 
 Which  wyl  not  fayle  at  nede; 
 
 My  foes  therefore  amonge, 
 Therewyth  wyl  I  procede. 
 
 As  it  is  had  in  strengthe. 
 
 And  forces  of  Christes  waye, 
 
 It  wyl  prevaile  at  lerigthe, 
 
 Though  all  the  Devyls  saye  naye. 
 
 Faythe  of  the  Fathers  olde 
 Obtained  ryght  witness, 
 
 Which  makes  me  verye  bolde 
 To  fear  no  worldes  distress. 
 
 I  now  rejoice  in  harte, 
 
 And  hope  bydes  me  do  so ; 
 
 For  Christ  wyl  take  my  part, 
 
 And  ease  me  of  my  wo. 
 
 Thou  sayst,  Lord,  whoso  knocke, 
 To  them  wylt  Thou  attende; 
 Undo,  therefore,  the  locke, 
 
 And  thy  stronge  power  sende. 
 
 More  enemies  now  I  haue 
 Than  heeres  upon  my  head ; 
 
 Let  them  not  me  deprave. 
 
 But  fyght  Thou  in  my  steade. 
 
 On  Thee  my  care  I  cast. 
 
 For  all  their  cruell  spyght; 
 
 I  set  not  by  their  hast, 
 
 For  Thou  art  my  delyght. 
 
 I  am  not  she  that  lyst 
 My  anker  to  let  fall 
 For  every  dryslynge  myst; 
 
 My  shippe’s  substancyal. 
 
 Not  oft  I  use  to  wryght 
 In  prose,  nor  yet  in  ryme; 
 
 Yet  wyl  I  shewe  one  syght. 
 
 That  I  sawe  in  my  tyme. 
 
66 
 
 HALL. 
 
 I  sawe  a  royal)  throne, 
 
 Where  lustyce  shulde  have  sytte ; 
 But  in  her  steade  was  One 
 Of  moody  cruell  wytte. 
 
 Absorpt  was  ryghtwysness, 
 
 As  by  the  ragyrige  floude; 
 
 Sathan,  in  his  excess 
 
 Sucte  up  the  guiltlesse  bloude. 
 
 Then  thought  I,- — Iesus,  Lorde, 
 When  Thou  shalt  judge  us  all, 
 Harde  is  it  to  recorde 
 On  these  men  what  wyll  fall. 
 
 Yet,  Lorde,  I  Thee  desyre, 
 
 For  that  they  doe  to  me, 
 
 Let  them  not  taste  the  hyre 
 Of  their  iniquytie. 
 
 JOHN  HALL. 
 
 Born  about  1520. 
 
 Wrote  the  Court  of  Virtue,  versified  Solomon's  Proverbs,  fkc. 
 
 •vvwwvv 
 
 A  Ditty  on  the  wicked  state  and  enormities  of  most  people 
 in  these  present  miserable  days . 
 
 Blame  not  my  lute,  though  it  do  sound 
 The  rebuke  of  your  wicked  sin ; 
 
 But  rather  seek,  as  ye  are  bound, 
 
 To  know  what  case  that  ye  are  in : 
 
 And  though  this  song  do  sin  confute, 
 
 And  sharply  wickedness  rebuke, 
 
 Blame  not  my  lute. 
 
 If  my  lute  blame  the  covetize, 
 
 The  gluttons  and  the  drunkards  vile, 
 
 The  proud  disdaine  of  worldly  wise, 
 
 And  how  falsehood  doth  truth  exile : 
 
HOWARD- 
 
 67 
 
 Though  vice  and  sin  be  now  in  place, 
 Instead  of  virtue  and  of  grace, 
 
 Blame  not  my  lute. 
 
 Though  wrong  in  justice-place  be  set, 
 Committing  great  iniquity; 
 
 Though  hypocrites  be  counted  great, 
 
 That  still  maintain  idolatry; 
 
 Though  some  set  more  by  things  of  nought 
 Than  by  the  Lord  that  all  hath  bought, 
 Blame  not  my  lute. 
 
 Blame  not  my  lute,  I  you  desire, 
 
 But  blame  the  cause  that  we  thus  play, 
 
 For  burning  heat  blame  not  the  fire, 
 
 But  him  that  bloweth  the  coal  alway; 
 Blame  ye  the  cause,  blame  ye  not  us. 
 
 That  we  mens  faults  have  touched  thus  i 
 Blame  not  my  lute. 
 
 HENRY  HOWARD,  Earl  of  Surrey. 
 
 Born  1518.  Beheaded  1546. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — Sonnets  on  Geraldine ,  Version  of  Ecclesiastes, 
 Translation  of  the  2 d  Boke  of  Virgile's  JEneis,  Ac. 
 
 Quam  bonus  Israel,  Deus. — Psalm  Lxxnr. 
 
 Thoughe,  Lord,  to  Israeli 
 Thy  graces  plenteous  be, 
 
 I  meane  to  such,  with  pure  intent, 
 
 As  fix  their  trust  in  The ; 
 
 Yret  whiles  the  faith  did  faynt 
 That  shold  have  been  my  guyde, 
 
 Lyke  them  that  walk  in  slipper  pathes, 
 
 My  feet  began  to  slyde  : 
 
 Whiles  I  did  grudge  at  those 
 That  glorey  in  their  golde, 
 
68 
 
 HOWARD. 
 
 Whose  lothsom  pryde  rejoyseth  welth 
 In  quiet  as  they  wolde. 
 
 To  se  by  course  of  yeres 
 What  nature  doth  appere, 
 
 The  palayces  of  princely  fourme 
 Succede  from  heire  to  heire ; 
 
 From  all  such  travailes  free 
 As  longe  to  Adams  sede. 
 
 Neither  withdrawne  from  wicked  works 
 By  daunger  nor  by  dread. 
 
 Whereof  thire  skornfull  pryde, 
 
 And  gloried  with  their  eyes; 
 
 As  garments  clothe  the  naked  man, 
 
 Thus  are  they  clad  in  vyce : 
 
 Thus,  as  they  wishe,  succeeds 
 The  mischief  that  they  meane, 
 
 Whose  glutten  chekes  slouth  feads  so  fatt, 
 As  scant  their  eyes  be  sene. 
 
 Unto  whose  crewel  power 
 Most  men  for  dred  ar  fayne 
 To  bend  and  bow  with  loftye  looks, 
 
 Whiles  they  vawnt  in  their  rayne; 
 
 And  in  their  bloody  hands 
 Whose  creweltye  that  frame 
 Ihe  wailfull  works  that  skourge  the  poore, 
 Without  regard  of  blame. 
 
 To  tempt  the  living  God 
 They  think  it  no  offence, 
 
 And  perce  the  symple  with  their  tungs 
 That  can  make  no  defence. 
 
 Such  proofes  bifore  the  just, 
 
 To  cause  the  harts  to  waver, 
 
 Be  sett,  lyke  cupps  myngled  with  gall, 
 
 Of  bitter  tast  and  saver: 
 
 Then  saye  thy  foes  in  skorne, 
 
 That  tast  no  other  foode, 
 
 But  sucke  the  fleshe  of  thy  elect 
 And  bath  them  in  their  bloode. 
 
HOWARD. 
 
 69 
 
 Shold  we  beleve  the  Lorde 
 Doth  know  and  suffer  this? 
 
 Foled  be  he  with  fables  vayne, 
 
 That  so  abused  is. 
 
 In  terrour  of  the  just, 
 
 Thus  raignes  iniquitye, 
 
 Armed  with  power,  laden  with  gold, 
 
 And  dred  for  crueltye, 
 
 Then  vayne  the  warr  might  seme, 
 
 That  I  by  faythe  mayntayne 
 Against  the  fleshe,  whose  false  affects 
 My  pure  hart  wold  distayne. 
 
 For  I  am  scourged  still 
 That  no  offence  have  doon, 
 
 By  wrathes  children,  and  from  my  byrth 
 My  chastening  begoon. 
 
 When  I  behelde  their  pryde, 
 
 And  slackness  of  thy  hand, 
 
 I  gan  bewaile  the  wofull  state 
 Wherin  thy  chosen  stand ; 
 
 And  as  I  sought  wherof 
 
 Thy  sufferaunce,  Lord,  shold  groo, 
 
 I  found  no  witt  could  perce  so  far, 
 
 Thy  holy  domes  to  knoo; 
 
 And  that  no  mysteryes 
 Nor  dought  could  be  distrust, 
 
 Till  I  com  to  the  holly  place, 
 
 The  mansion  of  the  just ; 
 
 Where  I  shall  se  what  end 
 Thy  justice  shall  prepare, 
 
 For. such  as  buyld  on  worldly  welth, 
 
 And  dye  their  colours  faire, 
 
 Oh  !  how  their  ground  is  false, 
 
 And  all  their  buylding  vayne ; 
 
 And  they  shall  fail,  their  power  shall  faile 
 That  did  their  pryde  mayntayne, 
 
 As  charged  harts  with  care, 
 
 That  dreme  some  pleasaunt  teurne. 
 
70 
 
 WYAT. 
 
 After  their  sleape  fynd  their  abuse, 
 And  to  their  plaint  retourne  : 
 
 So  shall  their  glorye  faade  ; 
 
 Ihy  sword  of  vengeaunce  shall 
 Unto  their  dronken  eyes  in  blood 
 Disclose  their  errours  all. 
 
 In  other  succour,  then, 
 
 O  Lord,  why  should  I  trust ; 
 
 But  only  thyn,  whom  I  have  found 
 In  thy  behight  so  just? 
 
 And  suche  for  drede  or  gayne 
 As  shall  thy  name  refuse, 
 
 Shall  perishe  with  their  golden  godds 
 That  did  their  harts  seduce ; 
 
 Where  I,  that  in  thy  worde 
 Have  set  my  trust  and  joye, 
 
 The  high  reward  that  longs  thereto 
 Shall  quietlye  enjoye : 
 
 And  my  unworthye  lypps, 
 
 Inspired  with  thy  grace, 
 
 Shall  thus  forespeke  thy  secret  works, 
 In  sight  of  Adams  race. 
 
 SIR  THOMAS  WYAT. 
 
 Born  1503.  Died  1541. 
 Miscellaneous  Poems. 
 
 Of  Dissembling  Wordes. 
 
 Throughout  the  world  if  it  were  sought, 
 Faire  words  ynough  a  man  shall  finde  ; 
 
 They  be  good  chepe,  they  cost  right  nought, 
 Their  substance  is  but  only  winder 
 But  well  to  say,  and  so  to  mene, 
 
 That  swete  accord  is  seldom  sene. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 71 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Comparison  of  Life  and  Death. 
 
 The  life  is  long,  that  lothsomly  doth  last, 
 
 The  dolefull  dayes  draw  slowly  to  their  date; 
 
 The  present  panges  and  painfull  plagues  forepast 
 Yrelde  griefe  aye  grene  to  stablish  this  estate ; 
 
 So  that  I  feele,  in  this  great  storme  and  strife, 
 
 The  death  is  swete  that  endeth  such  a  life. 
 
 Yet  by  the  stroke  of  this  strange  ouerthrowe, 
 
 At  which  conflict  in  thraldome  I  was  thrust, 
 
 The  Lord  be  praised,  I  am  well  taught  to  know 
 From  whence  man  came,  and  eke  whereto  he  must ; 
 And  by  the  way,  vpon  how  feble  force, 
 
 His  terme  doth  stand,  till  death  doth  end  his  course. 
 
 The  pleasant  yeres  that  seme  so  swift  that  runne, 
 The  mery  dayes  to  end  so  fast  that  flete, 
 
 The  ioyfull  nightes  of  which  day  daweth  so  soone, 
 The  happy  bowers  which  mo  do  miss  then  mete, 
 
 Do  all  consume  as  snowe  against  the  sunne, 
 
 And  death  makes  end  of  all  that  life  begonne. 
 
 Since  death  shall  dure,  till  all  the  world  be  wast, 
 What  meaneth  man  to  dred  death  then  so  sore? 
 
 As  man  might  make  that  life  should  ahvay  last, 
 Without  regarde  the  Lord  hath  led  before 
 The  daunce  of  death,  which  all  must  runne  on  row, 
 Though  how,  or  when,  the  Lord  alone  doth  know. 
 
 If  man  would  minde  what  burthens  life  doth  bring 
 What  greuous  crimes  to  God  he  doth  commit ; 
 
 What  plages,  what  panges,  What  perilles,  therby  springe 
 With  no  sure  hower  in  all  his  daies  to  sit: 
 
 He  would  sure  think  as  with  great  cause  I  do, 
 
 The  day  of  death  wer  better  of  the  two. 
 
 Death  is  a  port  wherby  we  pass  to  ioy, 
 
 Life  is  a  lake,  that  drowneth  all  in  payn, 
 
72 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Death  is  so  dere  it  ceaseth  all  annoy, 
 
 Life  is  so  leude  that  all  it  yeldes  is  vayn : 
 
 And  as  by  life  to  bondage  man  is  brought, 
 
 Even  so  likewise  by  death  was  fredom  wrought. 
 
 Wherefore,  with  Paul,  let  all  men  wish  and  pray 
 To  be  dissolvde  of  this  foule  fleshly  masse ; 
 
 Or  at  the  least  be  armde  against  the  day, 
 
 That  they  he  found  good  souldiers  prest  to  passe 
 From  life  to  death,  from  death  to  life  again, 
 
 To  such  a  life,  as  euer  shall  remain. 
 
 The  Pore  Estate  to  be  holden  for  Best. 
 
 Experience  now  doth  show  what  God  us  taught  befoie, 
 Desired  pompe  is  vaine,  and  seldome  doth  it  last: 
 Who  climbes  to  raigne  with  kinges,  may  rue  his  fate 
 
 full  sore  * 
 
 Alass  the  wofull  end  that  comes  with  care  full. fast; 
 Reiect  him  doth  renoune,  his  pompe  full  low  is  cast, 
 Deceiued  is  the  byrd  by  swetenesse  of  the  call, 
 
 Expell  that  pleasant  taste,  wherin  is  bitter  gall. 
 
 Such  as  with  oten  cakes  in  poor  estate  abides, 
 
 Of  care  haue  they  no  cure,  the  crab  with  myrth  they  rost; 
 More  ease  fele  they  then  those,  that  from  their  height 
 
 down  slides,  .  . 
 
 Excesse  doth  brede  their  wo,  they  saile  in  Scillas  cost, 
 Remayning  in  the  stormes  tyll  shyp  and  all  be  lost. 
 Serue  God,  therefore,  thou  pore,  for  lo,  thou  liuest  in 
 
 rest  * 
 
 Eschue  the  golden  hall,  thy  thatched  house  is  best. 
 
BEELE. 
 
 73 
 
 GEORGE  PEELE. 
 
 Born  about  1555. 
 
 Author  of  many  Dramatic  Works,  and  some  Pastorals,  Sec 
 Nathan  s  Parable. 
 
 There  were  two  men,  both  dwellers  in  one  town, 
 
 The  one  was  mighty,  and  exceeding  rich 
 In  oxen,  sheep,  and  cattle  of  the  field ; 
 
 The  other  poor,  having  nor  ox,  nor  calf, 
 
 Nor  other  cattle  save  one  little  Lamb, 
 
 Which  he  had  brought  and  nourish’d  by  the  hand ; 
 And  it  grew  up  and  fed  with  him  and  his, 
 
 And  ate  and  drank  as  he  and  his  were  wont, 
 
 And  in  his  bosom  slept,  and  was  to  live 
 As  his  own  daughter,  or  his  dearest  child. 
 
 There  came  a  stranger  to  the  wealthy  man ; 
 
 And  he  refused  and  spared  to  take  his  own, 
 
 Or  of  his  store  to  dress  or  make  him  meat, 
 
 But  took  the  poor  man’s  sheep,  the  poor  man’s  store, 
 And  dress’d  it  for  the  stranger  in  his  house. 
 
 David  Instructing  Solomon ,  a  child. 
 
 Solomon.  It  would  content  me,  Father,  first  to  learn 
 How  the  Eternal  framed  the  firmament ; 
 
 Which  bodies  lead  their  influence  by  fire, 
 
 And  which  are  fill’d  with  Winter’s  hoary  use; 
 
 What  sign  is  rainy,  and  what  star  is  fair  ; 
 
 Why  by  the  rules  of  true  proportion 
 The  year  is  still  divided  into  months, 
 
 The  months  to  days,  the  days  to  certain  hours ; 
 
 What  fruitful  race  shall  fill  the  future  world; 
 
 Or  for  what  time  shall  this  round  building  stand  ; 
 What  magistrates,  what  kings  shall  keep  in  awe 
 Men’s  minds  with  bridle  of  the  eternal  law. 
 
 David.  Wade  not  too  far,  my  boy,  in  waves  too  deep : 
 The  feeble  eyes  of  our  aspiring  thoughts 
 
 D 
 
 32 
 
74 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Behold  things  present,  and  record  them  past, 
 
 But  things  to  come  exceed  our  human  reach, 
 
 And  are  not  painted  yet  in  angels’  eyes: 
 
 For  these  submit  thy  sense,  and  say, — “  Thou  Power! 
 That  now  art  framing  of  the  future  world, 
 
 Knowest  all  to  come, — not  by  the  course  of  heaven, 
 By. frail  conjecture  of  inferior  signs, 
 
 By  monstrous  floods,  by  flights  and  flocks  of  birds, 
 
 By  bowels  of  a  sacrificed  beast, 
 
 Or  by  the  figures  of  some  hidden  art, 
 
 But  by  a  true  and  natural  presage, 
 
 Laying  the  ground  and  perfect  architect 
 Of  all  our  actions  now.  before  thine  eyes, 
 
 From  Adam  to  the  end  of  Adam’s  seed. 
 
 O  Heaven,  protecting  weakness  with  thy  strength, 
 
 So  look  on  me,  that  1  may.  view  thy  face, 
 
 And  see  these  secrets  written  in  thy  brow. 
 
 O  sun !  come  dart  thy  rays  upon  my  moon, 
 
 That  now  mine  eyes,  eclipsed  to  the  earth, 
 
 May  brightly  be  refined  and  shine  to  heaven ; 
 Transform  me  from  this  flesh  that  I  may  live 
 Before  my  death  regenerate  with  Thee. 
 
 O  thou  great  God!  ravish  mine  earthly  sprite, 
 
 That  for  a  time  a  more  than  human  skill 
 May  find  the  organons  of  all  my  sense; 
 
 That  when  I  think,  thy  thoughts  may  be  my  guide, 
 And  when  I  speak  1  may  be  made  by  choice 
 The  perfect  echo  of  thy  heavenly  voice.” — 
 
 Thus  say,  my  son,  and  thou  shalt  have  them  all. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A  happy  end  excedelh  all  plesures  and  riches  of  the  world. 
 
 The  shining  season  here  to  some, 
 
 The  glory  in  the  worldes  sight, 
 llenowmed  fame  through  fortune  wonne, 
 
 The  glittering  gokle  the  eyes  delight, 
 
GRIMOALD — GASCOIGNE. 
 
 75 
 
 The  sensual  life  that  semes  so  sxvete, 
 The  heart  with  ioyfull  dayes  replete, 
 The  thing  whereto  ech  wight  is  thral. 
 The  happy  ende  excedeth  all. 
 
 NICHOLAS  GRIMOALD. 
 
 Wrote  between  1530—1550. 
 
 Translator  of  Cicero's  Offices,  Terence's  Comedies,  and  various 
 other  classical  works.  Author  of  the  Death  of  Cicero,  and  some 
 smaller  poetical  pieces. 
 
 Description  of  Vertue. 
 
 What  one  art  thou,  thus  in  torne  weed  yclad? 
 Vertue,  in  price  whom  auneient  sages  had. 
 
 Why  porely  ’ray’d?  for  fading  goodes  past  care. 
 
 Why  double  faced  ?  I  marke  ech  fortunes  fare. 
 
 This  bridle  what?  Mindes  rages  to  restraine. 
 
 Tooles  why  beare  you?  I  love  to  take  great  payne. 
 Why  winges?  I  teach  aboue  the  starres  to  dye. 
 
 Why  tread  you  death?  I  onely  cannot  dye. 
 
 GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 
 
 Died  1577. 
 
 Principal  Works: — Flowers,  Herbs,  Weeds,  Fruits  of  War  re,  &c. 
 
 Good  Morrow. 
 
 You  that  haue  spent  the  silent  night, 
 
 In  sleeps  and  quiet  rest, 
 
 And  ioye  to  see  the  cheerefull  lyght 
 That  ryseth  in  the  East: 
 
 n  2 
 
76 
 
 GASCOIGNE. 
 
 Now  cleare  your  voyce,  now  chere  your  hart, 
 Come  helpe  me  nowe  to  sing: 
 
 Eche  willing  wight  come  beare  a  part, 
 
 To  prayse  the  heauenly  King. 
 
 And  you  whome  care  in  prison  keepes, 
 
 Or  sickenes  doth  suppresse, 
 
 Or  secret  sorowe  breakes  your  sleepes, 
 
 Or  dolours  doe  distresse  : 
 
 Yet  beare  a  parte  in  dolefull  wise, 
 
 Yea  thinke  it  good  accorde, 
 
 And  exceptable  sacrifice, 
 
 Eche  sprite  to  prayse  the  Lorde. 
 
 The  dreadfull  night  with  darksomnesse, 
 Had  ouer  spread  the  light, 
 
 And  sluggish  sleepe  with  drowsynesse, 
 
 Had  ouer  prest  our  might : 
 
 A  glasse  wherin  you  may  beholde, 
 
 Eche  storme  that  stopes  our  breath, 
 
 Our  bed  the  graue,  our  clothes  lyke  molde, 
 And  sleepe  like  dreadfull  death. 
 
 Yet  as  this  deadly  night  did  laste, 
 
 But  for  a  little  space, 
 
 And  heauenly  daye,  nowe  night  is  past, 
 
 Doth  shewe  his  pleasaunt  face  : 
 
 So  must  we  hope  to  see  Gods  face, 
 
 At  last  in  heauen  on  hie, 
 
 When  we  haue  changed  this  mortall  place, 
 For  Immortalitie. 
 
 And  of  such  happes  and  heauenly  ioyes, 
 
 As  then  we  hope  to  holde, 
 
 All  earthly  siglites  and  worldly  toyes, 
 
 Are  tokens  to  beholde. 
 
 The  daye  is  like  the  daye  of  doome, 
 
 The  sunne,  the  Sonne  of  man, 
 
 The  skyes  the  lieauens,  the  earth  the  tombe 
 Wherein  we  rest  till  than. 
 
 The  Rainbowe  bending  in  the  skye, 
 Bedeckte  with  sundrye  hewes, 
 
GASCOIGNE. 
 
 77 
 
 Is  like  the  seate  of  God  on  hye, 
 
 And  seemes  to  tell  these  nevves : 
 
 That  as  thereby  he  promised, 
 
 To  drowne  the  world  no  more, 
 
 So  by  the  bloud  which  Christ  hath  shed, 
 He  will  our  helth  restore. 
 
 The  mistie  cloudes  that  fall  somtime, 
 And  ouercast  the  skyes, 
 
 Are  like  to  troubles  of  our  time, 
 
 Which  do  but  dymme  our  eyes : 
 
 But  as  suche  dewes  are  dryed  vp  quite, 
 When  Phoebus  shewes  his  face, 
 
 So  are  such  fansies  put  to  flighte, 
 
 Where  God  doth  guide  by  grace. 
 
 The  caryon  Crowe,  that  lothsome  beast, 
 Which  cryes  agaynst  the  rayne, 
 
 Both  for  hir  hewe  and  for  the  rest, 
 
 The  Deuill  resembleth  playne: 
 
 And  as  with  gonnes  we  kill  the  crowe, 
 
 For  spoyling  our  releefe, 
 
 The  Deuill  so  must  we  ouerthrowe 
 With  gonshote  of  beleefe. 
 
 The  little  byrdes  which  sing  so  swete, 
 Are  like  the  angelles  voyce, 
 
 Which  render  God  his  prayses  meete, 
 
 And  teache  vs  to  reioyce : 
 
 And  as  they  more  esteeme  that  myrth, 
 Than  dread  the  nights  anoy. 
 
 So  must  we  deeme  our  days  on  earth, 
 
 But  hell  to  heauenly  ioye. 
 
 Unto  which  Ioyes  for  to  attayne 
 God  graunt  vs  all  his  grace, 
 
 And  sende  vs  after  worldly  payne, 
 
 In  heauen  to  haue  a  place. 
 
 Where  wee  maye  still  enioye  that  light. 
 Which  neuer  shall  decaye  : 
 
 Lorde.  for  thy  mercy  lend  vs  might, 
 
 To  see  that  ioyfull  daye. 
 
GASCOIGNE. 
 
 78 
 
 Good,  Night. 
 
 When  thou  hast  spent  the  lingring  day 
 In  pleasure  and  delight, 
 
 Or  after  toyle  and  we  arte  waye. 
 
 Dost  seeke  to  rest  at  nighte: 
 
 Unto  thy  paynes  or  pleasures  past, 
 
 Adde  this  one  labour  yet, 
 
 Ere  sleepe  close  rp  thyne  eye  to  fast. 
 
 Do  not  thy  God  forget, 
 
 But  search e  within  thy  secret  thought. 
 What  deeds  did  thee  beta! : 
 
 And  it  thou  find  amisse  in  ought, 
 
 To  God  for  mercy  call. 
 
 Yea  though  thou  find  nothing  amisse-. 
 Which  thou  canst  cal  to  mind. 
 
 Yet  euer  more  remember  this, 
 
 There  is  the  more  behind  ; 
 
 And  thinke  how  well  so  euer  it  be. 
 
 That  thou  hast  spent  the  daye. 
 
 It  came  of  God,  and  not  of  thee. 
 
 So  to  direct  thy  waye.  ^ 
 
 Ihus  it  thou  trie  thy  dayly  deedes, 
 
 And  pleasure  in  this  payne, 
 
 Thy  life  shall  dense  thy  corne  from  weeds. 
 And  thine  shal  be  the  gaine  :• 
 
 But  if  thy  sinful!  sluggishe  eye* 
 
 Will  venter  for  to  winke. 
 
 Before  thy  wading  will  may  trye. 
 
 How  tar  thy  soule  maye  sinke, 
 
 Beware  and  wake,  for  else  thy  bed. 
 
 Which  soft  and  smoth  is  made, 
 
 May  heape  more  harm  vpon  thy  head. 
 
 Than  blowes  of  enmies  blade. 
 
 Thus  if  this  paine  procure  thine  ease. 
 
 In  bed  as  thou  doest  lye, 
 
 Perhaps  it  slrall  not  God  displease. 
 
 To  sing  thus  soberly; 
 
GASCOIGNE. 
 
 79 
 
 I  see  that  sleepe  is  lent  me  here, 
 
 To  ease  my  wearye  bones, 
 
 As  death  at  laste  shall  eke  appeere, 
 
 To  ease  my  greeuous  grones. 
 
 The  stretching  armes,  the  yauning  breath, 
 Which  I  to  bed  ward  vse, 
 
 Are  patternes  of  the  pangs  of  death, 
 
 When  life  will  me  refuse : 
 
 And  of  my  bed  eche  sundrye  part, 
 
 In  shaddowes  doth  resemble, 
 
 The  sundry  shapes  of  deth,  whose  dart 
 Shal  make  my  flesh  to  tremble. 
 
 My  bed  it  selfe  is  like  the  graue, 
 
 My  sheetes  the  winding  sheete, 
 
 My  clothes  the  mould  which  I  must  haue, 
 To  couer  me  most  meete  : 
 
 The  waking  cock  that  early  crowes 
 To  weare  the  night  awaye, 
 
 Puts  in  my  minde  the  trumpe  that  blowes 
 Before  the  latter  day. 
 
 And  as  I  ryse  up  lustily, 
 
 When  sluggish  sleepe  is  past, 
 
 So  hope  I  to  ryse  ioyfully, 
 
 To  iudgement  at  the  last. 
 
 Thus  wyll  I  wake,  thus  wyll  I  sleepe, 
 Thus  wyll  I  hope  to  ryse, 
 
 Thus  wyll  I  neither  waile  nor  weepe, 
 
 But  sing  in  godly  wyse. 
 
 My  bones  shall  in  this  bed  remaine, 
 
 My  soule  in  God  shall  trust, 
 
 By  whome  I  hope  to  ryse  againe 
 From  death  and  earthly  dust, 
 
80 
 
 SOUTHWELL. 
 
 ROBERT  SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Born  1560.  Executed  1595. 
 
 A  lew  small  pieces,  the  relics  of  numerous  compositions  in  verse 
 by  this  Author,  have  been  preserved,  which  are  peculiarly  pleasing. 
 
 > aSr?  Priest  anf  a  Jesuit,  with  conspiring  against 
 ueen  Elizabeth  s  Government,  yet  nothing  was  proved  against 
 
 »linV  W  1  wu6  fL;arl,cssl.y  avowed, — that  he  had  come  into  Eng- 
 and  to  preach  the  Catholic  Religion.  It  would  be  hard  to  con. 
 vince  any  enlightened  reader  that  the  Author  of  such  poems  as 
 the  following  was  a  traitor.  He  fell  a  martyr,  if  not  to  his  faith, 
 ta  the  persecuting  spirit  of  the  age  in  which'  he  lived. 
 
 Love  s  servile  Lot. 
 
 Love,  mistress  is  of  many  minds, 
 Yet  few  know  whom  they  serve. 
 They  reckon  least  how  little  Love 
 Their  service  doth  deserve. 
 
 The  will  she  robbeth  from  the  wit, 
 The  sense  from  reason’s  lore, 
 
 She  is  delightfull  in  the  rine, 
 Corrupted  in  the  core. 
 
 She  shroudeth  vice  in  vertue’s  vaile, 
 Pretending  good  in  ill, 
 
 She  offereth  joy,  affordeth  griefe, 
 
 A  kisse  where  she  doth  kill. 
 
 A  honey-shower  raines  from  her  lips, 
 Sweet  lights  shine  in  her  face, 
 
 She  hath  the  blush  of  virgine  kind, 
 The  mind  of  vipers  race. 
 
 May  never  was  the  Month  of  Love, 
 For  May  is  full  of  flowers  ; 
 
 But  rather  April!,  wet  by  kind, 
 
 For  Love  is  full  of  showers. 
 
 With  soothing  words,  inthralled  soules 
 She  chaines  in  servile  bands  ; 
 
SOUTHWELL 
 
 81 
 
 Her  eye  in  silence  has  a  speach 
 Which  eye  best  understands. 
 
 Like  Winter  rose  and  Summer  ise 
 Her  joyes  are  still  untimely; 
 
 Before  her  Hope,  behind  Remorse : 
 
 Faire  first,  in  fine  unseemely. 
 
 Moodes,  passions,  fancies,  jealous  fits, 
 Attend  upon  her  traine :  * 
 
 She  yeeldeth  rest  without  repose, 
 
 And  Heaven  in  hellish  paine. 
 
 Her  house  is  Sloth,  her  doore  Deceite, 
 And  slipperie  Hope  her  staires; 
 
 Unbashfull  Boldness  bids  her  guests. 
 
 And  every  Vice  repaires. 
 
 Her  dyet  is  of  such  delights 
 As  please  till  they  be  past; 
 
 But  then  the  poyson  kills  the  hart. 
 
 That  did  entise  the  taste. 
 
 Her  sleepe  in  Sinne  doth  end  in  Wrath, 
 Remorse  rings  her  awake ; 
 
 Death  cals  her  up,  Shapie  drives  her  out, 
 Despaires  her  up-shot  make. 
 
 Plow  not  the  seas,  sowe  not  the  sands. 
 Leave  off  your  idle  paine ; 
 
 Seeke  other  mistresse  for  your  mindes, 
 Love’s  service  is  in  vaine. 
 
 Scorn  not  the  Least . 
 
 Where  wards  are  weak,  and  foes  encountring  strong. 
 Where  mightier  do  assault  then  doe  defend, 
 
 The  feebler  part  puts  up  enforced  wrong, 
 
 And  silent  sees  that  speach  could  not  amend ; 
 
 Yet  higher  powers  must  tliinke,  though  they  repine, 
 When  sunne  is  set,  the  little  starres  will  shine. 
 
 n  3 
 
SOUTHWELL. 
 
 82 
 
 While  pike  do  range,  the  silly  tench  doth  flie, 
 
 And  crouch  in  privie  creekes,  with  smaller  fish* 
 l  et  pikes  are  caught  when  little  fish  goe  by, 
 
 Ihese  fleete  aflote,  while  those  doe  fill  the  dish  • 
 Ihere  is  a  time  even  for  the  wormes  to  creepe 
 And  sucke  the  dew  while  all  their  foes  doe  sleepe. 
 
 The  marline  cannot  ever  soare  on  high 
 Nor  greedie  grey-hound  still  pursue  the  chace, 
 
 I  lie  tender  larke  will  finde  a  time  to  flie, 
 
 And  fearlull  hare  to  runne  a  quiet  race. 
 
 He  that  high  growth  on  cedars  did  bestow, 
 
 Gave  also  lowly  mushrumps  leave  to  growe. 
 
 In  Haman’s  pompe  poor  Mordocheus  wept  • 
 
 Yet  God  did  turne  his  fate  upon  his  foe : 
 
 1  he  Lazar  pinde,  while  Dives  feast  was  kept 
 Yet  he  to  Heaven,  to  Hell  did  Dives  goe.  ’ 
 
 We  trample  grasse,  and  prize  the  flowers  of  May 
 1  et  grasses  greene,  when  flowers  doe  fade  away. 
 
 A  Vale  of  Tears. 
 
 A  vale  there  is,  en wrapt  in  dismal  shades, 
 
 Which  thick  with  mournful  pine  shrouds  from  the  sun 
 
 Y  here  hanging  cliffs  yield  short  and  narrow  glades 
 And  snowy  floods  with  broken  streams  do  run. 
 
 Y  here  ears  of  other  sounds  can  have  no  choice 
 But  various  blustering  of  the  stubborn  wind, 
 
 In  trees,  in  caves,  in  straits,  with  diverse  noise, 
 
 W  hich  now  doth  hiss,  now  howl,  now  roar  by  kind. 
 
 And  in  the  horror  of  this  fearful  quire. 
 
 Consists  the  music  of  this  doleful  place; 
 
 All  pleasant  birds  their  tunes  from  thence  retire, 
 
 Y  here  none  but  heavy  groans  have  any  space. 
 
 Besort  there  is  of  none  but  pilgrim-wights, 
 
 That  pass  with  trembling  foot  and  panting  heart, 
 ith  tenor,  cast  in  cold  and  shuddering  frights, 
 
 And  all  the  place  for  terror  framed  by  art. 
 
SOUTHWELL. 
 
 83 
 
 Yet.  Nature’s  work  it  is,  by  art  untouch’d ; 
 
 So  strait  indeed,  so  vast  unto  the  eye, 
 
 With  such  disorder’d  order  strangely  couch’d, 
 
 And  so,  with  pleasing  horror,  low  and  high, — 
 
 That  who  it  views  must  needs  remain  aghast 
 Much  at  the  work,  more  at  the  Maker’s  might ; 
 
 And  muse  how  Nature  such  a  plot  could  cast, 
 Where  nothing  seemed  wrong,  yet  nothing  right. 
 
 A  place  for  mated  minds,  an  only  bower, 
 
 Where  every  thing  doth  suit  a  pensive  mood ; 
 
 Earth  is  forlorn,  the  cloudy  sky  doth  lower ; 
 
 The  wind  weeps  here,  here  sighs,  here  cries  aloud. 
 
 The  struggling  flood  between  the  marble  groans, 
 Then  roaring  beats  upon  its  craggy  sides ; 
 
 A  little  off,  amid  the  pebble-stones, 
 
 With  bubbling  streams,  a  purling  noise,  it  glide's. 
 
 The  pines  thick-set,  high-grown,  and  ever  green, 
 Still  clothe  the  place  with  shade  and  mourning  veil; 
 Here  gaping  cliffs,  there  moss-grown  plain  is  seen ; 
 Here  Hope  doth  spring,  and  there  again  doth  quail. 
 
 All  pangs  and  heavy  passions  here  may  find 
 A  thousand  motives  suiting  to  their  griefs  ; 
 
 To  feed  the  sorrows  of  their  troubled  mind, 
 
 And  chace  away  Dame  Pleasure’s  vain  reliefs. 
 
 To  plaining  thoughts  this  vale  a  rest  may  be, 
 
 To  which  from  worldly  toils  they  may  retire, 
 
 Where  sorrow  springs  from  water,  stone  and  tree. 
 Where  every  thing  with  mourners  doth  conspire. 
 
 Sit  here,  my  Soul,  mourn  streams  of  tears  afloat, 
 Here  all  thy  sinful  foils,  alone,  recount ; 
 
 Of  solemn  tunes  make  thou  the  dolefull’st  note, 
 That  to  thy  ditty’s  dolour  may  amount. 
 
 When  echo  doth  repeat  thy  painful  cries, 
 
 Think  that  the  very  stones  thy  sins  bewray, 
 
 And  now  accuse  thee  with  their  sad  replies, 
 
 As  heaven  and  earth  shall,  in  the  latter  day. 
 
84 
 
 SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Let  former  faults  be  fuel  of  the  fire, 
 
 For  grief  in  limbeck  of  thy  soul  to  still ; 
 
 Thy  pensive  thoughts,  and  dumps  of  thy  desire, 
 And  vapour  tears  up  to  thine  eyes  at  will. 
 
 Let  tears  be  tunes,  and  pains  to  plaints  be  prest, 
 And  let  this  be  the  burthen  of  thy  song; 
 ‘‘Come,  deep  remorse,  possess  my  sinful  breast; 
 Delights,  adieu;  I  harbour’d  you  too  long.” 
 
 Godliness  with  Contentment  is  great  Gain, 
 
 IVIy  conscience  is  my  crown, 
 
 Contented  thoughts  my  rest; 
 
 My  heart  is  happy  in  itself. 
 
 My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 
 
 Enough,  I  reckon  wealth; 
 
 That  mean,  the  surest  lot, 
 
 That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt. 
 Too  low  for  envy’s  shot. 
 
 My  wishes  are  but  few, 
 
 All  easy  to  fuffill ; 
 
 I  make  the  limits  of  my  power. 
 
 The  bounds  unto  my  will. 
 
 I  feel  no  care  for  gold, 
 
 Well-doing  is  my  wealth; 
 
 My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is. 
 
 While  grace  affordeth  health. 
 
 Spare  diet  is  my  fare, 
 
 My  clothes  more  fit  than  fine; 
 
 I  know  I  feed  and  clothe  a  foe. 
 
 That,  pamper’d,  would  repine. 
 
 No  change  of  Fortune’s  calm 
 Can  cast  my  comforts  down  : 
 
 When  Fortune  smiles— I  smile  to  think 
 How  quickly  she  will  frown* 
 
SOUTHWELL. 
 
 85 
 
 And  when,  in  angry  mood, 
 
 She  proved  an  angry  foe, 
 
 Small  gain  I  found  to  let  her  come, 
 Less  loss,  to  let  her  go. 
 
 The  Image  of  Death. 
 
 These  stanzas  were  published  among  Southwell’s  Poems,  in  1595, 
 the  year  of  his  death,  but  they  hare  been  also  ascribed  to  Sutox 
 "Wastell,  Author  of  Microbiblion,  1629. 
 
 Before  my  face  the  picture  hangs, 
 
 That  daily  should  put  me  in  mind, 
 
 Of  those  cold  qualms  and  bitter  pangs, 
 
 That  shortly  I  am  like  to  find  : 
 
 But  yet,  alas !  full  little  I 
 Do  think  hereon  that  I  must  die. 
 
 I  often  look  upon  the  face, 
 
 Most  ugly,  grisly,  bare  and  thin ; 
 
 I  often  view  the  hollow  place, 
 
 Where  eyes  and  nose  had  sometime  been  ; 
 
 I  see  the  bones  across,  that  lie, 
 
 Yet  little  think  that  I  must  die. 
 
 I  read  the  label  underneath, 
 
 That  telleth  me  whereto  I  must ; 
 
 I  see  the  sentence  eke,  that  saith, 
 
 “  Remember  man,  that  thou  art  dust:” 
 
 But  yet,  alasl  how  seldom  I 
 Do  think  indeed,  that  I  must  die. 
 
 Continually,  at  my  bed’s  head, 
 
 An  hearse  doth  hang,  which  doth  me  telf, 
 
 That  I,  ere  morning,  may  be  dead, 
 
 Though  now  I  feel  myself  full  well : 
 
 But  yet,  alas  !  for  all  this,  I 
 
 Have  little  mind  that  I  must  die. 
 
 %  / 
 
 The  gown  which  I  do  use  to  wear, 
 
 The  knife  wherewith  I  cut  my  meat. 
 
 And  eke  that  old  and  ancient  chair, 
 
 Which  is  my  only  usual  seat  j 
 
86 
 
 SIDNEY. 
 
 All  these  do  tell  me  I  must  die. 
 
 And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 
 
 My  ancestors  are  turn’d  to  clay, 
 
 And  many  of  my  mates  are  gone, 
 
 My  youngers  daily  drop  away; 
 
 And  can  I  think  to  ’scape  alone? 
 
 *o,  no,  I  know  that  all  must  die, 
 
 And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 
 
 i 
 
 If  none  can  ’scape  Death’s  dreadful  dart, 
 It  rich  and  poor  his  beck  obey, 
 
 If  strong,  if  wise,  if  all  do  smart, 
 
 Then  I  to  scape  shall  have  no  way: 
 
 O  grant  me  grace,  my  God,  that  I 
 My  lite  may  mend,  sith  I  must  die. 
 
 SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 
 
 Born  1554.  Slain  at  the  Battle  of  Zutphen,  1586. 
 
 Principal  Works Pembroke's  Arcadia,  A  Defence  of  Poesie 
 
 Sonnets,  &c.  ’ 
 
 Farewell  to  Splendid  Follies. 
 
 Leave  me,  O  Love!  which  reachest  but  to  dust- 
 And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things 
 Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust  •' 
 Whatever'fades  but  fading  pleasure  brings.  * 
 
 Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
 To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedomes  be- 
 
 ,r,  “c  *  bfl’e?kef  tb®  cIouds>  and  opens  forth  the  light, 
 lhat  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 
 
 Oh!  take  fast  hold,  let  that  light  be  thy  guide 
 In  this  small  course  which  birth  drawes  out  of  death  • 
 And  tlnnke  how  ill  becometh  him  to  slide  ’ 
 
 Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
 
 1  hen,  farewell,  world,  thine  uttermost  I  see- 
 Jbteinal  Love!  maintain©  thy  life  in  me* 
 
VAUX, 
 
 87 
 
 LORD  VAUX. 
 Died  1522. 
 
 On  the  Instability  of  Youth. 
 
 [From  the  Paradise  of  Dayntie  Devises,  1576.] 
 
 When  I  look  back,  and  in  myself  behold 
 The  wandering  ways  that  youth  could  not  descry, 
 And  mark  the  fearful  course  that  youth  did  hold, 
 And  mete  in  mind  each  step  youth  stray’d  awry; 
 My  knees  I  bow,  and  from  my  heart  I  call, 
 
 O  Lord,  forget  these  sins  and  follies  all. 
 
 For  now  I  see  how  void  youth  is  of  skill, 
 
 I  also  see  his  prime-time  and  his  end  ; 
 
 I  do  confess  my  faults  and  all  my  ill, 
 
 And  sorrow  sore  for  that  I  did  offend ; 
 
 And  with  a  mind  repentant  of  all  crimes, 
 
 Pardon  I  ask  for  youth  ten  thousand  times. 
 
 Thou,  that  didst  grant  the  wise  king  his  request, 
 Thou,  that  in  whale  the  prophet  didst  preserve, 
 Thou,  that  forgavest  the  woundings  of  thy  breast, 
 Thou,  that  didst  save  the  thief  in  state  to  starve ; 
 Thou  only  God,  the  giver  of  all  grace, 
 
 Wipe  out  of  mind  the  path  of  youth’s  vain  race. 
 
 Thou,  that  by  power  to  life  didst  raise  the  dead, 
 Thou,  that  of  grace,  restoredst  the  blind  to  sight, 
 Thou,  that  for  love  thy  life  and  love  outbled, 
 
 Thou,  that  of  favour  madest  the  lame  go  right, 
 Thou,  that  canst  heal  and  help  in  all  essays, 
 Foregive  the  guilt  that  grew  in  youth’s  vaine  ways. 
 
 And  now,  since  I,  with  faith  and  doubtless  mind, 
 Do  tfy  to  Thee,  by  prayer  to’  appease  thine  ire; 
 And  since,  that  Thee  I  only  seek  to  find, 
 
 And  hope  by  faith  to’  attain  my  just  desire; 
 
 Lord,  mind  no  more  youth’s  error  and  unskill; 
 Enable  age  to  do  thy  holy'will. 
 
.  88 
 
 HUNIS. 
 
 WILLIAM  HUNIS. 
 
 Translated  various  Psalms  and  other  portions  of  Scripture  into 
 verse ; — wrote  also  some  original  poems  of  a  devotional  character, 
 under  the  title  of  “  A  Handfull  of  Honeysuckles,”  1585. 
 
 O  Iesu,  oft  it  grieveth  me. 
 
 And  troubleth  sore  my  mind, 
 
 That  I  so  weak  and  frail  am  found, 
 
 To  wander  with  the  blind. 
 
 O  Iesu  dear,  Thou  lasting  light, 
 
 Whose  brightness  doth  excell, 
 
 The  clearness  of  thy  beams  send  down 
 Within  my  heart  to  dwell. 
 
 O  Iesu,  quicken  Thou  my  soul, 
 
 That  it  may  cleave  to  Thee, 
 
 And  for  thy  painful  passion  sake, 
 
 Have  mercy  now  on  me. 
 
 Gray  Hairs. 
 
 These  heares  of  age  are  messengers, 
 Which  bidde  me  fast,  repent  and  pray  ; 
 They  be  of  death  the  harbingers, 
 
 That  dooth  prepare  and  dresse  the  way. 
 Wherefore  1  joy  that  you  may  see, 
 
 Upon  my  head  such  heares  to  be. 
 
 They  be  the  lines  that  lead  the  length, 
 How  farre  my  race  is  for  to  runne : 
 
 They  say  my  youth  is  fled  with  strength, 
 And  how  olde  age  is  weake  begunne. 
 The  which  I  feele,  and  you  may  see, 
 Upon  my  head  such  lines  to  be. 
 
 They  be  the  stringes  of  sober  sound, 
 Whose  musicke  is  harmonicall : 
 
 Their  tunes  declare  a  time  from  ground 
 I  came,  and  how  thereto  I  shall. 
 
GIFFORD. 
 
 89 
 
 Wherefore  I  joy  that  you  may  see. 
 
 Upon  my  head  such  stringes  to  be. 
 
 God  graunt  to  those  that  white  heares  have, 
 No  worse  them  take  then  I  have  ment: 
 That  after  they  be  layde  in  grave, 
 
 Their  soules  may  joy  their  lives  well  spent. 
 God  graunt  likewise  that  you  may  see, 
 
 Upon  your  head  such  heares  to  be. 
 
 HUMPHREY  GIFFORD. 
 
 A  Dream. 
 
 [From  “  a  Posie  of  Gilliflowers.”  London,  1580.] 
 
 Laid  in  my  quiet  bed  to  rest, 
 
 When  sleep  had  all  my  senses  drown’d, 
 Such  dreams  arose  within  my  breast, 
 
 As  did  with  fear  my  mind  confound. 
 
 Methought  I  wander’d  in  a  wood, 
 
 Which  was  as  dark  as  pit  of  hell; 
 
 In  midst  of  which  such  waters  stood, 
 
 That  where  to  pass  I  could  not  tell. 
 
 The  Lion,  Tyger,  Wolf  and  Bear, 
 
 There  thundered  forth  such  hideous  cries, 
 As  made  huge  echoes  in  the  air, 
 
 And  seem’d  almost  to  pierce  the  skies. 
 
 Long  vex’d  with  care  I  there  abode, 
 
 And  to  get  forth  I  wanted  power, 
 
 At  every  footstep  that  I  trod, 
 
 I  fear’d  some  beast  would  me  devour. 
 
 Abiding  thus,  perplex’d  with  pain, 
 
 This  case  within  myself  I  scann’d, 
 
 That  human  help  was  all  in  vain, 
 
 Unless  the  Lord  with  us  do  stand. 
 
90 
 
 GIFFORD. 
 
 \ 
 
 Then  falling  flat  upon  my  face, 
 
 In  humble  sort  to  God  I  pray’d, 
 
 That,  in  this  dark  and  doleful  place, 
 
 He  would  vouchsafe  to  be  mine  aid. 
 
 Arising  then,  a  wight  with  wings, 
 
 Of  ancient  years,  methinks  I  see  ; 
 
 A  burning  torch  in  hand  he  brings, 
 
 And  thus  began  to  speak  to  me. 
 
 “  That  God,  whose  aid  thou  didst  implore, 
 
 Hath  sent  me  hither  for  thy  sake ; 
 
 Pluck  up  thy  sprites,  lament  no  more, 
 
 With  me  thou  must  thy  journey  take.” 
 
 Against  a  huge  and  lofty  hill, 
 
 With  swiftest  pace,  methinks  we  go, 
 
 When  such  a  sound  mine  ears  did  fill, 
 
 As  moved  my  heart  to  bleed  for  woe. 
 
 Methought  I  heard  a  woeful  wight, 
 
 In  doleful  sort  pour  forth  great  plaints, 
 
 Whose  cries  did  so  my  mind  affright, 
 
 That  even  with  fear  each  member  faints. 
 
 “  Fie,”  quoth  my  guide,  “  what  means  this  change 
 Pass  on  apace  with  courage  bold ; 
 
 Hereby  doth  stand  a  prison  strange ; 
 
 Where  wondrous  things  thou  mayst  behold.” 
 
 Then  came  we  to  a  fort  of  brass, 
 
 Where,  peering  through  strong  iron  grates, 
 
 We  saw  a  woman  sit,  alas! 
 
 Which  ruefully  bewail’d  her  fates. 
 
 Her  face  was  far  more  white  than  snow, 
 
 And  on  her  head  a  crown  she  ware, 
 
 Beset  with  stones,  that  glister’d  so 
 A  thousand  torches  had  been  there. 
 
 Her  song  was— “  Woe  !  and  well-away  ! 
 
 What  torments  here  do  I  sustain!” 
 
 — A  new  mishap  did  her  dismay, 
 
 Which  more  and  more  increased  her  pain. 
 
GIFFORD. 
 
 91 
 
 An  ugly  creature,  all  in  black, 
 
 Ran  to  her  seat  and  flung  her  down, 
 
 Who  rent  her  garments  from  her  back, 
 
 And  spoil'd  her  of  her  precious  crown. 
 
 This  crown  he  placed  upon  his  head, 
 
 And  leaving  her  in  doleful  ease, 
 
 With  swiftest  pace  away  he  fled, 
 
 And  darkness  came  in  all  the  place. 
 
 Then  quoth  my  Guide,  “  Note  well  my  talk, 
 And  thou  shalt  hear  this  dream  declared  : 
 The  wood,  in  which  thou  first  didst  walk, 
 Unto  the  world  may  be  compared. 
 
 “  The  roaring  beasts  plainly  express 
 The  sundry  snares  in  which  we  fall : 
 
 This  Gaol  is  named  Deep-Distress, 
 
 In  which  Dame  Virtue  lies  in  thrall. 
 
 “  She  is  the  wight,  which  here  within 
 So  dolefully  doth  howl  and  cry ; 
 
 The  foe  is  called  Deadly-Sin, 
 
 That  proffer’d  her  this  villainy. 
 
 “  My  name  is  Time,  whom  God  hath  sent 
 To  warn  thee  of  thy  Soul’s  decay  ; 
 
 In  Time  therefore  thy  sins  repent, 
 
 Lest  Time  from  thee  be  ta’en  away.” 
 
 As  soon  as  he  these  words  had  said. 
 
 With  swiftest  pace  away  he  flies; 
 
 And  I  thereat  was  so  afraid, 
 
 That  drowsy  sleep  forsook  mine  eyes. 
 
92 
 
 TUSSER — KINWELMERSHE. 
 
 THOMAS  TUSSER. 
 
 Born  1523.  Died  1580. 
 
 Author  of  “  Five  Hundred  Points  of  Good  Husbandry.” 
 
 Advice  for  every  Season. 
 
 In  health,  to  be  stirring  shall  profit  thee  best ; 
 In  sickness,  hate  trouble;  seek  quiet  and  rest; 
 Remember  thy  soul;  let  no  fancy  prevail; 
 
 Make- ready  to  God-ward;  let  faith  never  quail; 
 The  sooner  thyself  thou  submittest  to  God, 
 
 The  sooner  He  ceaseth  to  scourge  with  his  rod. 
 
 FRANCIS  KINWELMERSHE. 
 
 [One  of  the  Writers  in  the  Paradise  of  Dayntie  Devises,  1576.] 
 
 All  things  are  Vaine. 
 
 Although  the  purple  morning  brage* 
 
 In  brightness  of  the  sunne, 
 
 As  though  he  had  of  chased  night 
 A  glorious  conquest  wonne : 
 
 The  time  by  day,  gives  place  againe 
 To  force  of  drowsy  night, 
 
 And  every  creature  is  constrain’d 
 To  change  his  lusty  plight. 
 
 Of  pleasure  all  that  here  we  taste ; 
 
 We  feele  the  contrary  at  laste. 
 
 In  spring,  though  pleasant  Zephirus 
 Hath  frutefull  earth  inspired, 
 
 And  Nature  hath  each  bush,  each  branch, 
 With  blossomes  brave  attired : 
 
KINWELMERSHE. 
 
 93 
 
 Yet  fruites  and  flowers,  as  buds  and  blomes 
 Ful  quickly  withered  be, 
 
 When  stormie  Winter  comes  to  kill 
 The  Sommers  jollitie. 
 
 By  time  are  got,  by  time  are  lost, 
 
 All  thinges  wherein  we  pleasure  most. 
 
 Although  the  Seas  so  calmely  glide, 
 
 As  daungers  none  appeare, 
 
 And  dout  of  storm es,  in  skie  is  none, 
 
 King  Phoebus  shines  so  cleare: 
 
 Yet  when  the  boistrous  windes  breake  out, 
 
 And  raging  waves  do  swel, 
 
 The  seely  barke  now  heaves  to  heaven, 
 
 Now  sinkes  againe  to  hel, 
 
 Thus  change  in  every  thing  we  see, 
 
 And  nothing  constant  seemes  to  be. 
 
 Who  floweth  most  in  worldly  wealth 
 Of  wealth  is  most  unsure, 
 
 And  he  that  cheefely  tastes  of  joy, 
 
 Doth  sometime  woe  endure  : 
 
 Who  vaunteth  most  of  numbred'freendes, 
 Foregoe  them  all  he  must, 
 
 The  fairest  flesh  and  liveliest  bloud, 
 
 Is  turn’d  at  length  to  dust. 
 
 Experience  gives  a  certain  ground, 
 
 That  certain  here,  is  nothing  found. 
 
 Then  trust  to  that  which  aye  remaines, 
 
 The  blisse  of  heavens  above, 
 
 Which  Time,  nor  Fate,  nor  Wind,  nor  Scorme, 
 Is  able  to  remove. 
 
 Trust  to  that  sure  celestiall  rocke, 
 
 That  rests  in  glorious  throne, 
 
 That  hath  bene,  is,  and  must  be  stil, 
 
 Our  anker-hold  alone. 
 
 The  world  is  but  a  vanitie, 
 
 In  heaven  seeke  we  our  suretie. 
 
 / 
 
94 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 [From  the  Paradise  of  Dayntie  Devises.] 
 
 Death  a  due  Debt. 
 
 To  die,  Dame  Nature  did  man  frame ; 
 Death  is  a  thing  most  perfect  sure, 
 
 We  ought  not  Nature’s  works  to  blame, 
 She  made  no  thing  still  to  endure : 
 
 That  law  she  made  when  we  were  born, 
 That  thence  we  should  return  again ; 
 
 To  render  right  we  must  not  scorn  ; 
 
 Death  is  due  debt ;  it  is  no  pain. 
 
 Death  hath  in  all  the  earth  a  right; 
 
 His  power  is  great,  it  stretcheth  far ; 
 
 No  Lord,  no  Prince  can  ’scape  his  might ; 
 
 No  creature  can  his  duty  bar: 
 
 The  wise,  the  great,  the  strong,  the  high, 
 The  chaste,  the  meek,  the  free  of  heart, 
 The  rich,  the  poor, — who  can  deny  ? — 
 Have  yielded  all  unto  his  dart. 
 
 If  thou  have  led  thy  life  aright, 
 
 Death  is  the  end  of  misery ; 
 
 If  thou  in  God  hast  thy  delight, 
 
 Thou  diest  to  live  eternally : 
 
 This  thought  makes  man  to  God  a  friend, 
 This  thought  doth  banish  pride  and  sin, 
 This  thought  doth  bring  man  in  the  end, 
 When  he  of  Death  the  field  shall  win. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 95 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A  Christmas  Carol. 
 
 [From  Byrd’s  Collection,  1587.] — The  original  has  a  burthen  of 
 Lullaby  attached  to  it,  with  some  other  superfluities  here  omit- 
 ted.  If  read  with  due  allowance,  it  cannot  be  denied,  that  this 
 lay  of  “  the  old  age,”  has  a  charm  of  wild  and  touching  simple¬ 
 ness  about  it,  and  “  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love,”  in  a 
 manner  which  no  art  could  imitate  in  modern  phrase.  The  very 
 theme  is  one  which  a  living  poet  durst  not  approach. 
 
 My  sweet  little  Babie,  what  meanest  Tliou  to  cry  ? 
 
 Be  still,  my  blessed  Babe,  though  cause  Thou  hast  to 
 mourne, 
 
 Whose  blood  most  innocent  the  cruell  king  hath  sworne ; 
 
 And  lo  !  alas  !  behold  !.  what  slaughter  he  doth  make, 
 
 Shedding  the  blood  of  infants  all,  sweet  Saviour,  for 
 thy  sake : 
 
 A  King  is  born,  they  say,  which  King  this  king  would 
 kill: 
 
 Oh !  woe,  and  woefull  heavy  day  when  wretches  have 
 their  will ! 
 
 Three  kings,  this  King  of  kings  to  see,  are  come  from 
 farre, 
 
 To  each  unknowen,  with  offerings  great,  by  guiding  of 
 a  starre ; 
 
 As  Shepherds  heard  the  song,  which  angels  bright  did 
 sing, 
 
 Giving  all  glory  unto  God  for  coming  of  this  King, 
 
 Which  must  be  made  awray, — king  Herod  would  Him 
 kill; 
 
 Oh !  woe,  and  woefull  heavy  day  when  wretches  have 
 their  will ! 
 
 Loe  !  my  little  Babe,  be  still,  lament  no  more : 
 
 From  furie  Thou  shalt  step  aside,  lielpe  have  we  still 
 in  store; 
 
96 
 
 PARKER. 
 
 We  heavenly  warning  have,  some  other  soyle  to  seeke; 
 
 From  death  must  fly  the  Lord  of  life,  as  lamb  both 
 milde  and  meeke ; 
 
 Thus  must  my  Babe  obey  the  king  that  would  him 
 kill : 
 
 Oh  !  woe,  and  woefull  heavy  day  when  wretches  have 
 their  will ! 
 
 But  Thou  shalt  live  and  reigne,  as  David  hath  forsay’d, 
 
 And  prophets  prophecied :  *  * 
 
 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 
 
 ******** 
 
 Whom  caytives  none  can  ’traye,(a)  whom  tyrants  none 
 can  kill : 
 
 Oh  !  joy,  and  joyfull,  happy  day,  when  wretches  want 
 their  will ! 
 
 ARCHBISHOP  PARKER. 
 
 Born  1504.  Died  1575. 
 
 [From  the  version  of  Psalms  which  bears  his  name.] 
 Psalm  XCII. 
 
 A  joyfull  thing  to  man  it  is, 
 
 The  Lord  to  celebrate  ; 
 
 To  thy  good  name,  O  God  so  hye, 
 
 Due  laudes  to  modulate. 
 
 To  preach  and  shew  thy  gentleness, 
 
 At  early  mornyng  lyght ; 
 
 Thy  truth  of  word  to  testifie, 
 
 All  whole  by  length  of  nyght. 
 
 Upon  the  psalm,  the  decachord, 
 
 Upon  the  pleasant  lute, 
 
 (<*)  Betray. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 97 
 
 On  sounding,  good,  sweete  instruments, 
 With  shaumes,  with  harpe  and  flute. 
 
 For  Thou  hast  joy’d  my  fearfull  hart, 
 
 O  Lord,  thy  workes  to  see, 
 
 (And  I  with  praise  will  full  rejoice,) 
 The  handy-workes  of  Thee. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Virtue  immoveable. 
 
 [From  the  Paradise  of  Dayntie  Devises,  1576.] 
 
 The  sturdy  rock,  for  all  his  strength, 
 
 By  raging  seas,  is  rent  in  twaine  ; 
 
 The  marble  stone  is  pearst  at  length, 
 
 With  littel  drops  of  drizzling  raine  : 
 
 The  ox  doth  yield  unto  the  yoke, 
 
 The  steele  obeyeth  the  hammer-stroke. 
 
 The  stately  stagge,  that  seemes  so  stout, 
 By  yalping  hounds  at  bay  is  set; 
 
 The  swiftest  bird,  that  flies  about, 
 
 Is  caught  at  length  in  fowler’s  net: 
 
 The  greatest  fish,  in  deepest  brooke, 
 
 Is  soon  deceived  by  subtill  hooke. 
 
 Yea  man  himselfe,  unto  whose  will 
 All  thinges  are  bounden  to  obey, 
 
 For  all  his  wit  and  worthie  skill, 
 
 Doth  fade  at  length  and  fall  away : 
 
 There  nothing  is  but  Time  doth  waste ; 
 The  heavens,  the  eartlie  consume  at  last. 
 
 But  Virtue  sits,  triumphing  still 
 Upon  the  throne  of  glorious  fame; 
 
 Though  spiteful  death  man’s  body  kill, 
 
 Yet  hurts  he  not  his  vertuous  name : 
 
 By  life  or  death  what  so  betides, 
 
 The  state  of  virtue  never  slides. 
 
98 
 
 WHITNEY. 
 
 GEFFREY  WHITNEY. 
 
 He  published,  in  Holland,  “  Emblemes  and  other  Devises,  gath¬ 
 ered,  Englished,  and  moralized,  and  diverse  newly  Devised."  The 
 Dedication  to  Robert,  Earle  of  Leycester,  is  dated  158o.  This 
 curious  volume  is  now  become  very  rare :  a  perfect  Copy  is  seldom 
 indeed  to  be  found,  many  of  the  prints  are  admirably  executed  and 
 highly  characteristic  of  the  subjects.  The  following  lines  introduce 
 the  “  Emblemes.” 
 
 D.  0.  M. 
 
 Since  man  is  frail e,  and  all  his  thoughtes  are  sinne, 
 And  of  him  selfe  he  can  no  good  inuent, 
 
 Then  euerie  one,  before  they  oughte  beginne, 
 Should  call  on  God,  from  whome  all  grace  is  sent: 
 So,  I  beseeche,  that  he  the  same  will  sende, 
 That,  to  his  praise  I  maie  beginne,  and  ende. 
 
 Truth  delivered  from  the  Dungeon . 
 
 Motto.  Veritas  temporis  Filia. 
 
 Three  furies  fell,  which  turne  the  world  to  ruthe. 
 
 Both  Enuie,  Strife,  and  Slaunder,  heare  appeare, 
 
 In  dungeon  darke  they  longe  inclosed  Truthe, 
 
 But  Time  at  lengthe,  did  loose  his  daughter  deare, 
 And  setts  alofce,  that  sacred  ladie  brighte, 
 
 Whoe  things  longe  hidd,  reueales,  and  bringes  to 
 lighte. 
 
 Thoughe  Strife  make  fier,  thoughe  Enuie  eate  hir  harte, 
 The  innocent  though  Slaunder  rente,  and  spoile : 
 
 Yet  Time  will  comme,  and  take  this  ladie’s  parte, 
 And  breake  her  bandes,  and  bring  her  foes  to  foile. 
 Dispaire  not  then,  thoughe  Truthe  be  hidden  ofte, 
 Bycause  at  lengthe,  shee  shall  bee  sett  alofte. 
 
WHITNEY. 
 
 99 
 
 Humility  becometh  Christian  Preachers. 
 
 Motto.  Non  tibi,  scd  Religioni. 
 
 The  pastors  good,  that  doe  gladd  tidinges  preache, 
 The  godlie  sorte,  with  reuerence  do  imbrace : 
 
 Though  they  he  men,  yet  since  Godds  worde  they 
 teache, 
 
 Wee  honor  them,  and  giue  them  higheste  place, 
 Imbassadors  of  princes  of  the  earthe, 
 
 Haue  royall  Seates,  thoughe  base  they  are  by  birthe. 
 
 Yet,  if  throwghe  pride  they  doe  themselues  forgett, 
 And  make  accompte  that  honor,  to  be  theires  : 
 
 And  doe  not  marke  within  whose  place  they  sett, 
 
 Let  them  behowlde  the  asse,  that  Isis  beares, 
 
 Whoe  thowghte  the  men  to  honor  him,  did  kneele, 
 And  staied  therfore,  till  he  the  staffe  did  feele. 
 
 For,  as  he  pass’d  with  Isis  throughe  the  streete, 
 
 And  bare  on  backe,  his  holie  rites  about, 
 
 The’  ^Egyptians  downe  fell  prostrate  at  his  feete, 
 Whereat,  the  asse,  grewe  arrogante  and  stowte, 
 
 Then  saide  the  guide  :  oh  foole  !  not  vnto  thee, 
 Theise  people  bowe,  but  vnto  that  they  see  ! 
 
 The  Lame  and.  the  Blynde . 
 
 Motto.  Mutuum  auxilium. 
 
 The  blynde  did  beare  the  lame  vppon  his  backe, 
 
 The  burthen  did  directe  the  bearor’s  waies : 
 
 With  mutuall  helpe,  they  seru’d  eche  other’s  lacke, 
 And  euery  one,  their  frendly  league  did  praise  : 
 
 The  lame  lente  eies,  the  blynde  did  lend  his  feete, 
 And  so  they  safe,  did  passe  both  feeble  and  streete. 
 
 Some  lande  aboundes,  yet  hathe  the  same  her  wante, 
 Some  yeeldes  her  lacke,  and  wantes  the  other’s  store : 
 No  man  so  ritche,  but  is  in  some  thinge  scante, 
 
 The  greate  estate  must  not  dispise  the  pore: 
 
 e  2 
 
100 
 
 WHITNEY. 
 
 Hee  workes,  and  toyles,  and  makes  his  shoulders 
 beare, 
 
 The  ritche  agayne,  giues  foode,  and  clothes  to  weare. 
 
 So  without  poore,  the  ritche  are  like  the  lame  : 
 
 And  without  ritche,  the  poore  are  like  the  blynde : 
 
 Let  ritche  lend  eies,  the  poore  his  legges  wil  frame. 
 Thus  shoulde  yt  bee.  For  so  the  Lorde  assign  d, 
 Whoe  at  the  first,  for  mutuall  frendship  sake, 
 
 Not  all  gaue  one,  but  did  this  difference  make. 
 
 Whereby,  with  trade,  and  intercourse,  in  space, 
 
 Arid  borrowinge  beare,  and  lendinge  there  agayne  : 
 Such  loue,  such  truthe,  such  kyndnes,  shoulde  take 
 place, 
 
 That  frendshipp  with  societie  should  raigne  : 
 
 The  prouerbe  saieth,  one  man  is  deemed  none, 
 
 And  life  is  deathe,  where  men  doo  liue  alone. 
 
 The  Shroud. 
 
 The  Princes  greate,  and  Monarches  of  the  earthe, 
 Whoe,  while  they  liu’de,  the  worlde  might  not  suffice. 
 Yet  can  they  claime,  by  greatnesse  of  their  birthe, 
 
 To  beare  from  hence,  when  nature  life  denies, 
 
 Noe  more  then  they,  who  for  releife  did  pyne, 
 Which  is  but  this,  a  shrouding  sheete  of  twyne. 
 
 Thoughe  fewe  there  bee,  while  they  doe  flourishe  heerc, 
 That  doe  regarde  the  place  whereto  they  muste: 
 
 Yet,  thoughe  theire  pride  like  Lucifer’s  appeere, 
 
 They  shalbee  sure  at  lengthe  to  turne  to  duste  : 
 
 The  Prince,  the  Poore,  the  Prisoner,  and  the  slaue, 
 They  all  at  lengthe  are  summon’de  to  their  graue. 
 
 But,  hee  that  printes  this  deepelie  in  Ids  minde, 
 Althoughe  he  set  in  mightie  Caesar’s  chaire. 
 
 Within  this  life,  shall  contentation  finde, 
 
 When  carelesse  men,  ofte  die  in  great  dispaire: 
 
WHITNEY. 
 
 101 
 
 * 
 
 Then,  let  them  blusshe  that  woulde  be  Christians 
 thought, 
 
 And  faile  hereof,  sith  Turkes  the  same  haue  taught. 
 
 As  Saladine,  that  was  the  Souldaine  greate 
 Of  Babilon,  when  deathe  did  him  arreste, 
 
 His  subiectes  charg’d,  when  he  shoulde  leaue  his  seate, 
 And  life  resigne,  to  tyme,  and  nature’s  heste : 
 
 They  should  prepare,  his  shyrte  vppon  a  speare, 
 And  all  about  forthwith  the  same-  shoulde  beare. 
 
 Throughe  Aschalon,  the  place  where  he  deceaste, 
 With  trumpet  sounde,  and  Heralte  to  declare, 
 
 Theise  wordes  alowde  :  The  Kinge  of  all  the  Easte , 
 Great  Saladine,  behoulde  is  stripped  bare  : 
 
 Of  kingdomes  large,  and  lyes  in  house  of  claie , 
 
 And  this  is  all ,  he  bare  with  him  awaie . 
 
 God  and  Mammon. 
 
 Motto.  Ne?no  potest  duobus  dominis  seruire. 
 
 The  Emblem  represents  a  man  carrying  the  world  on  his  back , 
 and  at  the  same  time  dragging  after  him  the  two  stone  tables  of 
 the  law,  which  are  fastened  with  cords  to  one  of  his  feet. 
 
 Here,  man  who  first  should  heauenlie  thinges  attaine, 
 And  then,  to  world  his  sences  should  incline: 
 
 First,  vndergoes  the  worlde  with  might  and  maine, 
 And  then  at  foote  doth  drawe  the  lawes  deuine. 
 
 Thus  God  hee  beares,  and  Mammon  in  his  rninde: 
 But  Mammon  first,  and  God  doth  come  behinde. 
 
 Oh  worldlinges  fonde,  that  ioyne  these  two  so  ill, 
 
 The  league  is  nought,  throwe  doune  the  world  with 
 speede : 
 
 Take  vp  the  lawe,  according  to  his  will ; 
 
 First  seeke  for  heauen,  and  then  for  worldly  neede. 
 But  those  that  first  their  worldlie  wishe  doe  serue, 
 Their  gaine  is  losse,  and  seeke  their  soules  to  sterue. 
 
102 
 
 WHITNEY. 
 
 The  Pilgrim. 
 
 Motto.  Superest  quod  supra  est. 
 
 The  Emblem  represents  a  Pilgrim  leaving  the  world  (a  geogra¬ 
 phical  globe)  behind,  and  travelling  towards  the  symbol  of  the 
 divine  name,  in  glory,  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  scene. 
 This  print  so  much  resembles  the  old  one  in  Bunyan’s  Pilgrim's 
 Progress,  where  Christian  leaves  the  City  of  Destruction,  and 
 sets  out  for  the  Wicket-Gate  which  is  in  view,  that  one  might 
 be  tempted  almost  to  imagine,  that  this  very  emblem,  and  the 
 accompanying  verses,  first  suggested  the  idea  of  that  extraordi¬ 
 nary  allegory. 
 
 Adewe  deceiptfull  worlde,  thy  pleasures  I  detest : 
 
 Nowe,  others  with  thy  showes  delude ;  my  hope  in  heauen 
 doth  rest. 
 
 Inlarged  as  Jollometh. 
 
 Even  as  a  flower,  or  like  vnto  the  grasse, 
 
 Which  now  dothe  stande,  and  straight  with  sithe  dothe 
 fall; 
 
 So  is  our  state :  now  here,  now  hence  wee  passe : 
 
 For  Time  attendes  with  shredding  sithe  for  all. 
 
 And  Deathe  at  lengthe,  both  oulde,  and  yonge,  doth 
 strike : 
 
 And  into  dust  dothe  turne  vs  all  alike. 
 
 Yet,  if  wee  marke  how  swifte  our  race  dothe  ronne, 
 And  waighe  the  cause,  why  wee  created  bee: 
 
 Then  shall  wee  know,  when  that  this  life  is  donne, 
 Wee  shall  bee  sure  our  countrie  right  to  see. 
 
 For,  here  wee  are  but  straurigers,  that  must  flitte  : 
 The  nearer  home,  the  nearer  to  the  pitte. 
 
 O  happie  they,  that  pondering  this  arighte, 
 
 Before  that  here  their  pilgrimage  bee  past, 
 
 Resigne  this  worlde  :  and  marche  with  all  their  mighte 
 Within  that  pathe,  that  leades  where  ioyes  shall  last. 
 And  whilst  they  maye,  there,  treasure  vp  their  store, 
 Where,  without  rust,  it  lastes  for  euermore. 
 
 This  worlde  must  chaunge:  That  worlde,  shall  still 
 indure. 
 
 Here,  pleasures  fade :  There,  shall  they  endlesse  bee; 
 
ASCHAM. 
 
 103 
 
 Here,  man  doth  sinne  :  And  there,  hee  shalbee  pure  : 
 Here,  deathe  hee  tastes:  And  there,  shall  neuer  die. 
 Here,  hathe  hee  griefe  :  And  there  shall  ioyes  pos- 
 sesse, 
 
 As  none  hath  seene,  nor  anie  harte  can  gesse. 
 
 ROGER  ASCHAM. 
 
 Born  1515.  Died  1568. 
 
 Author  of  “  The  Schoolmaster,”  a  work  once  highly  celebrated. 
 He  was  classical  tutor  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
 
 On  a  favourite  Pupil  deceased > 
 
 The  following  stanzas  are  thus  quaintly  introduced  by  their  learned 
 Author : — “  If  in  any  cause,  a  man  may  without  offence  to 
 God  speak  somewhat  ungodly,  surely  it  was  some  grief  unto  me, 
 to  see  him  hie  so  hastily  to  God,  as  he  did.  A  court  full  of  such 
 young  gentlemen,  were  rather  a  Paradise  than  a  court  upon 
 earth.  And  though  I  never  had  a  poetical  head,  to  make  any 
 verse  in  any  tongue,  yet  either  love  or  sorrow,  or  both,  did  wring 
 out  of  me  then,  certain  careful  thoughts  of  my  good  will  towards 
 him ;  which  in  my  mourning  for  him  fell  forth  more  by  chance, 
 than  either  by  skill  or  use,  into  this  kind  of  misorderly  metre. 
 
 Mine  own  John  Whitney,  now  farewell, 
 
 Since  Death  doth  part  us  twain  ; 
 
 No  death,  but  parting  for  a  while, 
 
 Whom  life  shall  join  again. 
 
 Therefore,  my  Heart,  cease  sighs  and  sobs, 
 
 Cease  sorrow’s  seed  to  sow; 
 
 Whereof  no  gain,  but  greater  grief, 
 
 And  hurtful  care  may  grow. 
 
 Yet  when  I  think  upon  such  gifts 
 Of  grace  as  God  him  lent; 
 
 My  loss  his  gain,  I  must  awhile 
 With  joyful  tears  lament. 
 
104 
 
 ascham. 
 
 Young  years  to  yield  such  fruit,  at  court, 
 W  here  seed  of  vice  is  sown, 
 
 Is  sometimes  read,  in  some  place  seen, 
 Among  us  seldom  known. 
 
 His  life  he  led  Christ’s  love  to  learn, 
 With  will  to  work  the  same; 
 
 He  lead  to  know,  and  knew  to  live. 
 
 And  lived  to  praise  his  name. 
 
 So  fast  a  friend,  so  foe  to  few. 
 
 So  good  to  every  wight; 
 
 I  may  well  wish,  but  scarcely  hope 
 Again  to  have  in  sight. 
 
 '  **  y  ... 
 
 The  greater  joy  his  life  to  me, 
 
 His  death  the  greater  pain  : 
 
 His  life  in  Christ  so  Surely  set. 
 
 Doth  glad  my  heart  again. 
 
 Thus  God  the  good,  while  they  be  good, 
 Doth  take,  and  leave  us  ill ; 
 
 That  we  should  mend  our  sinful  life, 
 
 In  life  to  tarry  still. 
 
 Thus  we  well  left,  he  better  reft, 
 
 In  heaven  to  take  his  place, 
 
 That  by  like  life  and  death,  at  last, 
 
 We  may  obtain  like  grace. 
 
 Mine  own  John  Whitney,  again  farewell, 
 Awhile  thus  part  we  twain ; 
 
 \V  horn  pain  doth  part  on  earth,  in  heaven 
 Great  joy  shall  join  again. 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 105 
 
 EDMUND  SPENSER. 
 
 Born  1553.  Died  1598. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — The  Faerie  Queene,  the  Shepheard’s  Callen¬ 
 der,  Miscellanies.  Spenser  is  so  rich,  and  even  redundant,  in  illus¬ 
 tration,  on  every  theme  which  he  celebrates,  that  it  has  been  found 
 necessary  to  give  extracts  only  from  the  pieces  which  bear  the 
 titles  following. 
 
 The  Rubles  of  Time. 
 
 I  saw  an  image,  ail  of  massie  gold, 
 
 Placed  on  high  upon  an  altare  faire, 
 
 That  all,  which  did  the  same  from  farre  beholde, 
 Might  worship  it,  and  fall  on  lowest  staire. 
 
 Not  that  great  idoll  might  with  this  compaire, 
 
 To  which  the’  Assyrian  tyrant  would  have  made 
 The  holie  brethren  falslie  to  have  praid. 
 
 But  the’  altare,  on  the  which  this  image  staid, 
 
 Was  (O  great  pitie!)  built  of  brittle  clay, 
 
 That  shortly  the  foundation  decaid, 
 
 With  showres  of  Heaven  and  tempests  worne  away; 
 Then  downe  it  fell,  and  low  in  ashes  la}', 
 
 Scorned  of  everie  one,  which  by  it  went; 
 
 That  I,  it  seeing,  dearelie  did  lament. 
 
 Next  unto  this  a  statelie  towre  appeared, 
 
 Built  all  of  richest  stone  that  might  bee  found. 
 
 And  nigh  unto  the  Heavens  in  height  upreared, 
 
 But  placed  on  a  plot  of  sandie  ground: 
 
 Not  that  great  towre,  which  is  so  much  renownd 
 For  tongues  confusion  in  Holie  Writ, 
 
 King  Ninus  worke,  might  be  compar’d  to  it. 
 
 But,  O  vaine  labours  of  terrestriall  wit, 
 
 That  buildes  so  strong! ie  on  so  frayle  a  soyle, 
 
 As  with  each  storme  does  fall  away,  and  flit, 
 
 And  gives  the  fruit  of  all  your  travailes  toyle, 
 
 To  be  the  pray  of  Tyme,  and  Fortune’s  spoyle ! 
 
 I  saw  this  towre  fall  sodainelie  to  dust, 
 
 That  nigh  with  griefe  thereof  my  heart  was  brust. 
 
 e  3 
 
106 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Ihen  did  I  see  a  pleasant  paradize, 
 
 tull  of  sweete  flowres  and  daintiest  delights, 
 
 Such  as  on  Earth  man  could  not  more  devize. 
 
 With  pleasures  choyce  to  feed  his  cheerefull  sprights 
 Not,  that,  which  Merlin  by  his  magicke  slights 
 Made  for  the  gentle  squire,  to  entertaine 
 His  fayre  Belphoebe,  could  this  gardine  staine. 
 
 But,  O  short  pleasure  bought  with  lasting  pairie ! 
 Why  will  hereafter  anie  flesh  delight 
 In  earthlie  bliss,  and  ioy  in  pleasures  vaine, 
 
 Since  that  I  sawe  this  gardine  wasted  quite, 
 
 That  where  it  was  scarce  seemed  anie  sight? 
 
 That  I,  which  once  that  beautie  did  beholde, 
 
 Could  not  from  teares  my  melting  eyes  with-holde. 
 
 Soone  after  this  a  giaunt  came  in  place, 
 
 Of  wondrous  powre,  and  of  exceeding  stature, 
 
 That  none  durst  vewe  the  horror  of  his  face, 
 
 Yet  was  he  milde  of  spach,  and  meeke  of  nature: 
 
 Not  he,  which  in  despight  of  his  Creatour 
 With  railing  tearmes  defied  the  Iewish  hoast, 
 
 Might  with  this  mightie  one  in  hugenes  boast; 
 
 For  from  the  one  he  could  to  the’  other  coast’ 
 Stretch  his  strong  thighes,  and  the’  ocean  overstridc, 
 And  reach  his  hand  into  his  enemies  hoast. 
 
 But  see  the  end  of  pompe  and  fleshlie  pride  ! 
 
 One  of  his  feete  unwares  from  him  did  slide, 
 
 That  downe  hee  fell  into  the  deepe  abisse, 
 
 Where  drownd  with  him  is  all  his  earthlie  blisse. 
 
 Then  did  I  see  a  bridge,  made  all  of  golde, 
 
 Over  the  sea  from  one  to  other  side, 
 
 Withouten  prop  or  pillour  it  to’  upholde, 
 
 But  like  the  coloured  rainbowe  arched  wide : 
 
 Not  that  great  arche,  which  Traian  edifide, 
 
 To  be  a  wonder  to  all  age  ensuing, 
 
 Was  matchable  to  this  in  equall  vewing. 
 
 But  (ah  !)  what  bootes  it  to  see  earthlie  thing 
 In  glorie,  or  in  greatnes  to  excell, 
 
 Sith  time  doth  greatest  things  to  ruine  bring? 
 
 This  goodlie  bridge,  one  foote  not  fastned  well, 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 107 
 
 Gan  faile,  and  all  the  rest  downe  shortlie  fell, 
 Ne  of  so  brave  a  building  ought  remained, 
 That  griefe  thereof  my  spirite  greatly  pained. 
 
 ^  Much  was  I  troubled  in  my  heavie  spright, 
 
 At  sight  of  these  sad  spectacles  forepast, 
 
 That  all  my  senses  were  bereaved  quight, 
 
 And  I  in  minde  remained  sore  agast, 
 
 Distraught  twixt  feare  and  pitie ;  when  at  last 
 1  heard  a  voyce,  which  loudly  to  me  called, 
 
 That  with  the  suddein  shrill  I  was  appalled. 
 
 “  Behold”  (said  it)  “  and  by  ensample  see, 
 
 That  all  is  vanitie  and  griefe  of  minde, 
 
 Ne  other  comfort  in  this  world  can  be, 
 
 But  hope  of  Heaven,  and  heart  to  God  inclinde; 
 For  all  the  rest  must  needs  be  left  behinde:” 
 With  that  it  bad  me,  to  the  other  side 
 To  cast  mine  eye,  where  other  sights  I  spide. 
 
 Upon  that  famous  river’s  further  shore, 
 
 There  stood  a  snowie  swan  of  heavenly  hiew, 
 And  gentle  kinde,  as  ever  fowle  afore  ; 
 
 A  fairer  one  in  all  the  goodlie  crew 
 Of  white  Strimonian  brood  might  no  man  view: 
 There  he  most  sweetly  sung  the  prophecie 
 Of  his  owne  death  in  doleful!  elegie. 
 
 At  last,  when  all  his  mourning  melodie 
 He  ended  had,  that  both  the  shores  resounded, 
 Feeling  the  fit  that  him  forewarnd  to  die, 
 
 With  loftie  flight  above  the  Earth  he  bounded. 
 And  out  of  sight  to  highest  Heaven  mounted, 
 Where  now  he  is  become  an  heavenly  signe ; 
 There  now  the  ioy  is  his,  here  sorrow  mine. 
 
 Whilest  thus  I  looked,  loe  !  adowne  the  lee, 
 
 I  saw  an  harpe  stroong  all  with  silver  twyne, 
 And  made  of  golde  and  costlie  yvorie, 
 Swimming,  that  whilome  seemed  to  have  been 
 The  harpe,  on  which  Dan  Orpheus  was  seene 
 Wylde  beasts  and  forrests  after  him  to  lead, 
 
 But  was  the’  harpe  of  Philisides  now  dead. 
 
108 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 At  length  out  of  the  river  it  was  reard 
 And  borne  above  the  cloudes  to  be  divin’d, 
 
 W  hilst  all  the  way  most  heavenly  noyse  was  heard 
 Of  the  strings,  stirred  with  the  warbling  wind, 
 
 I  hat  wrought  both  ioy  and  sorrow  in  my  mind  : 
 
 So  now  in  Heaven  a  signe  it  doth  appeare, 
 
 The  Ilarpe  well  knowne  beside  the  Northern  Beare. 
 
 • 
 
 Soone  after  this  I  saw  on  the’  other  side, 
 
 A  curious  coffer  made  of  Heben  wood, 
 i  hat  in  it  did  most  precious  treasure  hide, 
 Exceeding  all  this  baser  worldes  good: 
 
 Yet  through  the  overflowing  of  the  flood 
 It  almost  drowned  was,  and  done  to  nought, 
 ihat  sight  thereof  much  griev’d  my  pensive  thought. 
 At  length,  when  most  in  perill  it  was  brought, 
 
 Two  angels,  downe  descending  with  swift  flight, 
 
 Out  of  the  swelling  streame  it  lightly  caught, 
 
 And  twixt  their  blessed  armes  it  carried  quiglit 
 Above  the  reach  ofanie  living  sight: 
 
 So  now  it  is  transform’d  into  that  starre, 
 
 In  which  all  heavenly  treasures  locked  are. 
 
 On  Heavenly  Love. 
 
 In  this  and  the  following  Hymn  on  Heavenly  Beauty  may  be 
 found  the  germ  of  “  Paradise  Lost,”  including  (as  the  seed  does 
 the  plant  m  miniature)  the  epitome  of  Milton’s  " 
 merit. " 
 
 great  argu- 
 
 Love,  lift  me  up  upon  thy  golden  wings 
 from  this  base  world  unto  thy  Heaven’s  high t, 
 
 \\  here  I  may  see  those  admirable  things 
 Which  there  thou  workest  by  thy  soveraine  might, 
 Farre  above  feeble  reach  of  earthly  sight, 
 
 That  I  thereof  an  heavenly  hymne  may  sing 
 Into  the  God  ol  Eove,  high  Heaven’s  king. 
 
 Before  this  world’s  great  frame,  in  which  all  things 
 Are  now  containd,  lound  any  being  place, 
 
 Ere  flitting  lime  could  wag  his  eyas  wings 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 109 
 
 About  that  midi  tie  bound  which  doth  embrace 
 The  rolling  Spheres,  and  parts  there  houres  by  space, 
 That  high  Eternall  Powre,  which  now  doth  mo\e 
 In  all  these  things,  moved  in  it  selte  by  love. 
 
 It  loved  it  selfe,  because  it  selfe  was  taire ; 
 
 ;  For  fair  is  loved ;)  arid  of  it  self  begot . 
 
 Like  to  it  selfe  his  eldest  sonne  and  hetre, 
 Eternall,  pure,  and  voide  of  sintull  blot, 
 
 The  firstling  of  his  ioy,  in  whom  no  lot 
 Of  love’s  dislike  or  pride  was  to  be  found, 
 Whom  he  therefore  with  equal  honour  ciownd. 
 
 With  him  he  raigned,  before  all  time  prescribed, 
 
 In  endlesse  glorie  and  immortall  might,  _ 
 
 Together  with  that  Third  from  them  derived, 
 
 Most  wise,  most  holy,  most  almightie  Spnght. 
 
 Whose  kingdomes  throne  no  thoughts  of  earthly  wight 
 Can  comprehend,  much  lesse  my  trembling  veise 
 With  equall  words  can  hope  it  to  reherse. 
 
 Yet  being  pregnant  still  with  powrefull  grace, 
 
 And  full  of  fruitfull  Love,  that  loves  to  get 
 Things  like  himselfe,  and  to  enlarge  his  race, 
 
 His  second  brood,  though  not  of  powre  so  great, 
 
 Yet  full  of  beautie,  next  lie  did  beget, 
 
 An  infinite  increase  of  angels  bright,^ 
 
 AH  glistring  glorious  in  their  Maker  s  light. 
 
 To  them  the  Heaven’s  illimitable  hight,  . 
 
 (Not  this  round  Heaven,  which  we  from  hence  behold, 
 Adornd  with  thousand  lamps  of  burning  light. 
 
 And  with  ten  thousand  gemmes  of  sliyning  gold,) 
 
 He  gave  as  their  inheritance  to  hold, 
 
 That  they  might  serve  him  in  eternal  bliss, 
 
 And  be  partakers  of  those  ioyes  of  his. 
 
 There  they  in  their  trinall  triplicities 
 About  him  wait,  and  on  his  will  depend, 
 
 Either  with  nimble  wings  to  cut  the  skies, 
 
 When  he  them  on  his  messages  doth  send, 
 
 Or  on  his  owne  dread  presence  to  attend, 
 
110 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Where  they  behold  the  glorie  of  his  light, 
 
 And  carol  1  hymnes  of  love  both  day  and  night. 
 
 lioth  clay  and  night  is  unto  them  all  one; 
 
 For  he  his  beames  doth  unto  them  extend, 
 
 I  hat  darknesse  there  appeareth  never  none; 
 
 .Ne  hath  tlieir  day,  ne  hath  their  blisse,  an  end, 
 
 !)Ut  theie  their  termelesse  time  in  pleasure  spend; 
 Ne  ever  should  their  happinesse  decay, 
 
 Had  not  they  dared  their  Lord  to  disobay. 
 
 But  prjde,  impatient  of  long  resting  peace, 
 
 Did  puffe  them  up  with  greedy  bold  ambition, 
 
 1  hat  they  gan  cast  their  state  how  to  increase 
 Above  the  fortune  of  their  first  condition, 
 
 And  sit  in  God’s  own  seat  without  commission  : 
 
 The  brightest  angel,  even  the  child  of  light, 
 
 Drew  millions  more  against  their  God  to  fight. 
 
 The’  Almighty,  seeing  their  so  bold  assay, 
 
 Kindled  the  flame  of  his  consuming  yre, 
 
 And  with  his  onely  breath  them  blew  away 
 l  iorn  Ileaven  s  high t,  to  which  they  did  aspyre, 
 
 1  o  deepest  Hell,  and  lake  of  damned  fyre, 
 
 W  here  they  in  darknesse  and  dread  horror  dwell, 
 Hating  the  happie  light  from  which  they  fell. 
 
 But  that  Eternall  Fount  of  love  and  grace, 
 
 Still  flowing  forth  his  goodnesse  unto  all, 
 
 Now  seeing  left  a  waste  and  emptie  place 
 In  his  wyde  pallace,  through  those  angels’  fall, 
 
 Cast  to  supply  the  same,  and  to  enstall 
 A  new  unknowen  colony  therein, 
 
 Whose  root  from  earths  basegroundworke  should  begin. 
 
 Therefore  of  clay,  base,  vile,  and  next  to  nought, 
 
 Yet  form’d  by  wondrous  skill,  and  by  his  might, 
 According  to  an  heavenly  patterne  wrought, 
 
 Which  he  had  fashiond  in  his  wise  foresight, 
 
 He  man  did  make,  and  breathed  a  living  spright 
 Into  his  face,  most  beautifull  and  fayre, 
 
 Lndewd  with  wisedome’s  riches,  heavenly,  rare. 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 ill 
 
 Such  lie  him  made,  that  he  resemble  might 
 Himselfe,  as  mortall  thing  immortall  could; 
 
 Him  to  be  lord  of  every  living  wight 
 He  made  by  love  out  of  his  owne  like  mould, 
 
 In  whom  he  might  his  mightie  selfe  behould ; 
 
 For  love  doth  love  the  thing  beloved  to  see. 
 
 That  like  it  selfe  in  lovely  shape  may  bee. 
 
 But  man,  forgetfull  of  his  Maker’s  grace, 
 
 No  lesse  than  angels,  whom  he  did  ensew, 
 
 Fell  from  the  hope  of  promist  heavenly  place, 
 Into  the  mouth  of  Death,  to  sinners  dew, 
 
 And  all  his  olf-spring  into  thraldome  threw, 
 Where  they  for  ever  should  in  bonds  remaine, 
 
 Of  never-dead  yet  ever  dying  paine. 
 
 Till  that  great  Lord  of  Love,  which  him  at  first 
 Made  of  meere  love,  and  after  liked  well, 
 
 Seeing  him  lie  like  creature  long  accurst 
 In  that  deep  horror  of  despeyred  Hell, 
 
 Him,  wretch,  in  doole  would  let  no  longer  dwell, 
 But  cast  out  of  that  bondage  to  redeeme, 
 
 And  pay  the  price,  all  were  his  debt  extreeme. 
 
 Out  of  the  bosome  of  eternall  blisse, 
 
 In  which  he  reigned  with  his  glorious  syre, 
 
 He  downe  descended,  like  a  most  demisse 
 And  abiect  thrall,  in  fleshe’s  fraile  attyre, 
 
 That  he  for  him  might  pay  sinne’s  deadly  hyre, 
 And  him  restore  unto  that  happie  state 
 In  which  he  stood  before  his  haplesse  fate. 
 
 In  flesh  at  first  the  guilt  committed  was, 
 Therefore  in  flesh  it  must  be  satisfyde ; 
 
 Nor  spirit,  nor  angel,  though  they  man  surpass, 
 Could  make  amends  to  God  for  man’s  misguyde, 
 But  onely  man  himselfe,  who  selfe  did  slyde : 
 
 So,  taking  flesh  of  sacred  virgin’s  wombe, 
 
 For  man’s  deare  sake  he  did  a  man  become. 
 
 And  that  most  blessed  bodie,  which  was  borne 
 Without  all  blemish  or  reprochfull  blame, 
 
 He  freely  gave  to  be  both  rent  and  torne 
 
112 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Of  cruell  hands,  who  with  despightfull  shame 
 lievjrhng  him,  that  them  most  vile  became, 
 
 At  length  him  nayled  on  a  gailow-tree, 
 
 And  slew  the  iust  by  most  uniust  decree. 
 
 <)  blessed  Well  of  Love  !  O  Floure  of  Grace  ! 
 
 O  glorious  Pdorning-Starre  !  O  Lampe  of  Light 
 Most  lively  image  of  thy  Father’s  face, 
 
 Eternal  King  of  Glorie,  Lord  of  Might, 
 
 Meeke  Lambe  of  God,  before  all  worlds  behight, 
 Mow  can  we  thee  requite  for  all  this  good  ? 
 
 Or  what  can  prize  that  thy  most  precious  blood  ? 
 
 Yet  nought  thou  ask’st  in  lieu  of  all  this  love, 
 But  love  of  us,  for  guerdon  of  thy  paine  : 
 
 Ay  me!  what  can  us  lesse  than  that  behove? 
 Had  he  required  life  for  us  againe, 
 
 Had  it  beene  wrong  to  ask  his  owne  with  gaine? 
 He  gave  us  life,  he  it  restored  lost ; 
 
 Then  life  were  least,  that  us  so  little  cost. 
 
 But  he  our  life  hath  left  unto  us  free, 
 
 Free  that  was  thrall,  and  blessed  that  was  band; 
 Ne  ought  demaunds  but  that  we  loving  bee, 
 
 As  he  himselfe  hath  loved  us  afore. hand, 
 
 And  bound  therto  with  an  eternall  band, 
 
 Him  first  to  love  that  was  so  dearely  bought, 
 
 And  next  our  brethren,  to  his  image  wrought. 
 
 With  all  thy  hart,  with  all  thy  soule  and  mind, 
 Thou  must  him  love,  and  his  beheasts  embrace; 
 All  other  loves,  with  which  the  world  doth  blind 
 "VVeake  fancies,  and  stirre  up  affections  base, 
 
 Thou  must  renounce  arid  utterly  displace. 
 
 And  give  thy  selfe  unto  him  full  and  free, 
 
 That  full  and  freely  gave  himselfe  to  thee. 
 
 Then  shalt  thou  feelc  thy  spirit  so  possest, 
 
 And  ravisht  with  devouring  great  desire 
 Of  his  dear  selfe,  that  shall  thy  feeble  brest 
 Inflame  with  love,  and  set  thee  all  on  fire 
 W  ith  burning  zeale,  through  every  part  entire, 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 113 
 
 That  in  no  earthly  thing  thou  shalt  delight, 
 
 But  in  his  sweet  and  amiable  sight. 
 
 Thenceforth  all  world’s  desire  will  in  thee  dye, 
 And  all  Earthe’s  glorie,  on  which  men  do  gaze, 
 Seeme  durt  and  drosse  in  thy  pure-sighted  eye, 
 Compared  to  that  celestiall  beautie’s  blaze, 
 
 Whose  glorious  beames  all  fleshly  sense  doth  daze 
 With  admiration  of  their  passing  light, 
 
 Blinding  the  eyes,  and  lumining  the  spright. 
 
 Then  shall  thy  ravisht  soul  inspired  bee 
 With  heavenly  thoughts,  farre  above  humane  skill, 
 And  thy  bright  radiant  eyes  shall  plainely  see 
 The’  idee  of  his  pure  glorie  present  still 
 Before  thy  face,  that  all  thy  spirits  shall  fill 
 With  sweete  enragement  of  celestiall  love, 
 
 Kindled  through  sight  of  those  faire  things  above. 
 
 On  Heavenly  Iieaulie. 
 
 Rapt  with  the  rage  of  mine  own  ravisht  thought, 
 Through  contemplation  of  those  goodly  sights, 
 
 And  glorious  images  in  Heaven  wrought, 
 
 Whose  wondrous  beauty,  breathing  sweet  delights, 
 Do  kindle  love  in  high  concerted  uprights  j 
 1  faine  to  tell  the  things  that  I  behold, 
 
 But  feele  my  wits  to  fade,  and  tongue  to  fold. 
 
 Vouchsafe  then,  O  thou  most  Almightie  Spright ! 
 From  whom  all  guifts  of  wit  and  knowledge  flow, 
 To  shed  into  my  breast  some  sparkling  light 
 Of  thine  eternall  truth,  that  I  may  show 
 Some  little  beames  to  mortall  eyes  below 
 Of  that  immortall  Beautie,  there  with  thee, 
 
 Which  in  my  weake  distraughted  mynd  I  see ; — 
 
 That  with  the  glorie  of  so  goodly  sight 
 
 The  hearts  of  men,  which  fondly  here  admyre 
 
 Faire  seeming  shevves,  and  feed  on  vaine  delight, 
 
114 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Transported  with  celestiall  desyre 
 
 Ot  those  faire  formes,  may  lift  themselves  up  hyer, 
 
 And  learne  to  love,  with  zealous  humble  dewty, 
 
 '  he*  Eternall  Fountaine  of  that  heavenly  beauty. 
 
 Beginning  then  below,  with  the’  easie  vew 
 Of  this  base  world,  subiect  to  fleshly  eye, 
 
 From  thence  to  mount  aloft,  by  order  dew, 
 
 To  contemplation  of  the’  immortall  sky; 
 
 Of  the  soare  faulcon  so  I  learne  to  flye, 
 
 1  hat  flags  a  while  her  fluttering  wings  beneath, 
 
 Till  she  her  selfe  for  stronger  flight  can  breath. 
 
 Then  looke,  who  list  thy  gazefull  eyes  to  feed 
 With  sight  of  that  is  faire,  looke  on  the  frame 
 Of  this  wyde  universe,  and  therein  reed 
 The  endlesse  kinds  of  creatures,  which  by  name 
 Thou  canst  not  count,  much  less  their  natures’  aime ; 
 All  which  are  made  with  wondrous  wise  respect, 
 
 And  all  with  admirable  beautie  deckt. 
 
 First,  the  Earth,  on  adamantine  pillers  founded 
 Amid  the  sea,  engirt  with  brasen  bands ; 
 
 Then  the  aire  still  flitting,  but  yet  firmely  bounded 
 On  everie  side,  with  pyles  of  flaming  brands, 
 
 Never  consumed,  nor  quencht  with  mortall  hands  ; 
 And,  last,  that  mightie  shining  cristall  wall, 
 Wherewith  he  hath  encompassed  this  all. 
 
 Looke  thou  no  further,  but  affixe  thine  eye 
 On  that  bright  shynie  round  still  moving  masse, 
 
 The  house  of  blessed  God,  which  men  call  skye, 
 
 All  sowd  with  glistring  stars  more  thicke  then  grasse. 
 Whereof  each  other  doth  in  brightnesse  passe, 
 
 But  those  two  most,  which,  ruling  night  and  day, 
 
 As  king  and  queene,  the  Heavens’  empire  sway; 
 
 And  tell  me  then,  what  hast  thou  ever  seene 
 That  to  their  beautie  may  compared  bee, 
 
 Or  can  the  sight  that  is  most  sharpe  and  keene 
 Endure  their  captain’s  flaming  bead  to  see? 
 
 How  much  lesse  those,  much  higher  in  degree, 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 115 
 
 And  so  much  fairer,  and  much  more  then  these, 
 
 As  these  are  fairer  then  the  land  and  seas? 
 
 For  farre  above  these  Heavens,  which  here  we  see, 
 Be  others  farre  exceeding  these  in  light, 
 
 Not  bounded,  not  corrupt,  as  these  same  bee, 
 
 But  infinite  in  largenesse  and  in  bight, 
 
 Unmoving,  uncorrupt,  and  spotlesse  bright, 
 
 That  need  no  sunne  to’  illuminate  their  spheres, 
 But  their  owne  native  light,  farre  passing  theirs. 
 
 Faire  is  the  Heaven  where  happy  soules  have  place 
 In  full  enioyment  of  felicitie, 
 
 Whence  they  doe  still  behold  the  glorious  face 
 Of  the  Divine  Eternall  Maiestie  : 
 
 More  faire  is  that,  where  those  idees  on  hie 
 Enraunged  be,  which  Plato  so  admyred, 
 
 And  pure  intelligences  from  God  inspyred. 
 
 Yet  fairer  is  that  Heaven,  in  which  do  raine 
 The  soveraigne  powres  and  migbtie  potentates, 
 Which  in  their  High  protections  doe  containe 
 All  mortall  princes  and  imperiall  states ; 
 
 And  fayrer  yet,  whereas  the  royall  seates 
 And  heavenly  dominations  are  set, 
 
 From  whom  all  earthly  governance  is  fet. 
 
 Yet  farre  more  faire  be  those  bright  cherubins, 
 Which  all  with  golden  wings  are  overdight, 
 
 And  those  eternall  burning  seraphins, 
 
 Which  from  their  faces  dart  out  fierie  light; 
 
 Yet  fairer  than  they  both,  and  much  more  bright, 
 Be  the’  angels  and  archangels,  which  attend 
 On  God’s  owne  person,  without  rest  or  end. 
 
 Cease  then,  my  tongue  !  and  lend  unto  my  mynd 
 Leave  to  bethinke  how  great  that  beautie  is, 
 Whose  utmost  parts  so  beautifull  I  fynd; 
 
 How  much  more  those  essentiall  parts  of  his, 
 
 His  truth,  his  love,  his  wisedome,  and  his  bliss, 
 His  grace,  his  doome,  his  mercy,  and  his  might, 
 By  which  he  lends  us  of  himselfe  a  sight ! 
 
116 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Those  unto  all  he  daily  doth  display, 
 
 And  shew  himselfe  in  the’  image  of  his  grace, 
 
 As  in  a  looking-glasse,  through  which  he  may 
 Be  scene  of  all  his  creatures  vile  and  base, 
 
 1  hat  are  unable  else  to  see  his  face, 
 
 Uis  glorious  face,  which  glistereth  else  so  bright. 
 That  the’  angels  selves  can  not  endure  his  sight. 
 
 But  we,  fraile  wights  !  whose  sight  cannot  sustaine 
 The  Sun’s  bright  beames  when  he  on  us  doth  shyne. 
 But  that  their  points  rebutted  backe  againe 
 Are  duld,  how  can  we  see  with  feeble  eyne 
 The  glorie  of  that  Maiestie  divine, 
 
 In  sight  of  whom  both  Sun  and  Moone  are  darke, 
 Compared  to  his  least  resplendent  sparke? 
 
 The  meanes,  therefore,  which  unto  us  is  lent 
 Him  to  behold,  is  on  his  workes  to  looke, 
 
 Which  he  hath  made  in  beauty  excellent, 
 
 And  in  the  same,  as  in  a  brasen  booke, 
 
 To  read  enregistred  in  every  nooke 
 
 His  goodnesse,  which  his  beautie  doth  declare; 
 
 For  all  that’s  good  is  beautifull  and  faire. 
 
 Thence  gathering  plumes  of  perfect  speculation, 
 
 To  impe  the  wings  of  thy  high  flying  mynd, 
 
 Mount  up  aloft  through  heavenly  contemplation, 
 
 From  this  darke  world,  whose  damps  the  soule  do  blynd, 
 And,  like  the  native  brood  of  eagles  kynd, 
 
 On  that  bright  Sunne  of  Glorie  fixe  thine  eyes, 
 
 Clear’d  from  grosse  mists  of  fraile  infirmities. 
 
 Humbled  with  feare  and  awfull  reverence, 
 
 Before  the  footestoole  of  his  Maiestie 
 
 Throw  thy  selfe  downe,  with  trembling  innocence, 
 
 Ne  dare  looke  up  with  corruptible  eye 
 On  the  dred  face  of  that  Great  Deity, 
 
 For  feare,  lest  if  he  chaunce  to  look  on  thee, 
 
 Thou  turne  to  nought,  and  quite  confounded  be. 
 
 But  lowly  fall  before  his  rnercie  seate, 
 
 Close  covered  with  the  Lam  he’s  integrity 
 
SPENSER. 
 
 117 
 
 From  the  iust  wrath  of  his  avengefull  threate 
 That  sits  upon  the  righteous  throne  on  hy; 
 
 His  throne  is  built  upon  eternity, 
 
 More  firm  and  durable  than  steele  or  brasse, 
 
 Or  the  hard  diamond,  which  them  both  doth  passe. 
 
 His  scepter  is  the  rod  of  Righteousnesse, 
 
 With  which  he  bruseth  all  his  foes  to  dust, 
 
 And  the  great  dragon  strongly  doth  represse, 
 
 Under  the  rigour  of  his  judgment  iust ; 
 
 His  seate  is  Truth,  to  which  the  faithfull  trust, 
 
 From  whence  proceed  her  beames  so  pure  and  bright, 
 That  all  about  him  sheddeth  glorious  light : 
 
 Light,  farre  exceeding  that  bright  blazing  sparke 
 Which  darted  is  from  Titan’s  flaming  head, 
 
 That  with  his  beames  enlumineth  the  darke 
 And  dampish  air,  wherby  all  things  are  red; 
 
 Whose  nature  yet  so  much  is  marvelled 
 Of  mortall  wits,  that  it  doth  much  amaze 
 The  greatest  wisards  which  thereon  do  gaze. 
 
 But  that  immortall  light,  which  there  doth  shine, 
 
 Is  many  thousand  times  more  bright,  more  cleare, 
 More  excellent,  more  glorious,  more  divine, 
 
 Through  which  to  God  all  mortall  actions  here, 
 
 And  even  the  thoughts  of  men,  do  plaine  appeare ; 
 For  from  the’  Eternall  Truth  it  doth  proceed, 
 Through  heavenly  vertue  which  her  beames  doe  breed. 
 
 With  the  great  glorie  of  that  wondrous  light 
 His  throne  is  all  encompassed  around, 
 
 And  hid  in  his  owne  brightnesse  from  the  sight 
 Of  all  that  looke  thereon  with  eyes  unsound ; 
 
 And  underneath  his  feet  are  to  be  found 
 Thunder,  and  lightning,  and  tempestuous  fyre, 
 
 The  instruments  of  his  avenging  yre. 
 
 There  in  his  bosome  Sapience  doth  sit, 
 
 The  soveraine  dearling  of  the  Deity, 
 
 Clad  like  a  queene  in  royall  robes,  most  fit 
 For  so  great  powre  and  peerelesse  maiesty, 
 
 And  all  with  gemmes  and  iew'els  gorgeously 
 
118 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 Adornd,  that  brighter  than  the  starres  appeare 
 And  make  her  native  brightness  seem  more  cleare. 
 
 Both  Heaven  and  Earth  obey  unto  her  will, 
 
 And  all  the  creatures  which  they  both  containe; 
 
 of  her  fulnesse  which  the  world  doth  fill 
 they  all  partake,  and  do  in  state  remaine 
 As  their  great  Maker  did  at  first  ordaine, 
 
 I hrough  observation  other  high  beheast, 
 
 By  which  they  first  were  made,  and  still  increast. 
 
 Hie  fairnesse  of  her  face  no  tongue  can  tell  • 
 r  or  she  the  daughters  of  all  women’s  race,  ’ 
 
 And  angels  eke,  in  beautie  doth  excell, 
 
 Sparkled  on  her  from  God’s  owne  glorious  face. 
 And  more  increast  by  her  owne  goodly  grace, 
 
 I  hat  it  doth  farre  exceed  all  human  thought, 
 
 Ne  can  on  Earth  compared  be  to  ought. 
 
 Let  angels,  which  her  goodly  face  behold 
 And  see  at  will,  her  soveraigne  praises  sing, 
 
 And  those  most  sacred  mysteries  unfold 
 Ot  that  faire  love  of  mightie  Heaven’s  King- 
 Enough  is  me  to’  admyre  so  heavenly  thing  * 
 
 And,  being  thus  with  her  huge  love  possest* 
 
 In  the’  only  wonder  of  her  selfe  to  rest. 
 
 But  whoso  may,  thrise  bappie  man  him  hold, 
 
 Of  all  on  earth  whom  God  so  much  doth  grace 
 And  lets  his  owne  beloved  to  behold; 
 
 For  in  the  view  of  her  celestiall  face  ’ 
 
 All  ioy,  all  blisse,  all  happinesse,  have  place- 
 Ne  ought  on  Earth  can  want  unto  the  wight 
 Who  of  her  selfe  can  win  the  wishfull  sight. 
 
 Ah,  then,  my  hungry  soul !  which  long  hast  fed 
 On  idle  fancies  of  thy  foolish  thought, 
 
 And,  with  false  beautie’s  flattring  bait  misled, 
 
 Hast  after  vaine  deceiptfull  shadowes  sought, 
 
 Which  all  are  fled,  and  now  have  left  thee  nought 
 But  late  repentance  through  thy  follies  prief; 
 
 Ah  !  ceasse  to  gaze  on  matter  of  thy  grief  ;-l 
 
MONTGOMERY. 
 
 119 
 
 And  looke  at  last  up  to  that  Soveraine  Light, 
 
 From  whose  pure  beams  all  perfect  beauty  springs, 
 That  kindleth  love  in  every  godly  spright, 
 
 Even  the  love  of  God ;  which  loathing  brings 
 Of  this  vile  world  and  these  gay-seeming  things; 
 With  whose  sweet  pleasures  being  so  possest, 
 
 Thy  straying  thoughts  henceforth  for  ever  rest. 
 
 ALEXANDER  MONTGOMERY. 
 
 A  Scottish  Poet  of  the  sixteenth  century,  very  popular  in  his 
 day.  His  principal  performance  is  “  The  Cherrie  and  the  Slae,” 
 an  allegory  of  wearisome  length,  and  very  unequal  merit.  There 
 are  in  it,  however,  some  passages  of  extraordinary  beauty.  His 
 smaller  pieces  are,  on  the  whole,  more  sprightly  and  pleasing  to 
 modern  ears. 
 
 The  Deity. 
 
 Svpreme  Essence,  beginning  vnbegun, 
 
 Ay  Trinall  ane, — ane  vndevydit  three, 
 
 Eternall  Worde,  that  victorie  hes  wun 
 Ouir  Death,  ouir  Hell,  triumphand  on  the  Trie, 
 Foirknawledge,  Wisdome,  and  All-seand  Ee, 
 Iehovah,  Alpha  and  Omega,  All, 
 
 Lyke  vnto  none,  nor  none  lyke  vnto  thee, 
 Vnmuifit,  quha  muifis  the  rounds  about  the  Ball, 
 Conteiner  vnconteind ;  is,  was,  and  sail, — 
 
 Be  sempiternall,  mereifull,  and  just. 
 
 Creator  vncreated,  now  I  call. 
 
 Teieh  me  thy  truth,  since  into  thee  I  trust, 
 Increase,  confirme,  and  kendill  from  aboue 
 My  fauth,  my  hope,  but,  by  the  leave,  my  loue. 
 
 High  Architectur,  vondrous-vautit-rounds ; 
 
 Huge-host  of  Hevin,  in  restles-rolling  spheers; 
 Firme-fixt  polis,  whilk  all  the  axtrie  beirs ; 
 Concordant-discords,  suete  harmonious  sounds; 
 
120 
 
 MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Boud-Zodiak,  circle-belting- Plioebus  bounds; 
 Celestiall  signis,  of  moneths  making  zeers; 
 Bright  Titan,  to  the  Topiks  that  reteirs, 
 Quhais  fyrie  flammis  all  chaos-face  confounds; 
 Just  balanced  ball,  amidst  the  hevins  that  hings; 
 All  creaturs  that  Natur  creat  can, 
 
 To  serve  the  vse  of  most  vnthankfull  man; _ 
 
 Admire  zour  Maker,  only  King  of  Kings.  * 
 Prais  him,  O  man!  his  mervels  that  remarks, 
 Quhais  mercyis  far  exceids  his  wondrous  warks. 
 
 Iniquitie  on  eirth  is  so  increst, 
 
 All  flesh  hot  feu  with  falset  is  defyld, 
 
 Givin  ouT  of  God,  with  gredynes  beguyld; 
 
 So  that  the  puir,  but  pitie,  ar  opprest. 
 
 God  in  his  justice  dou  na  mail-  digest 
 Syk  sinfull  suyn  with  symonie  defyld, 
 
 But  must  revenge,  thair  vyces  ar  so  vyld, 
 
 And  pour  doun  plagues  of  famin,  suord,  and  pest. 
 
 Aryse,  O  Lord,  delyuer  from  the  lave 
 I’hy  faithfull  flock,  befor  that  it  infect; 
 
 Thou  sees  hou  Satan  sharps  for  to  dissave, 
 
 If  it  were  able,  euen  thyn  auin  Elect. 
 
 Sen  Conscience,  Love,  and  Cheritie  all  laiks, 
 
 Lord,  short  the  season,  for  the  Chosen’s  saiks. 
 
 Paraphrase •of  Psalm  CXXI. 
 
 When  I  behold  these  montanes  cold,  can  I  be  bold 
 To  take  my  journey  through  this  wildernesse, — 
 
 Wherein  doth  stand,  on  eyther  hand,  a  bloodie  band, 
 To  cut  me  off,  with  cruell  craftinesse? 
 
 Heere,  subtle  Sathan’s  slight  doth  me  assaill : 
 
 Ther,  his  proud  worldly  might  thinks  to  preuaill. 
 
 In  euerie  place,  with  pleasant  face, 
 
 The  snares  of  sinne  besets  me  round  about; 
 
 With  poysone  sweete  to  slay  the  spirite, 
 
 Conspyred  all,  to  take  my  life,  no  doubt. 
 
HUDSON. 
 
 121 
 
 But  God  is  bee,  will  succour  mee,  and  let  me  see 
 His  sailing  health  ay  readie  at  command  : 
 
 Euen  Iehova,  that  creat  al,  both  great  and  smal, 
 
 In  heauen  and  aire,  and  in  the  sea  and  land. 
 
 Freat  not,  my  fearefull  heart,  my  breast  within ; 
 
 This  God  will  take  thy  part,  thy  course  to  rin. 
 
 He  will  thee  guyde;  thou  shalt  not  slyde ; 
 
 Thy  feet  shall  steadfast  stand  in  the  right  way : 
 
 He  will  thee  keepe  ;  he  will  not  sleepe, 
 
 Nor  suffer  foes  to  catch  thee  as  a  pray. 
 
 The  Lord  doth  keepe  Israel  his  sheepe,  and  will  not 
 sleepe. 
 
 Beneath  his  shadow,  thou  shalt  saiflie  ly. 
 
 Right  sure  and  firme,  with  his  right  arme,  saue  the 
 from  harme 
 
 He  shall;  and  all  thy  fearefull  foes  defy. 
 
 The  day,  hote  sunnes  offence  shall  not  thee  greeue  ; 
 Nor  cold  moones  influence,  by  night,  thee  moue. 
 
 God,  of  his  grace,  from  his  high  place, 
 
 Shall  saue  thee  from  all  ill :  in  euerie  way 
 Thou  goes  about,  both  in  and  out, 
 
 He  shall  thee  blesse  and  prosper,  now  and  ay. 
 
 T.  HUDSON. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  Sir  Richard  Maitland ,  1586. 
 
 These  lines,  which  are  nevertheless  powerfully  written,  present  a 
 curious  specimen  of  alliteration  and  rhyme  combined  ;  the  former 
 being  as  frequently  employed  here  as  in  ancient  pieces  ot  the 
 kind  (such  as  Piers  Plowman's  Vision )  without  the  latter. 
 
 The  sliding  time  so  slilie  slips  away, 
 
 It  reaves  (a)  from  us  remembrance  of  our  state, 
 
 And  while  we  doe  the  oar  of  tyme  delay, 
 
 We  tyne  (6)  the  tide,  and  so  lament  our  fate : 
 
 (a)  Bereaves.  (&)  Lose. 
 
 f  32 
 
122 
 
 JAMES  I. 
 
 Then,  to  eschew  such  dangerous  debate, 
 Propone  for  Patron,  manlie  Maitland  knycht; 
 Learne  by  his  life  to  live  in  sembil  rate,  (a) 
 With  love  to  God,  religion,  law,  and  rycht : 
 For,  as  he  was  of  virtue  lucent  lycht, 
 
 Of  ancient  blood  and  nobil  spirit  and  name, 
 Beloved  of  God  and  every  gracious  wycht,  (6) 
 So  died  He  auld,  deserving  worthy  fame  : 
 
 A  rare  example  set  for  us,  to  see 
 
 What  we  have  been,  now  are,  and  aucht  to  be. 
 
 KING  JAMES  I. 
 
 Born  1566.  Died  1625. 
 
 Author  of  many  extravagant  treatises  in  prose :  as,  Dcemonology , 
 or,  a  Discourse  on  Witchcraft ;  a  Counter  Blast  against  Tobacco  ; 
 Basilicon  Doron ;  Advice  to  his  Son,  &c.  The  following  Sonnet, 
 prefixed  to  a  French  translation  (by  Du  Bartas,)  of  James’s  Poem 
 on  “  the  Battle  of  Lepanto,"  is  no  unfavourable  specimen  of  His 
 Majesty’s  talent  for  rhyme. 
 
 Sonnet . 
 
 The  azure  vaulte,  the  crystall  circles  bright, 
 
 The  gleaming  fyerie  torches  powder’d  there  ; 
 
 The  changing  round,  the  shining  beamie  light, 
 
 The  sad  and  branded  fyres,  the  monsters  faire; 
 The  prodigies  appearing  in  the  aire, 
 
 The  rending  thunder  and  the  blustering  winds; 
 The  foules,  in  hue,  and  shape,  and  nature  rare, 
 The  prettie  notes  the  wing’d  musician  finds ; 
 
 In  earth,  the  savourie  flowres,  the  metall’d  mines, 
 The  wholesum  herbs,  the  hautie,  pleasant  trees; 
 
 (a)  In  the  same  manner. 
 
 [b)  These  Scottish  endings  need  only  be  changed  into  ight,  knight, 
 right,  &c.  and  the  words  will  be  at  once  intelligible. 
 
DRAYTON. 
 
 123 
 
 The  silver  streames,  the  beasts  of  sundrie  kinds, 
 The  bounded  waves  and  fishes  of  the  seas ; 
 
 All  these,  for  teaching  Man,  the  Lord  did  frame, 
 To  do  his  will,  whose  glory  shines  in  thame. 
 
 MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 
 
 Born  1563.  Died  1631. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — Poly-Olbion,  TheBarrons'  Warres,  England' s 
 Heroical  Epistles,  Legends,  and  numerous  minor  poems.  Th ^fol¬ 
 lowing  extracts  are  from  one  of  his  least  known  pieces — “  The  Birth 
 and  Miracles  of  Moses."  The  allusion  to  the  destruction  of  the 
 Spanish  Armada,  (then  a  recent  event)  in  the  first  quotation,  is 
 peculiarly  happy. 
 
 The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 
 
 Those  which  at  home  scorn’d  Pharaoh  and  his  force, 
 And  whose  departure  he  did  humbly  pray, 
 
 He  now  pursues  with  his  Egyptian  horse 
 And  warlike  foot  to  spoil  them  on  the  way. 
 
 Where  his  choice  people  strongly  to  protect, 
 
 The  only  God  of  empire  and  of  might, 
 
 Before  his  host  his  standard  doth  erect, 
 
 A  glorious  pillar  in  a  field  of  light, 
 
 Which  he  by  day  in  sable  doth  unfold, 
 
 To  dare  the  Sun  his  ardour  to  forbear, 
 
 By  night  converts  it  into  flaming  gold, 
 
 Away  the  coldness  of  the  same  to  fear. 
 
 Not  by  Philistia  he  his  force  will  lead, 
 
 Though  the  far  nearer  and  the  happier  way, 
 
 His  men  of  war  a  glorious  march  shall  tread 
 On  the  vast  bowels  of  the  bloody  sea ; 
 
 And  sends  the  winds  as  couriers  forth  before, 
 
 To  make  them  way  from  Pharaoh’s  power  to  fly, 
 
 And  to  convey  them  to  a  safer  shore; 
 
 Such  is  his  might  that  can  make  oceans  dry. 
 
 F  2 
 
124 
 
 DRAYTON 
 
 Which  by  the  stroke  of  that  commanding  wand, 
 Shoulder’d  the  rough  seas  forcibly  together, 
 
 Raised  as  ramparts  by  that  glorious  hand, 
 
 (’Tvvixt  which  they  march)  that  did  conduct  them 
 thither. 
 
 The  surly  waves  their  ruler’s  will  obey’d, 
 
 By  him  made  up  in  this  confused  mass. 
 
 Like  as  an  ambush  secretly  were  laid, 
 
 To  set  on  Pharaoh  as  his  power  should  pass. 
 
 Which  soon  with  wombs  insatiably  wide, 
 
 Loos’d  from  their  late  bounds,  by  the’  Almighty’s  power, 
 Come  raging  in,  enclosing  every  side, 
 
 And  the  Egyptians  instantly  devour. 
 
 The  sling,  the  stiff  bow,  and  the  sharpen’d  lance, 
 Floating  confusedly  on  the  waters  rude, 
 
 They,  which  these  weapons  lately  did  advance, 
 
 Perish  in  sight  of  them  that  they  pursued. 
 
 Clashing  of  armours,  and  the  rumorous  sound 
 Of  the  stern  billows  in  contention  stood, 
 
 Which  to  the  shores  do  every  way  rebound, 
 
 As  doth  affright  the  monsters  of  the  flood. 
 
 Death  is  discern’d  triumphantly  in  arms 
 On  the  rough  seas  his  slaughtery  to  keep, 
 
 And  his  cold  self  in  breath  of  mortals  warms, 
 
 Upon  the  dimpled  bosom  of  the  deep. 
 
 There  might  you  see  a  checquer’d  ensign  swim 
 About  the  body  of  the  envy’d  dead, 
 
 Serve  for  a  hearse  or  coverture  to  him, 
 
 Fire  while  did  waft  it  proudly  ’bout  his  head : 
 
 The  warlike  chariot  turn’d  upon  the  back 
 With  the  dead  horses  in  their  traces  ty’d, 
 
 Drags  their  fat  carcase  through  the  foamy  brack, 
 
 That  drew  it  late  undauntedly  in  pride. 
 
 There  floats  the  barb’d  steed  with  his  rider  drown’d, 
 Whose  foot  in  his  caparison  is  cast, 
 
 Who  late  with  sharp  spurs  did  his  courser  wound, 
 Himself  now  ridden  with  his  strangled  beast. 
 
 The  waters  conquer  (without  help  of  hand) 
 
 For  them  to  take  for  which  they  never  toil, 
 
 And  like  a  quarry  cast  them  on  the  land, 
 
 As  those  they  slew  they  left  to  them  to  spoil. 
 
DRAYTON. 
 
 125 
 
 In  eighty-eight  (a)  at  Dover  who  had  been, 
 
 To  view  that  navy,  (like  a  mighty  wood), 
 
 Whose  sails  swept  heaven,  might  eas’ly  there  have  seen, 
 How  puissant  Pharaoh  perish’d  in  the  flood. 
 
 What  for  a  conquest  strictly  they  did  keep, 
 
 Into  the  channel  presently  was  pour’d; 
 
 Castilian  riches  scatter  d  on  the  deep, 
 
 That  Spain’s  long  hopes  had  suddenly  devour  d. 
 
 The’  afflicted  English  ranged  along  the  strand, 
 
 To  wait  what  would  this  threatening  power  betide, 
 Now  when  the  Lord  with  a  victorious  hand 
 In  his  high  justice  scourged  the’  Iberian  pride. 
 
 The  Law  given  on  Sinai. 
 
 Now  when  to  Sinai  they  approached  near, 
 
 God  calls  up  Moses  to  the  mount  above, 
 
 And  all  the  rest  commandeth  to  forbear, 
 
 Nor  from  the  bounds  assign’d  them  to  remove. 
 For  who  those  limits  loosely  did  exceed, 
 
 Which  were  by  Moses  mark’d  them  out  beneath, 
 The  Lord  had  irrevocably  decreed 
 With  darts  or  stones  should  surely  die  the  death. 
 Whereas  the  people,  in  a  wondrous  fright, 
 
 (With  hearts  transfixed  even  with  frozen  blood) 
 Beheld  their  leader  openly  in  sight 
 Pass  to  the  Lord,  where  he  in  glory  stood. 
 Thunder  and  lightning  led  him  down  the  air, 
 Trumpets  celestial  sounding  as  he  came, 
 
 Which  struck  the  people  with  astounding  fear, 
 Himself  invested  in  a  splendorous  flame. 
 
 Sinai  before  him  fearfully  doth  shake, 
 
 Cover’d  all  over  in  a  smouldering  smoke, 
 
 As  ready  the  foundation  to  forsake, 
 
 On  the  dread  presence  of  the  Lord  to  look. 
 
 (0)  1588. 
 
126 
 
 DRAYTON. 
 
 Erect  your  spirits,  and  lend  attentive  ear 
 To  mark  at  Sinai  what  to  you  is  said, 
 
 Weak  Moses  now  you  shall  not  simply  hear, 
 
 The  son  of  Amram  and  of  Iaeobed; 
 
 But  He  that  Adam  did  imparadise, 
 
 And  lent  him  comfort  in  his  proper  blood, 
 
 And  saved  Noah,  that  did  the  ark  devise, 
 
 When  the  old  world  else  perish’d  in  the  flood, 
 
 To  righteous  Abraham  Canaan  frankly  lent, 
 
 And  brought  forth  Isaac  so  extremely  late, 
 
 Jacob  so  fair  and  many  children  sent, 
 
 And  raised  chaste  Joseph  to  so  high  estate; 
 
 He  whose  just  hand  plagued  Egypt  for  your  sake. 
 That  Pharaoh’s  power  so  scornfully  did  mock, 
 Way  for  his  people  through  the  sea  did  make, 
 Gave  food  from  Heaven,  and  water  from  the  rock. 
 Whilst  Moses  now7  in  this  cloud-cover’d  hill 
 Full  forty  days  his  pure  abode  did  make, 
 
 Whilst  that  great  God,  in  his  almighty  will, 
 
 With  him  of  all  his  ordinances  spake, 
 ihe  decalogue  from  which  religion  took 
 The  being;  sin  and  righteousness  began 
 Jhe  different  knowledge;  and  the  certain  book 
 Of  testimony  betwixt  God  and  man. 
 
 The  ceremonial  as  judicious  laws, 
 
 From  his  high  wisdom  that  received  their  ground, 
 Not  to  be  alter’d  in  the  smallest  clause, 
 
 But  as  their  Maker  wondrously  profound. 
 
 The  composition  of  that  sacred  fane, 
 
 M  hieh  as  a  symbol  curiously  did  shew, 
 
 What  all  his  six  days’  workmanship  contain, 
 Whose  pei feet  model  his  own  finger  drew. 
 
RALEIGH. 
 
 127 
 
 SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 
 
 Born  1552.  Beheaded  1617. 
 
 My  Pilgrimage. 
 
 Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 
 
 My  staffe  of  faith  to  walk  upon, 
 
 My  scrip  of  ioye,  (immortal  diet!) 
 
 My  bottle  of  salvation, 
 
 My  gowne  of  glory,  hope’s  true  gage ; 
 
 —And  thus  I  take  my  pilgrimage. 
 
 Blood  must  be  my  body’s  balmer, 
 
 While  my  soule,  like  peaceful  palmer, 
 
 Travelleth  tow’rds  the  land  of  heaven  j 
 Other  balm  will  not  be  given. 
 
 Over  the  silver  mountains, 
 
 Where  spring  the  nectar-fountains, 
 
 There  will  I  kiss 
 The  bowle  of  bliss, 
 
 And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill, 
 
 Upon  every  milken  hill ; 
 
 My  soule  will  be  a-dry  before, 
 
 But  after  that  will  thirst  no  more. 
 
 Lines  said  to  have  been  written  by  him  on  the  night  before 
 
 his  Execution. 
 
 Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  on  trust 
 Our  youth,  our  ioys  and  all  we  have, 
 
 And  pays  us  but  with  age  and  dust, 
 
 Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
 
 (When  we  have  wander’d  all  owr  waies,) 
 
 Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  dayes  ; 
 
 But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
 
 My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 
 
128 
 
 DAVIES. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 [From  Wilby’s  Madrigals,  1609.] 
 
 Happy,  Oh  !  happy  he,  who,  not  affecting 
 The  endless  toils  attending  worldly  cares, 
 With  mind  reposed,  all  discontent  rejecting, 
 In  silent  pace  his  way  to  heaven  prepares; 
 Deeming  his  life  a  scene,  the  world  a  stage, 
 Whereon  man  acts  his  weary  pilgrimage. 
 
 SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 
 
 Born  1570.  Died  1626. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — The  Soul  of  Man  and  the  immortality  thereof. 
 Hymns  of  Astrea,  &c.  The  stanzas  ensuing  are  the  commence, 
 ment  of  the  first-named  poem. 
 
 The  Soul. 
 
 The  lights  of  Heaven  (which  are  the  world’s  fair  eyes) 
 Look  down  into  the  world,  the  world  to  see ; 
 
 And  as  they  turn,  or  wander  in  the  skies, 
 
 Survey  all  things,  that  on  this  centre  be. 
 
 And  yet  the  lights  which  in  my  tower  do  shine, 
 
 Mine  eyes,  which  view  all  objects,  nigh  and  far, 
 
 Look  not  into  this  little  world  of  mine, 
 
 Nor  see  my  face,  wherein  they  fixed  are. 
 
 Since  Nature  fails  us  i*i  no  needful  thing, 
 
 Why  want  I  means  my  inward  self  to  see? 
 
 Which  sight  the  knowledge  of  myself  miglTt  bring, 
 Which  to  true  wisdom  is  the  first  degree. 
 
DAVIES. 
 
 129 
 
 That  power,  which  gave  me  eyes  the  world  to  view, 
 To  view  myself,  infused  an  inward  light, 
 
 Whereby  my  soul,  as  by  a  mirror  true, 
 
 Of  her  own  form  may  take  a  perfect  sight. 
 
 But  as  the  sharpest  eye  discerneth  nought, 
 
 Except  the  sun-beams  in  the  air  do  shine  ; 
 
 So  the  best  soul,  with  her  reflecting  thought, 
 
 Sees  not  herself  without  some  light  divine. 
 
 O  Light,  which  mak’st  the  light,  which  makes  the  day ! 
 
 Which  set’st  the  eye  without,  and  mind  within; 
 ’Lighten  my  spirit  with  one  clear  heavenly  ray, 
 
 Which  now  to  view  itself  doth  first  begin. 
 
 For  her  true  form  how  can  my  spark  discern, 
 
 Which,  dim  by  nature,  art  did  never  clear? 
 
 When  the  great  wits,  of  whom  all  skill  we  learn, 
 
 Are  ignorant  both  what  she  is,  and  where. 
 
 One  thinks  the  soul  is  air;  another,  fire; 
 
 Another  blood,  diffused  about  the  heart; 
 
 Another  saitli,  the  elements  conspire, 
 
 And  to  her  essence  each  doth  give  a  part. 
 
 Musicians  think  our  souls  are  harmonies, 
 
 Physicians  hold  that  they  complexions  be; 
 
 Epicures  make  them  swarms  of  atomies, 
 
 Which  do  by  chance  into  our  bodies  flee. 
 
 Some  think  one  general  soul  fills  every  brain, 
 
 As  the  bright  Sun  sheds  light  in  every  star; 
 
 And  others  think  the  name  of  soul  is  vain, 
 
 And  that  we  only  well-mix’d  bodies  are. 
 
 In  judgment  of  her  substance  thus  they  vary, 
 
 And  thus  they  vary  in  judgment  of  her  seat; 
 
 For  some  her  chair  up  to  the  brain  do  carry, 
 
 Some  thrust  it  down  into  the  stomach’s  heat. 
 
 Some  place  it  in  the  root  of  life,  the  heart; 
 
 Some  in  the  river,  fountain  of  the  veins, 
 
 Some  say,  she’s  all  in  all,  in  every  part: 
 
 Some  say,  she’s  not  contain’d,  but  all  contains. 
 
 .  r  3 
 
130 
 
 DAVIES. 
 
 v 
 
 Thus  these  great  clerks  their  little  wisdom  show, 
 
 While  with  their  doctrines  they  at  hazard  play; 
 Tossing  their  light  opinions  to  and  fro, 
 
 To  mock  the  lewrd,  as  learn’d  in  this  as  they. 
 
 For  no  crazed  brain  could  ever  yet  propound, 
 
 Touching  the  soul,  so  vain  and  fond  a  thought ; 
 
 But  some  among  these  masters  have  been  found, 
 
 Which  in  their  schools  the  self-same  thing  have 
 taught. 
 
 God  only  wise,  to  punish  pride  of  wit, 
 
 Among  men’s  wits  have  this  confusion  wrought, 
 
 As  the  proud  towrer  whose  points  the  clouds  did  hit, 
 
 By  tongues’  confusion  was  to  ruin  brought. 
 
 But,  Thou,  which  didst  man’s  soul  of  nothing  make, 
 And  wdien  to  nothing  it  was  fallen  again, 
 
 “  To  make  it  new,  the  form  of  man  didst  take; 
 
 And  God  with  God,  becam’st  a  man  with  men.” 
 
 Thou  that  hast  fashioned  tw  ice  this  soul  of  ours, 
 
 So  that  she  is  by  double  title  thine, 
 
 Thou  only  knowr’st  her  nature  and  her  powers; 
 
 Her  subtle  form  thou  only  canst  define. 
 
 To  judge  herself,  she  must  herself  transcend, 
 
 As  greater  circles  comprehend  the  less : 
 
 But  she  wants  power,  her  own  powders  to  extend, 
 
 As  fetter’d  men  cannot  their  strength  express. 
 
 But  thou,  bright  morning  Star,  thou  rising  Sun, 
 
 Which  in  these  later  times  hast  brought  to  light 
 Those  mysteries,  that,  since  the  world  begun, 
 
 Lay  hid  in  darkness,  and  eternal  night. 
 
 Thou  (like  the  Sun)  dost  with  an  equal  ray 
 Into  the  palace  and  the  cottage  shine, 
 
 And  show’st  the  soul,  both  to  the  clerk  and  lay, 
 
 By  the  clear  lamp  of  oracle  divine. 
 
 This  lamp,  through  all  the  regions  of  my  brain, 
 
 Where  my  soul  sits,  doth  spread  such  beams  of  grace, 
 As  now,  methinks,  1  do  distinguish  plain 
 Each  subtle  line  of  her  immortal  face. 
 
I 
 
 DAVIES. 
 
 The  soul  a  substance  and  a  spirit  is, 
 
 Which  God  himself  doth  in  the  body  make. 
 Which  makes  the  man,  for  every  man  from  this 
 The  nature  of  a  man  and  name  doth  take. 
 
 And  though  this  spirit  be  to  the’  body  knit, 
 
 As  an  apt  means  her  powers  to  exercise. 
 Which  are  life,  motion,  sense,  and  will,  and  wit, 
 Yet  she  survives,  although  the  body  dies. 
 
 The  Dignity  of  Human  Nature. 
 
 Oh  !  what  is  man,  great  Maker  of  mankind ! 
 
 That  thou  to  him  so  great  respect  dost  bear . 
 
 That  thou  adorn’st  him  with  so  bright  a  mind, 
 Mak’st  him  a  king,  and  e’en  an  angel’s  peer . 
 
 Oh !  what  a  lively  life,  what  heavenly  power, 
 
 What  spreading  virtue,  what  a  sparkling  fire, 
 How  great,  liow  plentiful,  how  rich  a  dower 
 Dost  thou  within  this  dying  flesh  inspire  . 
 
 Thou  leav’st  thy  print  in  other  works  of  thine ; 
 
 But  thy  whole  image  thou  in  man  hast  writ : 
 There  cannot  be  a  creature  more  divine, 
 
 Except  (like  thee)  it  should  be  infinite ! 
 
 But  it  exceeds  man’s  thought,  to  think  how  high 
 God  hath  raised  man,  since  God  a  man  became: 
 The  angels  do  admire  this  mystery, 
 
 And  are  astonish’d  when  they  view  the  same. 
 
 Nor  hath  he  given  these  blessings  for  a  day, 
 
 Nor  made  them  on  the  body’s  life  depend : 
 
 The  soul,  though  made  ih  time,  survives  lor  ay ; 
 And  though  it  hath  beginning,  sees  no  end. 
 
132 
 
 DONNE. 
 
 JOHN  DONNE. 
 
 *u£or  of  «?any  l\eter0geneous  compositions  in  verse,  so  harsh 
 irim?  be  ®caJ'cely  readable,  and  so  obscure  as  to  be  scarcely  intelli- 
 
 clusticy2rcabsm.nding  Wlth  ShreWd  remarks>  elaborate  wit,  and 
 
 Prayer  in  Temptation . 
 
 I  HOu  hast  made  me,  and  shall  thy  work  decay? 
 Repair  me  now,  for  now  mine  end  doth  haste  ; 
 
 I  run  to  death,  and  death  meets  me  as  fast, 
 
 And  all  my  pleasures  are  like  yesterday. 
 
 I  dare  not  move  my  dim  eyes  any  way; 
 
 Despair  behind,  and  death  before  doth  cast 
 Such  terrour,  and  my  feeble  flesh  doth  waste 
 Ey  sin  in  it,  which  it  t’ wards  Hell  doth  weigh. 
 Only  thou  art  above,  and  when  t’wards  thee 
 By  thy  leave  I  can  look,  I  rise  again ; 
 
 Rut  our  old  subtle  foe  so  tempteth  me, 
 
 I  hat  not  one  hour  myself  I  can  sustain; 
 
 Thy  grace  may  wing  me  to  prevent  his  art, 
 
 And  thou  like  adamant  draw  mine  iron  heart. 
 
 1  liought  on  the  Pay  of  Judgment. 
 
 Ai  the  round  Earth  s  imagined  corners  blow 
 Your  trumpets,  angels,  and  arise,  arise 
 From  death,  you  numberless  infinities 
 Of  souls,  and  to  your  scattered  bodies  go, 
 
 Ail,  whom  the  flood  did,  and  fire  shall  overthrow; 
 All,  whom  war,  death,  age,  ague’s  tyrannies, 
 
 Despair,  law,  chance  hath  slain;  and  you,  whose  eyes 
 Shall  behold  God,  and  never  taste  death’s  woe. 
 
 Rut  let  them  sleep,  Lord,  and  me  mourn  a  space; 
 hor,  if  above  all  these  iny  sins  abound,  • 
 
DONNE. 
 
 133 
 
 *T  is  late  to  ask  abundance  of  thy  grace, 
 
 When  we  are  there.  m  Here  on  this  holy  ground 
 Teach  me  how  to  repent;  for  that ’s  as  good, 
 
 As  if  thou  had’st  seal’d  my  pardon  with  thy  blood. 
 
 A  Hymn  to  Christ ,  at  the  Author’s  last  going  into 
 Germany . 
 
 In  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark, 
 
 That  ship  shall  be  my  emblem  of  thy  ark ; 
 
 What  sea  soever  swallow  me,  that  flood 
 Shall  be  to  me  an  emblem  of  thy  blood. 
 
 Though  thou  with  clouds  of  anger  do  disguise 
 Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I  know  those  eyes, 
 Which,  though  they  turn  away  sometimes, 
 
 They  never  will  despise. 
 
 I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  thee, 
 
 And  all  whom  I  love  here,  and  who  love  me ; 
 
 When  I  have  put  this  flood  ’twixt  them  and  me, 
 
 Put  thou  thy  blood  betwixt  my  sins  and  thee; 
 
 As  the  tree’s  sap  doth  seek  the  root  below 
 In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  go, 
 
 Where  none  but  thee,  the’  eternal  root 
 Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 
 
134 
 
 HALL. 
 
 JOSEPH  HALL,  Bishop  of  Norwich. 
 
 Born  1574.  Died  1647. 
 
 Author  of  various  learned  and  pious  Works  in  prose ;  also  of 
 Virgidemiarum,  or  a  series  of  Satires ,  and  other  small  essays,  in 
 verse. 
 
 Antherne . 
 
 Lord,  what  am  I?  A  worm,  dust,  vapour,  nothing! 
 
 What  is  my  life?  A  dream,  a  daily  dying ! 
 
 What  is  my  flesh?  My  soul’s  uneasie  clothing  ! 
 
 What  is  my  time?  A  minute  ever  flying: 
 
 My  time,  my  flesh,  my  life,  and  I  ; 
 
 What  are  we,  Lord,  but  vanity? 
 
 Where  am  I,  Lord  ?  downe  in  a  vale  of  death  : 
 
 What  is  my  trade?  sin,  my  dear  God  offending; 
 My  sport  sin  too,  my  stay  a  putfe  of  breath  : 
 
 What  end  of  sin  ?  Hell’s  horrour  never  ending  : 
 
 My  way,  my  trade,  sport,  stay,  and  place 
 Help  to  makevup  my  dolefull  case. 
 
 Lord,  what  art  thou  ?  pure  life,  power,  beauty,  bliss : 
 
 Where  dwell’st  thou  ?  up  above  in  perfect  light : 
 What  is  thy  time?  eternity  it  is: 
 
 What  state?  attendance  of  each  glorious  sprite: 
 Thyself,  thy  place,  thy  dayes,  thy  state 
 Pass  all  the  thoughts  of  powers  create. 
 
 How  shall  I  reach  thee,  Lord?  Oh,  soar  above, 
 Ambitious  soul :  but  which  way  should  I  flie? 
 Thou,  Lord,  art  way  and  end :  what  wings  have  I  ? 
 Aspiring  thoughts,  of  faith,  of  hope,  of  love : 
 
 Oh,  let  these  wings,  that  way  alone 
 Present  me  to  thy  blissfull  throne. 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 135 
 
 For  Christmas  Day. 
 
 Immortall  babe,  who  this  dear  day 
 Didst  change  thine  Heaven  for  our  clay, 
 
 And  didst  with  flesh  thy  godhead  vail, 
 
 Eternal  Son  of  God,  all  hail. 
 
 Shine,  happy  star;  ye  angels  sing 
 Glory  on  high  to  Heaven’s  King : 
 
 Run,  shepherds,  leave  your  nightly  watch, 
 
 See  Heaven  come  down  to  Bethleem  s  cratch. 
 
 Worship,  ye  sages  of  the  east, 
 
 The  King  of  gods  in  meanness  drest: 
 
 O  blessed  maid,  smile  and  adore 
 
 The  God  thy  womb  and  armes  have  bore. 
 
 Star,  angels,  shepherds,  and  wise  sages; 
 
 Thou  virgin  glory  of  all  ages, 
 
 Restored  frame  of  Heaven  and  Earth, 
 
 Joy  in  your  dear  Redeemer’s  birth. 
 
 WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Born  1564.  Died  1616. 
 
 It  is  remarkable  that  the  few  passages  in  the  Works  of  this  great 
 Dramatist,  which  can  be  termed  religious,  are  all  favourites,  (judg¬ 
 ing  by  the  frequency  of  quotation)  and  of  the  highest  poetical  beauty. 
 Would  that  he  had  written  oftener,  or  always,  in  this  vein . 
 
 The  Duty  of  mutual  Forgiveness. 
 
 ,  ■  ...  Alas!  alas! 
 
 Why,  all  the  souls  that  are,  were  forfeit  once, 
 And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took, 
 Found  Out  the  remedy.  How  would  you  be, 
 
 If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
 
136 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 But  judge  you  as  you  are?  Oh  !  think  on  that: 
 And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
 Like  man  new  made. 
 
 Mercy . 
 
 The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain’d; 
 
 It  droppeth,  as  a  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
 Upon  the  place  beneath.  It  is  twice  blessed : 
 
 It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
 
 ’Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
 The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown : 
 
 His  sceptre  shews  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
 
 The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
 
 Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings: 
 
 But  mercy  is  above  the  sceptred  sway ; 
 
 It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings; 
 
 It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
 
 And  earthly  power  doth  then  shew  likest  God’s, 
 When  mercy  seasons  justice.  Therefore,  Jew, 
 Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 
 
 That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
 Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy; 
 
 And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
 The  deeds  of  mercy. 
 
 Cardinal  Wolsey's  Farewell  to  all  his  Greatness. 
 
 - Nay,  then,  farewell ! 
 
 I  have  touch’d  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness 
 And,  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
 
 1  haste  now  to  my  setting.  I  shall  fall, 
 
 Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
 
 And  no  man  see  me  more. 
 
 Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
 
 This  is  the  state  of  man  :  To-day  he  puts  forth 
 The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
 And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him 
 The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 137 
 
 And  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
 His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  nips  his  root, 
 
 And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.  I  have  ventured, 
 
 Like  little  wanton  boys,  that  swim  on  bladders, 
 
 This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory; 
 
 But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 
 At  length  broke  under  me;  and  now  hath  left  me, 
 Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
 Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
 
 Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ! 
 
 I  feel  my  heart  new  open’d.  O,  how  wretched 
 Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes’  favours ! 
 
 There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
 
 That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  our  ruin, 
 
 More  pangs  and  fears  than  war  or  woman  have ; 
 
 And,  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
 
 Never  to  hope  again. 
 
 Cardinal  IVolsetf’s  Speech  to  Cromwell. 
 
 Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
 In  all  my  miseries;  but  thou  hast  forced  me 
 Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
 
 Let’s  dry  our  eyes :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 
 And,  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
 
 And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
 Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  say,  I  taught  thee; 
 
 Say,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
 
 And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour, 
 Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in; 
 
 A  sure  and  safe  one,  tho’  thy  master  miss’d  it. 
 
 Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin’d  me. 
 
 Cromwell,  1  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 
 
 By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man,  then, 
 
 The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by ’t? 
 
 Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee ; 
 Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
 
 Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
 
 To  silence  envious  tongues.  Be  just,  and  fear  not: 
 Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim’st  at,  be  thy  country’s, 
 
 Thy  God’s,  and  truth’s;  then  if  thou  fall’st,  O  Cromwell! 
 
138 
 
 ALEXANDER. 
 
 Thou  fall’st  a  blessed  martyr.  Serve  the  king  ; 
 
 And,  pr’ythee,  lead  me  in  : - 
 
 There,  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
 
 To  the  last  penny:  ’tis  the  king’s:  My  robe, 
 
 And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 
 I  dare  now  call  mine  own.  O  Cromwell,  Cromwell ! 
 Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
 I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
 Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies ! 
 
 WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  Earl  of  Stirling. 
 
 Born  1580.  Died  1640. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Doomes-Day,  Aurora ,  &c. 
 
 Invocation,  at  the  beginning  of  Doomes-day. 
 
 Thou,  of  whose  power  (not  reach’d  by  reasons  height) 
 The  sea  a  drop,  we  the’  earth  a  mote  may  call : 
 
 And  for  whose  trophees,  stately  to  the  sight, 
 
 The  azure  arke  was  rear’d  (although  too  small) 
 
 And  from  the  lampe  of  whose  most  glorious  light 
 The  Sun  (a  sparke)  weake,  for  weake  eyes  did  fall, 
 Breath  thou  a  heavenly  fury  in  my  brest : 
 
 I  sing  the  sabbath  of  eternall  rest. 
 
 Though  every  where  discern’d,  no  where  confin’d, 
 
 O  thou,  whose  feet  the  clouds  (as  dust)  afford, 
 
 Whose  voyce  the  thunder,  and  whose  breath  the  winde, 
 Whose  foot-stoole  the’  Earth,  seate  Heaven*  works  of 
 thy  word, 
 
 Guards,  hosts  of  angels  moving  by  thy  minde, 
 
 Whose  weapons,  famine,  tempest,  pest,  and  sword; 
 My  cloudy  knowledge  by  thy  wisdome  cleare, 
 
 And  by  my  weakenesse  make  thy  power  appeare. 
 
ALEXANDER. 
 
 139 
 
 Loe,  ravish’d,  Lord,  with  pleasure  of  thy  love, 
 
 I  feele  my  soule  enflamed  with  sacred  fires. 
 
 Thy  judgements,  and  thy  mercies,  whil’st  I  move, 
 To  celebrate,  my  Muse  with  zeale  aspires; 
 
 Lord,  by  thy  lielpe  this  enterprise  approve, 
 
 That  successe  so  may  second  my  desires. 
 
 Make  Sathan’s  race  to  tremble  at  my  lines, 
 
 And  thine  rejoyce  while  as  thy  glory  shines. 
 
 God  Visible  in  his  Works. 
 
 The  stately  Heavens  which  glory  doth  array, 
 
 Are  mirrours  of  God’s  admirable  might; 
 
 There,  whence  forth  spreads  the  night,  forth  springs 
 the  day, 
 
 He  fix’d  the  fountaines  of  this  temporall  light, 
 
 "Where  stately  stars  enstall’d,  some  stand,  some  stray, 
 All  sparks  of  his  great  power  (though  small  yet  bright,) 
 By  what  none  utter  can,  no,  not  conceive, 
 
 All  of  his  greatnesse,  shadowes  may  perceive. 
 
 What  glorious  lights  through  christall  lanternes  glance, 
 (As  alwaies  burning  with  their  Maker’s  love) 
 
 Spheares  keepe  one  musicke,  they  one  measure  dance, 
 Like  influence  below,  like  course  above, 
 
 And  all  by  order  led,  not  drawne  by  chance, 
 
 With  majestie  (as  still  in  triumph)  move. 
 
 And  (liberall  of  their  store)  seeme  shouting  thus; 
 
 “  Looke  up,  all  soules,  and  gaze  on  God  through  us.” 
 
 This  pond’rous  masse  (though  oft  deform’d)  still  faire, 
 Great  in  our  sight,  yet  then  a  starre  more  small, 
 
 Is  ballanc’d  (as  a  mote)  amid’st  the  ayre; 
 
 None  knowes  what  way,  yet  to  no  side  doth  fall, 
 
 And  yearely  springs,  growes  ripe,  fades,  falles,  rich,  bare, 
 Men’s  mother  first,  still  mistresse,  yet  their  thrall, 
 
 It  centers  Heavens,  Heavens  compasse  it,  both  be 
 Bookes  where  God’s  power  the  ignorant  may  see. 
 
HO 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 What  ebbes,  flovves,  swels,  and  sinks,  who  firme  doth 
 keep  ? 
 
 Whil’st  flouds  from  the’  earth  burst  in  abundance  out 
 As  she  her  brood  did  wash,  or  for  them  weepe: 
 
 WTho,  (having  life)  what  dead  things  prove,  dare  doubt 
 Who  first  did  found  the  dungeons  of  the  deepe  ? 
 
 But  one  in  all,  ore  all,  above,  about: 
 
 The  flouds  for  our  delight,  first  cal  me  were  set, 
 
 But  storme  and  roare,  since  men  did  God  forget. 
 
 Who  parts  the  swelling  spouts  that  sift  the  raine? 
 Who  reines  the  winds,  the  waters  doth  empale? 
 Whofrownesin  stormes,  then  smiles  in  calmes  againe, 
 And  doth  dispense  the  treasures  of  the  haile? 
 
 Whose  bow  doth  bended  in  the  clouds  remaine? 
 Whose  darts  (dread  thunder-bolts)  make  men  look  pale? 
 Even  thus  these  things  to  show  his  power  aspire, 
 
 As  shadowes  doe  the  Sunne,  as  smoke  doth  fire. 
 
 God  visibly  invisible  who  raignes, 
 
 Soule  of  all  soules,  whose  light  each  light  directs, 
 
 All  first  did  freely  make,  and  still  maintaines, 
 
 The  greatest  rules,  the  meanest  not  neglects  ; 
 Fore-knowes  the  end  of  all  that  he  ordaines, 
 
 His  will  each  cause,  each  cause  breeds  fit  etfects, 
 
 Who  did  make  all,  all  thus  could  onely  leade, 
 
 None  could  make  all,  but  who  was  never  made. 
 
 BEN  JONSON. 
 
 Born  1574.  Died  1637. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Tragedies,  Comedies,  Masques,  &c. 
 
 On  the  Nativitie  of  my  Saviour . 
 
 I  sing  the  birth  was  born  to  night, 
 
 The  Author  both  of  life  and  light; 
 
 The  angels  so  did  sound  it, 
 
JONSON 
 
 141 
 
 And  like  the  ravish’d  sheep’erds  said, 
 
 Who  saw  the  light,  and  were  afraid, 
 
 Yet  search’d,  and  true  they  found  it. 
 
 The  Sonne  of  God,  the’  Eternall  King, 
 
 That  did  us  all  salvation  bring, 
 
 And  freed  the  soule  from  danger; 
 
 Hee  whom  the  whole  world  could  not  take, 
 The  Word,  which  heaven  and  earth  did  make, 
 Was  now  laid  in  a  manger. 
 
 What  comfort  by  him  doe  wee  winne? 
 
 Who  made  himselfe  the  price  of  sinne, 
 
 To  make  us  heires  of  glory? 
 
 To  see  this  babe  all  innocence; 
 
 A  martyr  borne  in  our  defence ; 
 
 Can  man  forget  this  storie? 
 
 The  good  Life ,  long  Life. 
 
 It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
 In  bulke,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
 
 Or  standing  long  an  oake,  three  hundred  yeare, 
 To  fall  a  logge,  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  seare  ; 
 
 A  lillie  of  a  day, 
 
 Is  fairer  farre,  in  May, 
 
 Although  it  fall,  and  die  that  night ; 
 
 It  was  the  plant  and  flowre  of  light. 
 
 In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see: 
 
 And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 
 
 Eupheme s  Mind. 
 
 Painter,  you’re  come,  but  may  be  gone, 
 Now  I  have  better  thought  thereon, 
 
 This  work  I  can  performe  alone, 
 
 And  give  you  reasons  more  then  one. 
 
 Not,  that  your  art  I  doe  refuse: 
 
 But  here  I  may  no  colours  use ; 
 
142 
 
 JONSON. 
 
 Beside,  your  hand  will  never  hit, 
 
 To  draw  a  thing  that  cannot  sit. 
 
 You  could  make  shift  to  paint  an  eye. 
 
 An  eagle  towring  in  the  skye, 
 
 The  Sunne,  a  sea,  or  soundlesse  pit; 
 
 But  these  are  like  a  mind,  not  it. 
 
 No,  to  expresse  a  mind  to  sense, 
 
 Would  aske  a  Heaven’s  intelligence; 
 
 Since  nothing  can  report  that  flame, 
 
 But  what’s  of  kinne  to  whence  it  came. 
 
 A  mind  so  pure,  so  perfect,  fine, 
 
 As  ’tis  not  radient,  but  divine: 
 
 And  so  disdaining  any  tryer; 
 
 ’Tis  got  where  it  can  try  the  fire. 
 
 There  high  exalted  in  the  spheare, 
 
 As  it  another  nature  were, 
 
 It  moveth  all  and  makes  a  flight 
 As  circular  as  infinite. 
 
 Whose  notions  when  it  will  expresse 
 In  speech,  it  is  with  that  excesse 
 Of  grace  and  musique  to  the  eare, 
 
 As  what  it  spoke  it  planted  there. 
 
 The  voyce  so  sweet,  the  words  so  faire, 
 
 As'  some  soft  chime  had  stroak’d  the  ayre; 
 
 And  though  the  sound  were  parted  thence, 
 
 Still  left  an  eccho  in  the  sense. 
 
 But,  that  a  mind  so  rapt,  so  high, 
 
 So  swift,  so  pure,  should  yet  apply 
 
 It  selfe  to  us,  and  come  so  nigh 
 
 Earth’s  grossnesse  ;  there’s  the  how,  and  why. 
 
 Is  it  because  it  sees  us  dull, 
 
 And  stuck  in  clay  here,  it  would  pull 
 Us  forth  by  some  celestiall  flight 
 Up  to  her  owne  sublimed  bight? 
 
JONSON. 
 
 143 
 
 Or  hath  she  here,  upon  the  ground, 
 
 Some  paradise,  or  palace  found 
 In  all  the  bounds  of  beautie  fit 
 For  here  to’  inhabit?  There  is  it. 
 
 Thrice  happy  house,  that  hast  receipt 
 For  this  so  loftie  forme,  so  streight, 
 
 So  polisht,  perfect,  round,  and  even, 
 
 As  it  slid  moulded  off  from  heaven. 
 
 Not  swelling  like  the  ocean  proud, 
 
 But  stooping  gently,  as  a  cloud, 
 
 As  smooth  as  oyle  pour’d  forth,  and  calme 
 As  showers,  and  sweet  as  drops  of  halme. 
 
 Smooth,  soft,  and  sweet,  in  all  a  floud 
 Where  it  may  run  to  any  good ; 
 
 And  where  it  stayes,  it  there  becomes 
 A  nest  of  odorous  spice,  and  gummes. 
 
 In  action,  winged  as  the  wind, 
 
 In  rest,  like  spirits  left  behind 
 Upon  a  banke,  or  field  of  flowers, 
 
 Begotten  by  that  wind  and  showers. 
 
 In  thee,  faire  mansion,  let  it  rest, 
 
 Yet  know,  with  what  thou  art  possest. 
 
 Thou  entertaining  in  thy  brest 
 
 But  such  a  mind,  mak’st  God  thy  guest. 
 
144 
 
 CORBET. 
 
 RICHARD  CORBET,  Bisnor  of  Norwich. 
 Born  15S2.  Died  1635. 
 
 Author  of  Miscellaneous  Poems. 
 
 An  Elegie  on  Dr.  Ravis,  Bishop  of  London . 
 
 When  I  past  Paul’s,  and  travell’d  in  that  walke 
 Where  all  our  Britaine-sinners  sweare  and  talk  ;  (a) 
 And  then  beheld  the  body  of  my  Lord 
 Trodd  under  foote  by  vice  that  he  abhorr’d; 
 
 It  wounded  me,  the  landlord  ot  all  times 
 Should  let  long  lives  and  leases  to  their  crimes, 
 
 And  to  his  springing  honour  d'.d  afford 
 Scarce  soe  much  time  as  to  the  prophet  s  gourd. 
 Yet  since  swift  flights  ot  vertue  have  apt  ends, 
 
 Like  breath  of  angels,  which  a  blessing  sends, 
 
 And  vanisheth  withall,  whilst  fouler  deeds 
 Expect  a  tedious  harvest  for  bad  seeds ; 
 
 I  blame  not  fame  and  nature  if  they  gave, 
 
 Where  they  could  give  no  more,  their  last,  a  grave. 
 And  wisely  doe  thy  grieved  friends  forbeare 
 Bubbles  and  alabaster  boyes  to  reare 
 On  thy  religious  dust:  for  men  did  know 
 Thy  life,  which  such  illusions  cannot  show : 
 
 For  thou  hast  trod  among  those  happy'ones 
 Who  trust  not  in  their  superscriptions, 
 
 Their  hired  epitaphs,  and  perjured  stone, 
 
 Which  oft  belyes  the  soule  when  she  is  gon ; 
 
 And  durst  committ  thy  body,  as  it  lyes, 
 
 To  tongues  of  living  men,  nay  unborne  eyes. 
 
 What  profits  thee  a  sheet  of  lead  ?  What  good 
 If  on  thy  corse  a  marble  quarry  stood  ? 
 
 Let  those  that  feare  their  rising  purchase  vaults, 
 And  reare  them  statues  to  excuse  their  faults  ; 
 
 {a)  St.  Paul’s  Cathedral  was  in  Corbet’s  time  the  resort  of  the 
 idle  and  profligate  of  all  classes. 
 
CAREW. 
 
 146 
 
 As  if,  like  birds  that  peck  at  painted  grapes, 
 
 Their  judge  knew  not  their  persons  from  their  shapes. 
 
 Whilst  thou  assured,  through  thy  easy  dust 
 
 Shalt  rise  at  first ;  they  would  not  though  they  must. 
 
 ■n  | 
 
 THOMAS  CAREW. 
 
 Born  1589.  Died  1639. 
 
 Author  of  miscellaneous  Poems ,  of  which  the  best  that  ran  be 
 said  is,  that  all  the  painful  art  employed  in  their  composition,  was 
 not  enough  to  overpower  the  beauty  and  simplicity  of  nature, 
 which  are  frequently  conspicuous  in  them. 
 
 To  my  worthy  friend,  Master  George  Sandy  s,  on  his 
 translation  of  the  Psalms. 
 
 I  press  not  to  the  choir,  nor  dare  I  greet 
 The  holy  place  with  my  unhallowed  feet; 
 
 My  unwasht  Muse  pollutes  not  things  divine, 
 
 Nor  mingles  her  profaner  notes  with  thine: 
 
 Here,  humbly  waiting  at  the  porch,  she  stays, 
 
 And  with  glad  ears  sucks  in  thy  sacred  lays. 
 
 So,  devout  penitents  of  old  were  wont, 
 
 Some  without  door,  and  some  beneath  the  font, 
 
 To  stand  and  hear  the  church’s  liturgies, 
 
 Yet  not  assist  the  solemn  exercise: 
 
 Sufficeth  her,  that  she  a  lay-place  gain, 
 
 To  trim  thy  vestments,  or  but  bear  thy  train  : 
 
 Though  nor  in  tune,  nor  wing,  she  reach  thy  lark, 
 
 Her  lyric  feet  may  dance  before  the  ark. 
 
 Who  knows,  but  that  her  wandering  eyes  that  run, 
 Now  hunting  glow-worms,  may  adore  the  Sun  : 
 
 A  pure  flame  may,  shot  by  Almighty  power 
 Into  her  breast,  the  earthly  flame  devour: 
 
 My  eyes  in  penitential  dew  may  steep 
 That  brine,  which  they  for  sensual  love  did  weep. 
 Perhaps  my  restless  soul,  tired  with  pursuit 
 Of  mortal  beauty,  seeking  without  fruit 
 
 G 
 
 32 
 
146 
 
 CAREW. 
 
 Contentment  there,  which  hath  not,  when  enjoy’d. 
 Quench’d  all  her  thirst,  nor  satisfy’d,  though  cloy’d; 
 Weary  of  her  vain  search  below,  above 
 In  the  first  fair  may  find  the’  immortal  love. 
 Prompted  by  thy  example  then,  no  more 
 In  moulds  of  clay  will  I  my  God  adore ; 
 
 But  tear  those  idols  from  my  heart,  and  write 
 What  his  blest  Spirit,  not  fond  love,  shall  indite; 
 Then  I  no  more  shall  court  the  verdant  bay, 
 
 But  the  dry  leafless  trunk  on  Golgotha; 
 
 And  rather  strive  to  gain  from  thence  one  thorn, 
 Than  all  the  flourishing  wreaths  by  laureats  worn. 
 
 Epitaph  on  the  Lady  S.  Wife  of  Sir  W.  S. 
 
 Carew  was  one  of  the  most  elegant  of  the  fantastical  writers  of  his 
 day:  Nothing  can  be  more  cold,  elaborate,  and  unafFecting, 
 than  the  burthen  of  the  following  piece;  yet  it  must  be  ac¬ 
 knowledged  that  the  conclusion  is  happy.  The  whole,  as  a  spe¬ 
 cimen  of  what  once  pleased  a  generation  of  readers  as  well  as 
 writers,  at  once  pedantic  and  puerile,  is  a  curiosity  worth  pre¬ 
 serving. 
 
 The  harmony  of  colours,  features,  grace, 
 
 Resulting  airs  (the  magic  of  a  face) 
 
 Of  musical  sweet  tunes,  all  which  combined 
 To  crown  one  sovereign  beauty,  lie  confined 
 To  this  dark  vault:  she  was  a  cabinet 
 Where  all  the  choicest  stones  of  price  were  set; 
 Whose  native  colours  and  pure  lustre  lent 
 Her  eye,  cheek,  lip,  a  dazzling  ornament; 
 
 Whose  rare  and  hidden  virtues  did  express 
 Her  inward  beauties  and  mind's  fairer  dress; 
 
 The  constant  diamond,  the  wise  chrysolite, 
 
 The  devout  sapphire,  emerald  apt  to  write 
 Records  of  memory,  cheerful  agate,  grave 
 And  serious  onyx,  topaz  that  doth  save 
 The  brain’s  calm  temper,  witty  amethyst; 
 
 This  precious  quarry,  or  what  else  the  list 
 On  Aaron’s  ephod  planted  had,  she  wore : 
 
 One  only  pearl  was  wanting  to  her  store ; 
 
 Which  in  her  Saviour’s  book  she  found  exprest; 
 
 To  purchase  that,  she  sold  Death  all  the  rest. 
 
DRUMMOND. 
 
 147 
 
 WILLIAM  DRUMMOND. 
 
 Born  1585.  Died  1649. 
 
 Of  Hawthornden,  in  Scotland.  His  poems  are  not  affected  to 
 be  written  in  the  dialect  of  his  native  country ;  on  that  country, 
 however,  they  reflect  more  honour  than  those  of  any  contemporary 
 bard. 
 
 Life  hastening  away. 
 
 Look  as  the  flower,  which  lingeringly  doth  fade, 
 The  morning’s  darling  late,  the  summer’s  queen, 
 Spoil’d  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and  green, 
 As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head: 
 
 Just  so  the  pleasures  of  my  life  being  dead, 
 
 Or  in  their  contraries  but  only  seen, 
 
 With  swifter  speed  declines  than  erst  it  spread, 
 And,  blasted,  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath  been. 
 Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 
 Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 
 
 Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
 Of  what’s  yet  left  thee  of  life’s  wasting  day: 
 
 Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 
 
 And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born. 
 
 John  the  Baptist. 
 
 I 
 
 The  last  and  greatest  herald  of  Heaven’s  king, 
 
 Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
 Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
 Which  he. more  harmless  found  than  man,  and  mild. 
 His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth  spring, 
 With  honey,  that  from  virgin  hives  distill’d; 
 
 Parch’d  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing 
 Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  Earth  exil’d. 
 There  burst  he  forth.  “  All  ye  whose  hopes  rely 
 On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn, 
 
 g  2 
 
14B 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errours  turn.” 
 
 Who  listen’d  to  his  voice,  obey’d  his  cry? 
 
 Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 
 
 Rung  from  their  flinty  caves,  “  Repent,  repent.” 
 
 To  the  Nightingale. 
 
 Sweet  bird,  that  sing’st  away  the  early  hours 
 Of  winters  past,  or  coming,  void  of  care, 
 
 Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 
 
 Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers 
 To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leavy  bowers 
 Thou  thy  Creator’s  goodness  dost  declare, 
 
 And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 
 
 A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 
 
 What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs 
 (Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 
 Quite  to  forget  Earth’s  turmoils,  spites,  and  wrongs 
 And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to  Heaven  ? 
 Sweet  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise  „ 
 To  airs  of  spheres,  yes,  and  to  angels’  lays. 
 
 True  Felicity. 
 
 Amidst  the  azure  clear 
 Of  Jordan’s  sacred  streams, 
 
 Jordan,  of  Lebanon  the  offspring  dear, 
 
 When  zephyrs  flowers  unclose, 
 
 And  Sim  shines  with  new  beams, 
 
 With  grave  and  stately  grace  a  nymph  arose. 
 
 Upon  her  head  she  wear 
 Of  amaranths  a  crown  ; 
 
 Her  left  hand  palms,  her  right  a  torch  did  bear; 
 Unveil’d  skin’s  whiteness  lay, 
 
 Gold  hairs  in  curls  hung  down, 
 
 Eyes  sparkled  joy,  more  bright  than  star  of  day. 
 
DRUMMOND. 
 
 149 
 
 The  flood  a  throne  her  rear’d 
 Of  waves,  most  like  that  Heaven 
 Where  beaming  stars  in  glory  turn  enspher’d : 
 
 The  air  stood  calm  and  clear, 
 
 No  sigh  by  winds  was  given, 
 
 Birds  left  to  sing,  herds  feed,  her  voice  to  hear. 
 
 “  World-wandering  sorry  wights, 
 
 Whom  nothing  can  content 
 Within  these  varying  lists  of  days  and  nights, 
 
 Whose  life,  ere  known  amiss, 
 
 In  glittering  griefs  is  spent, 
 
 Come  learn,”  said  she,  “  what  is  your  choicest  bliss: 
 
 “  From  toil  and  pressing  cares 
 Flow  ye ‘may  respite  find, 
 
 A  sanctuary  from  soul-thralling  snares; 
 
 A  port  to  harbour  sure, 
 
 In  spite  of  waves  and  wind, 
 
 Which  shall  when  time’s  swift  glass  is  run,  endure. 
 
 “  Not  happy  is  that  life 
 Which  you  as  happy  hold, 
 
 No,  hut  a  sea  of  fears,  a  field  of  strife, 
 
 Charged  on  a  throne  to  sit 
 With  diadems  of  gold, 
 
 Preserved  by  force,  and  still  observed  by  wit. 
 
 “  Huge  treasures  to  enjoy, 
 
 Of  all  her  gems  spoil  Inde, 
 
 All  Seres’  silk  in  garments  to  employ, 
 
 Deliciously  to  feed, 
 
 The  phoenix’  plumes  to  find 
 To  rest  upon,  or  deck  your  purple  bed : 
 
 “  Frail  beauty  to  abuse, 
 
 And,  wanton  Sybarites, 
 
 On  past  or  present  touch  of  sense  to  muse; 
 
 Never  to  hear  of  noise 
 But  what  the  ear  delights, 
 
 Sweet  music’s  charms,  or  charming  flatterer’s  voice. 
 
150 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 “  Nor  can  it  bliss  you  bring, 
 
 Hid  nature’s  depths  to  know, 
 
 Why  matter  changeth,  whence  each  form  doth  spring. 
 Nor  that  your  fame  should  range, 
 
 And  after-worlds  it  blow 
 From  Tanais  to  Nile,  from  Nile  to  Gange. 
 
 “  All  these  have  not  the  power 
 To  free  the  mind  from  fears, 
 
 Nor  hideous  horrour  can  allay  one  hour, 
 
 When  Death  in  stealth  doth  glance, 
 
 In  sickness  lurks  or  years, 
 
 And  wakes  the  soul  from  out  her  mortal  trance. 
 
 “  No,  but  blest  life  is  this, 
 
 With  chaste  and  pure  desire 
 To  turn  unto  the  load-star  of  all  bliss, 
 
 On  God  the  mind  to  rest, 
 
 Burnt  up  with  sacred  fire, 
 
 Possessing  Him  to  be  by  Him  possest: 
 
 t 
 
 “  When  to  the  balmy  east 
 Sun  doth  his  light  impart, 
 
 Or  when  he  diveth  in  the  lowly  west, 
 
 And  ravisheth  the  day, 
 
 With  spotless  hand  and  heart, 
 
 Him  cheerfully  to  praise,  and  to  Him  pray: 
 
 “  To  heed  each  action  so 
 As  ever  in  his  sight, 
 
 More  fearing  doing  ill  than  passive  woe ; 
 
 Not  to  seem  other  thing 
 Than  what  ye  are  aright ; 
 
 Never  to  do  what  may  repentance  bring: 
 
 “  Not  to  be  blown  with  pride, 
 
 Nor  moved  at  glory’s  breath, 
 
 Which  shadow-like  on  wings  of  time  doth  glide; 
 
 So  malice  to  disarm, 
 
 And  conquer  hasty  wrath, 
 
 As  to  do  good  to  those  that  work  your  harm : 
 
DRUMMOND. 
 
 “  To  hatch  no  base  desires, 
 
 Or  gold  or  land  to  gain, 
 
 Well  pleased  with  that  which  virtue  fair  acquires 
 To  have  the  wit  and  will 
 Consorting  in  one  strain, 
 
 Than  what  is  good  to  have  no  higher  skill : 
 
 “  Never  on  neighbour’s  goods, 
 
 With  cockatrice’s  eye 
 
 To  look,  nor  make  another’s  heaven  your  hell; 
 Nor  to  be  beauty’s  thrall; 
 
 All  fruitless  love  to  fly, 
 
 Yet  loving  still  a  love  transcendent  all; 
 
 “  A  love,  which,  while  it  burRS 
 The  soul  with  fairest  beams, 
 
 To’  that  increated  Sun  the  soul  it  turns, 
 
 And  makes  such  beauty  prove, 
 
 That,  if  sense  saw  her  gleams, 
 
 All  lookers-on  would  pine  and  die  for  love. 
 
 “  Who  such  a  life  doth  live 
 You  happy  even  may  call, 
 
 Ere  ruthless  Death  a  wished  end  him  give ; 
 
 And  after  then,  when  given, 
 
 More  happy  by  his  fall,  ' 
 
 For  humanes,  Earth,  enjoying  angels,  Heaven. 
 
 “  Swift  is  your  mortal  race, 
 
 And  glassy  is  the  field; 
 
 Vast  are  desires  not  limited  by  grace : 
 
 Life  a  weak  taper  is ; 
 
 Then  while  it  light  doth  yield, 
 
 Leave  flying  joys,  embrace  this  lasting  bliss.” 
 
 This  when  the  nymph  had  said, 
 
 She  dived  within  the  flood, 
 
 Whose  face  with  smiling  curls  long  after  staid ; 
 Then  sighs  did  zephyrs  press, 
 
 Birds  sang  from  every  wood, 
 
 And  echoes  rang,  “  This  was  true  happiness.” 
 
152 
 
 DRUMMOND. 
 
 The  Ascension  of  Christ. 
 
 “  Bright  portals  of  the  sky, 
 
 Emboss’d  with  sparkling  stars  ; 
 
 Doors  of  eternity, 
 
 With  diamantine  bars. 
 
 Your  arras  rich  uphold  ; 
 
 Loose  all  your  bolts  and  springs, 
 
 Ope  wide  your  leaves  of  gold  ; 
 
 That  in-  your  roofs  may  come  the  King  of  kings. 
 
 “  Scarf  d  in  a  rosy  cloud. 
 
 He  doth  ascend  the  air; 
 
 Straight  doth  the  Moon  him  shroud 
 With  her  resplendent  hair  : 
 
 The  next  encrystall’d  light 
 Submits  to  him  its  beams; 
 
 And  he  doth  trace  the  height 
 Of  that  fair  lamp  which  flames  of  beauty  streams. 
 
 “  He  towers  those  golden  bounds 
 He  did  to  Sun  bequeath; 
 
 The  higher  wandering  rounds 
 Are  found  his  feet  beneath  : 
 
 The  milky-way  comes  near. 
 
 Heaven’s  axle  seems  to  bend. 
 
 Above  each  turning  sphere 
 That,  robed  in  glory,  Heaven’s  King  may  ascend. 
 
 “  O  Well-spring  of  this  all! 
 
 Thy  Father’s  image  vive  ; 
 
 Word,  that  from  nought  did  call 
 What  is,  doth  reason,  live ! 
 
 The  soul’s  eternal  food, 
 
 Earth’s  joy,  delight  of  Heaven, 
 
 All  truth,  love,  beauty,  good, 
 
 To  Thee,  to  Thee,  be  praises  ever  givei>» 
 
 “  What  was  dismarshall’d  late 
 In  this  thy  noble  frame, 
 
 And  lost  the  prime  estate, 
 
 Hath  re-obtain’d  the  same. 
 
DRUMMOND. 
 
 153 
 
 Is  now  most  perfect  seen; 
 
 Streams,  which  diverted  were 
 (And,  troubled,  stray’d,  unclean) 
 
 From  their  first  source,  by  thee  home  turned  are. 
 
 “  By  thee,  that  blemish  old 
 Of  Eden’s  leprous  prince, 
 
 Which  on  his  race  took  hold, 
 
 And  him  exiled  from  thence, 
 
 Now  put  away  is  far ; 
 
 With  sword,  in  ireful  guise, 
 
 No  cherub  more  shall  bar 
 Poor  man  the  entrance  into  Paradise. 
 
 “  Now  each  ethereal  gate  -  - 
 
 To  him  hath  open’d  been  ; 
 
 And  Glory’s  King  in  state 
 His  palace  enters  in : 
 
 Now  come  is  this  High  Priest 
 In  the  most  holy  place, 
 
 Not  without  blood  addrest, 
 
 With  glory  Heaven,  the  Earth  to  crown  with  grace. 
 
 “  Stars,  which  all  eyes  were  late, 
 
 And  did  with  wonder  burn, 
 
 His  name  to  celebrate, 
 
 Jn  flaming  tongues  them  turn; 
 
 Their  orby  crystals  move 
 More  active  than  before, 
 
 And  entheate  from  above, 
 
 Their  sovereign  prince  laud,  glorify,  adore. 
 
 “  The  choirs  of  happy  souls, 
 
 Waked  with  that  music  sweet, 
 Whose  descant  care  controuls, 
 
 Their  Lord  in  triumph  meet ; 
 
 The  spotless  spirits  of  light 
 His  trophies  do  extol, 
 
 And,  arch’d  in  squadrons  bright. 
 Greet  their  great  Victor  in  his  capital. 
 
 c  3 
 
154 
 
 SYLVESTER 
 
 “  O  glory  of  the  Heaven  ! 
 
 O  sole  delight  of  Earth  ! 
 
 To  Thee  all  power  be  given, 
 
 God’s  uncreated  birth ; 
 
 Of  mankind  lover  true, 
 
 Endurer  of  his  wrong, 
 
 Who  dost  the  world  renew, 
 
 Still  be  thou  our  salvation,  and  our  song.” 
 
 From  top  of  Olivet  such  notes  did  rise, 
 
 When  man’s  Redeemer  did  transcend  the  skies. 
 
 JOSHUA  SYLVESTER. 
 
 Born  1563.  Died  1618. 
 
 Translated  “  Du  Bartas  his  Divine  Weekes  and  Workes and 
 wrote  sundry  small  poems,  of  little  value.  An  entertaining  Essay 
 has  been  published  by  Mr.  Dunster,  to  show  Milton’s  early  obli¬ 
 gations  to  Sylvester’s  Du  Bartas.  It  is  difficult  from  this  heavy, 
 yet  richly- freighted  volume,  to  make  any  extracts  of  moderate 
 length,  without  including,  with  the  precious  ore,  much  of  the  in¬ 
 separable  dross  attaching  to  it.  The  following  is  an  average  speci¬ 
 men  of  the  style  of  the  whole. 
 
 The  peopling  of  Europe  after  the  Flood. 
 
 Som  word’s  allusion  is  no  certain  ground 
 Whereon  a  lasting  monument  to  found: 
 
 Sith  fairest  rivers,  mountains  strangely  steep, 
 
 And  largest  seas,  never  so  vast  and  deep 
 (Though  self-eternall,  resting  still  the  same) 
 Through  sundry  chances  often  change  their  name: 
 Sith  it  befalls  not  alwayes,  that  Ills  seed 
 Who  builds  a  town,  doth  in  the  same  succeed : 
 And  (to  conclude)  sith  under  heaven,  no  race 
 Perpetually  possesseth  any  place : 
 
 But,  as  all  tenants  at  the  High  Lord’s  will, 
 
 We  hold  a  field,  a  forrest,  or  a  hill : 
 
SYLVESTER. 
 
 155 
 
 And  (as  when  winde  the  angry  ocean  moves) 
 
 Wave  hunteth  wave,  and  billow  billow  shoves ; 
 
 So  do  all  nations  iustle  each  the  other, 
 
 And  so  one  people  doth  pursue  another; 
 
 And  scarce  the  second  hath  a  first  un-housed, 
 
 Before  a  third  him  thence  again  have  rowsed. 
 
 The  sacrilegious  greedy  appetite 
 Of  gold  and  scepters  glistering  glorious  bright, 
 
 The  thirst  of  vengeance,  and  that  puffing  breath 
 Of  elvish  honour,  built  on  blood  and  death, 
 
 On  desolation,  rapes,  and  robberies, 
 
 Flames,  ruins,  wracks,  and  brutish  butcheries, 
 Un-bound  all  countries,  making  war-like  nations 
 Through  every  clymat  seek  new  habitations. 
 
 I  speak  not  heer  of  those  Arabian  rovers, 
 
 Numidian  shepheards,  or  Tartarian  drovers, 
 
 Who,  shifting  pastures  for  their  store  of  cattle, 
 
 Do  here  and  there  their  hayrie  tents  imbattle : 
 
 Like  the  black  swarms  of  swallows  swiftly-light, 
 Which  twice  a-yeer  cross  with  their  nimble  flight 
 The  pin  e-plough’ d  sea,  and  (pleased  with  purest  ayr) 
 Seek  every  season  for  a  fresh  repair : 
 
 But  other  Nations  fierce,  who  far  and  nigh 
 With  their  own  bloods-price  purchast  victory ; 
 
 Who,  better  knowing  how  to  win  then  wield ; 
 Conquer,  then  keep;  to  batter,  then  to  build; 
 
 And  bravely  choosing  rather  war  then  peace, 
 
 Have  over-spread  the  world  by  land  and  seas. 
 
 For,  as  Hymettus  and  Mount  Hybla  were 
 Not  over-spread  and  covered  in  one  year 
 With  busie  bees ;  but  yearly  twice  or  thrice 
 Each  hyve  supplying  new-com  colonies 
 (Heaven’s  tender  nurcelings)  to  those  fragrant  moun¬ 
 tains, 
 
 At  length  their  rocks  dissolved  in  hony  fountains  : 
 
 Or  rather,  as  two  fruitfull  elms  that  spred 
 Amidst  a  cloase  with  brooks  environed, 
 
 Ingender  other  elms  about  their  roots ; 
 
 Those,  other  still ;  and  still,  new-springing  shoots 
 So  over-growe  the  ground,  that  in  tewe  yeers 
 The  sometimes-mead  a  great  thick  grove  appears: 
 
156 
 
 SYLVESTER. 
 
 Even  so  the’  ambitious  Babel-building  rout, 
 
 Disperst,  at  first  go  seat  themselves  about 
 Mesopotamia:  after  (by  degrees) 
 
 Their  happy  spawn,  in  sundry  colonies 
 Crossing  from  sea  to  sea,  from  land  to  land, 
 
 All  the  green-mantled  nether  globe  hath  maim’d : 
 
 So  that,  except  the’  Almighty  (glorious  fudge 
 Of  quick  and  dead)  this  world’s  ill  dayes  abbridge, 
 Tlier  shall  no  soyl  so  wiide  and  savage  be, 
 
 But  shall  be  shadowed  by  great  Adam’s  Tree. 
 
 Therefore,  those  countries  neerest  Tigris’  spring, 
 
 In  those  first  ages  were  most  flourishing, 
 
 Most  spoken-of,  first  warriours,  first  that  guide, 
 
 And  give  the  law  to  all  the  earth  beside. 
 
 Babylon  (living  under  the’  awfull  grace 
 Of  Royall  Greatnes)  swayed  the’  imperiall  mace, 
 Before  the  Greeks  had  any  town  at  all, 
 
 Or  warbling  lute  had  built  the  Dircean  wall: 
 
 Yer  Gauls  had  houses,  Latins  burgages, 
 
 Our  Britains  tents,  or  Germans  cottages. 
 
 The  Hebrews  had  with  angels’  conversation, 
 
 Held  the’  idol-altars  in  abhomination, 
 
 Knew  the  Unknowen,  with  eyes  of  faith  they  saw 
 The’  invisible  Messias,  in  the  law: 
 
 The  Chaldees,  audit  of  the  stars  had  made, 
 
 Had  measured  Heaven,  conceived  how  the’  Earth’s 
 thick  shade 
 
 Eelipst  the  silver  brows  of  Cynthia  bright, 
 
 And  her  brown  shadow  quencht  her  brother’s  light. 
 
 The  Memphian  priests  were  deep  philosophers, 
 And  curious  gazers  on  the  sacred  stars, 
 
 Searchers  of  Nature,  and  great  mathematicks ; 
 
 Yer  any  letter,  knew  the  ancient’st  Attiks. 
 
 Proud  iEgypt  glistered  all  with  golden  plate, 
 
 Yer  the  lame  Lemnian  (under  AStna  grate) 
 
 Had  hammer’d  yron  ;  or  the  Vultur-rented 
 Prometheus,  ’mong  the  Greeks,  had  fire  invented. 
 
 Gauls  were  not  yet;  or,  were  they  (at  the  least) 
 They  were  but  ^vilde;  their  habit,  plumes;  their  feast, 
 But  mast  and  acorns,  for  the  which  they  gap’t 
 Under  the  trees  when  any  winde  had  hapt; 
 
CHAPMAN*. 
 
 157 
 
 When  the  bold  Tyrians  (greedy  after  gain) 
 
 Durst,  rowe  about  the  salt-blew  Africk  main;  t 
 Tratfikt  abroad,  in  scarlet  robes  were  drest, 
 
 And  pomp  and  pleasure  Euphrates  possest. 
 
 For,  as  a  stone,  that  midst  a  pond  ye  fling, 
 
 About  his  fall  first  forms  a  little  ring, 
 
 Wherein,  new  circles  one  in  other  growing 
 (Through  the  smooth  waters  gentle-gentle  flowing) 
 Still  one  the  other  more  and  more  compell 
 From  the  pond’s  centre,  where  the  stone  first  leb; 
 Till  at  the  last  the  largest  of  the  rounds 
 From  side  to  side  ’gainst  every  bank  rebounds : 
 
 So,  from  the’  earth’s  centre  (which  I  beer  suppose 
 About  the  place  where  God  did  tongues  transpose; 
 Man  (day  by  day  his  wit  repolishing) 
 
 Makes  all  the  arts  through  all  the  earth  to  spring, 
 As  he  doth  spread,  and  shed  in  divers  shoals 
 His  fruitfull  offspring  under  both  the  poles. 
 
 GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 
 
 Born  1527.  Died  1604. 
 
 Principal  Works  -.—Translation  of  Homer,  Tragedies,  &c.  In 
 the  following  extracts  from  the  latter,  there  is  a  stern  but  nobm 
 strength  of  sentiment,  with  diction  corresponding.  Had  Chapman 
 translated  Homer  into  nervous  blank  verse  like  this,  he  won  U 
 have  left  little  for  either  Pope  or  Cowper  to  do-after  him. 
 
 '  Virtue  the  only  safe  Pilot. 
 
 Man  is  a  torch  borne  in  the  wind ;  a  dream 
 But  of  a  shadow,  summ’d  with  all  his  substance; 
 And  as  great  seamen,  using  all  their  wealth 
 And  skills  in  Neptune’s  deep  invisible  paths, 
 
 In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribb’d  with  brass, 
 
 To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world, 
 
 When  they  have  done  it  (coming  near  their  haven) 
 
CHAPMAN. 
 
 158 
 
 * 
 
 Are  fain  to  give  a  warning-piece,  and  call 
 A  poor  stayed  fisherman,  that  never  pass’d 
 His  country’s  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in : 
 So,  when  we  wander  farthest  through  the  waves 
 Of  glassy  glory,  and  the  gulphs  of  state, 
 
 Topt  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches, 
 
 As  if  each  private  arm  would  sphere  the  earth. 
 We  must  to  Virtue  for  her  guide  resort, 
 
 Or  we  shall  shipwreck  in  our  safest  port. 
 
 Guilt. 
 
 - Sin  is  a  coward,  and  insults 
 
 But  on  our  weakness,  in  his  truest  valour; 
 
 And  so  our  ignorance  tames  us,  that  we  let 
 His  shadows  frighten  us; — like  empty  clouds. 
 
 In  which  our  faulty  apprehensions  forge 
 The  forms  of  dragons,  lions,  elephants, 
 
 When  they  hold  no  proportion. — — 
 
 — - —  Before  I  was  secure  ’gainst  death  and  hell; 
 But  now  am  subject  to  the  heartless  fear 
 Of  every  shadow  and  of  every  breath, 
 
 And  would  change  firmness  with  an  aspen-leaf; 
 So  confident  a  spotless  conscience  is; 
 
 So  weak  a  guilty;  oh  !  the  dangerous  siege 
 Sin  lays  about  us  !  and  the  tyranny 
 He  exercises,  when  he  hath  expugn’d ! 
 
 Like  to  the  horror  of  a  winter’s  thunder, 
 
 Mix’d  with  a  gushing  storm,  that  suffer  nothing 
 To  stir  abroad  on  earth,  but  their  own  rages, 
 
 Is  sin; — when  it  hath  gather’d  head  above  us, 
 
 No  roof,  no  shelter  can  secure  us  so, 
 
 But  he  will  drown  our  cheeks  in  fear  or  woe. 
 
 The  dangerous  Prosperity  of  the  Wicked . 
 
 As  you  may  see  a  mighty  promontory, 
 
 More  digg’d  and  under-eaten  than  can  warrant 
 
 t 
 
CHAPMAN. 
 
 159 
 
 A  safe  supportance  to  his  hanging  brows  ; 
 
 All  passengers  avoid  him,  shun  all  ground, 
 
 That  lies  within  his  shadow,  and  bear  still 
 A  flying  eye  upon  him : — so,  great  men, 
 
 Corrupted  in  their  grounds,  and  building  out 
 Too  swelling  fronts  for  their  foundations, 
 
 When  most  they  should  be  propt  are  most  forsaken, 
 And  men  will  rather  thrust  into  the  storms 
 Of  better-grounded  states,  than  take  a  shelter 
 Beneath  their  ruinous  and  fearful  weight : 
 
 Yet  they  so  ever  see  their  faulty  basis, 
 
 That  they  remain  securer  in  conceit; 
 
 And  that  security  doth  worse  presage 
 
 Their  near  destruction  than  their  eaten  grounds. 
 
 A  King  s  blessing  on  his  Infant  Son. 
 
 [Henry  IV.  of  France  speaks  in  reference  to  the  civil  wars  whick 
 
 he  had  quelled.] 
 
 Have  thy  old  Father’s  angel  for  thy  guide ; 
 
 Redoubled  be  his  spirit  in  thy  breast ; 
 
 Who,  when  this  state  ran,  like  a  turbulent  sea, 
 
 In  civil  hates  and  bloody  enmity, 
 
 Their  wraths  and  envies,  like  so  many  winds, 
 
 Settled  and  burst: — and,  like  the  halcyon’s  birth, 
 
 Be  thine  to  bring  a  calm  upon  the  shore, 
 
 In  which  the  eyes  of  war  may  ever  sleep, 
 
 As  overmatcht  with  former  massacres, 
 
 When  guilty,  mad  noblesse  fed  on  noblesse; 
 
 All  the  sweet  plenty  of  the  realm  exhausted  : 
 
 When  the  nak’d  merchant  was  pursued  for  spoil, 
 When  the  poor  peasants  frighted  neediest  thieves 
 With  their  bare  leanness,  nothing  left  of  them 
 But  meagre  carcases  sustain’d  with  air. 
 
 Wandering  like  ghosts  affrighted  from  their  graves : 
 When,  with  the  often  and  incessant  sounds, 
 
 The  very  beasts  knew  the  alarum  bell, 
 
 And  hearing  it,  ran  bellowing  to  their  homes : 
 
160 
 
 CHAPMAN. 
 
 _ From  which  unchristian  broils  and  homicides, 
 
 Let  the  religious  sword  of  justice  free 
 Thee  and  thy  kingdoms,  govern’d  after  me. 
 
 Kingly  Justice. 
 
 t  Henry  IV.  again,  meditating  on  the  delinquency  of  his  favourite 
 L  '  who  had  conspired  against  his  life.] 
 
 O  Thou  !  that  govern’st  the  keen  sword  of  kings, 
 Direct  mine  arm  in  this  importantstroke, 
 
 Or  hold  it,  being  advanced.  The  weight  of  blood, 
 Even  of  the  basest  subject,  doth  exact 
 Deep  consultation  in  the  highest  king : 
 
 For,  in  one  subject,  death’s  unjust  affrights, 
 
 Passions  and  pains  (though  he  be  ne’er  so  poor,) 
 
 Ask  more  remorse  than  the  voluptuous  spleens 
 Of  all  kings  in  the  world  deserve  respect. 
 
 He  should  be  born  gray-headed,  that  will  bear 
 The  sword  of  empire ;  judgment  of  the  life, 
 
 Free  state  and  reputation  of  a  man, 
 
 I!  he  be  just  and  worthy,  dwells  so  dark, 
 
 That  it  denies  access  to  sun  and  moon ; 
 
 The  soul’s  eye,  sharpen’d  with  that  sacred  Light, 
 
 Of  whom  the  sun  itself  is  but  a  beam, 
 
 Must  onlv  give  that  judgment.  Oh  !  how  much 
 Err  those  kings,  then,  that  play  with  life  and  dead), 
 And  nothing  put  into  their  serious  states, 
 
 Put  humour  and  their  lusts!  For  which  alone 
 Men  long  for  kingdoms,  whose  huge  counterpoise 
 In  cares  and  dangers,  could  a  fool  comprise, 
 
 He  would  not  be  a  king,  but  would  be  wise. 
 
OVERBURY - SHIRLEY 
 
 161 
 
 SIR  THOMAS  OVERBURY. 
 
 Born  1581.  Died  1613. 
 
 Author  of  “  A  Wife,"  and  other  small  pieces  in  prose  and  verse. 
 He  was  poisoned  when  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  on  some  slight 
 pretence,  by  order  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Somerset,  at  the  instiga¬ 
 tion  of  Lady  Frances  Howard,  whom  he  had  married,  soon  after 
 she  had  been  divorced  from  her  former  husband,  the  Earl  of 
 Essex ; — a  match  from  which  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  had  con¬ 
 scientiously  endeavoured  to  dissuade  the  former  nobleman.  Ihe 
 following  epitaph  for  himself,  written  nearly  in  the  article  of 
 death,  under  these  circumstances,  becomes  very  affecting. 
 
 Now,  measured  out  my  days,  ’tis  here  I  rest; 
 
 That  is  my  body,  but  my  soul,  his  guest. 
 
 Is  hence  ascended  whither  neither  time, 
 
 Nor  faith  nor  hope,  but  only  love  can  climb; 
 
 Where  being  now  enlighten’d  she  doth  know 
 The  truth  of  all  things  which  are  talk’d  below; 
 
 Only  this  dust  shall  here  in  pawn  remain, 
 
 That  when  the  world  dissolves  she’ll  come  again. 
 
 JAMES  SHIRLEY. 
 
 Born  1594.  Died  1666. 
 Author  of  many  Dramatic  works. 
 
 Death  the  conqueror  of  all . 
 
 The  glories  of  our  mortal  state 
 Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
 There  is  no  armour  against  Fate  ; 
 
 Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings ; 
 Sceptre  and  crown 
 Must  tumble  down, 
 
 And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
 
 With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 
 
162 
 
 RANDOLPH. 
 
 Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
 And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill j 
 But  their  strong  nerves  at  length  must  yield ; 
 They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
 
 Early  or  late 
 They  stoop  to  Fate, 
 
 And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
 When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 
 
 The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 
 
 Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
 Upon  Death’s  purple  altar  now, 
 
 See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 
 
 All  heads  must  come 
 To  the  cold  tomb ; 
 
 Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
 
 Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  from  the  dust. 
 
 THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 
 
 Born  1605.  Died  1634. 
 
 Principal  Works ' The  Muses'  Looking  Glass,  Amynlas,  and 
 
 Miscellanies. 
 
 On  the  Passion  of  Christ. 
 
 What  rends  the  temple’s  vail,  where  is  day  gope? 
 How  can  a  generall  darknesse  cloud  the  sun  ? 
 Astrologers  in  vaine  their  skill  doe  try ; 
 
 Nature  must  needs  be  sicke,  when  God  can  dye. 
 
 Precepts. 
 
 First  worship  God  ; — he  that  forgets  to  pray 
 Bids  not  himself  good-morrow,  nor  good-day  : 
 
 Let  thy  first  labour  be  to  purge  thy  sin, 
 
 And  serve  Him  first,  whence  all  things  did  begin. 
 
RANDOLPH. 
 
 163 
 
 Honour  thy  parents  to  prolong  thine  end ; 
 
 With  them,  though  for  a  truth,  doe  not  contend; 
 Whoever  makes  his  father’s  heart  to  bleed 
 Shall  have  a  child  that  will  avenge  the  deed. 
 
 Think  that  is  just;  ’tis  not  enough  to  doe, 
 
 Unlesse  thy  very  thoughts  are  upright  too. 
 
 Defend  the  truth ;  for  that,  who  will  not  dye, 
 
 A  coward  is,  and  gives  himselfe  the  lye. 
 
 Honour  the  king,  as  sonnes  their  parents  doe, 
 
 For  he’s  thy  father,  and  thy  country’s  too. 
 
 Swear  not ;  an  oath  is  like  a  dangerous  dart 
 Which,  shot,  rebounds  to  strike  the  shooter’s  heart. 
 
 Fly  drunkennesse,  whose  vile  incontinence 
 Takes  both  away  thy  reason  and  thy  sence, 
 
 Till,  with  Circsean  cups,  thy  mind  possest 
 Leaves  to  be  man,  and  wholly  turnes  to  beast: 
 Think,  while  thou  swallowest  the  capacious  bowle, 
 Thou  let’st  in  seas,  to  wrecke  and  drowne  the  soule; 
 That  hell  is  open,  to  remembrance  call, 
 
 And  thinke  how  subject  drunkards  are  to  fall. 
 
 To  doubtfull  matters  doe  not  headlong  run, 
 
 What’s  well  left  off  were  better  not  begun. 
 
 First  thinke,  and  if  thy  thoughts  approve  thy  will, 
 Then  speake,  and,  after,  that  thou  speak’st  fulfill. 
 
 So  live  with  men,  as  if  God’s  curious  eye 
 Did  every  where  into  thine  actions  prye ; 
 
 For  never  yet  was  sinne  so  void  of  sence, 
 
 So  fully  faced  with  brazen  impudence, 
 
 As  that  it  durst,  before  men’s  eyes,  commit 
 Their  brutal  lusts,  lest  they  should  witnesse  it; 
 
 How  dare  they  then  offend,  when  God  shall  see, 
 That  must  alone  both  judge  and  jury  bee. 
 
164 
 
 KING. 
 
 Strive  to  live  well;  tread  in  the  upright  wayes, 
 And  rather  count  thine  actions  than  thy  dayes, 
 Then  thou  hast  lived  enough  among  us  here, 
 For  every  daye  well-spent  I  count  a  yeare; 
 
 Live  well;  and  then,  how  soon  soe’er  thou  dye, 
 Thou  art  of  age  to  claim  eternity. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  a  Nightingale. 
 
 Goe,  solitary  wood,  and  henceforth  bee 
 Acquainted  with  no  other  harmonic 
 Than  the  pye’s  chattering,  and  the  shreeking  note 
 Of  bodeing  owles,  and  fatal  raven’s  throate  ; 
 
 Thy  sweetest  chaunter’s  dead,  that  warbled  forth 
 Layes,  that  might  tempests  calme,  and  still  the  north, 
 And  call  down  angels  from  their  glorious  sphere 
 To  heare  her  songs,  and  learne  new  anthemes  here. 
 
 HENRY  KING,  Bishop  of  Chichester. 
 
 Born  1591.  Died  1669. 
 
 Author  of  Miscellaneous  Poems ,  and  a  Version  of  the  Psalms. 
 My  midnight  Meditation. 
 
 Ill-busied  Man !  why  should’st  thou  take  such  care 
 To  lengthen  out  thy  life’s  short  kalendar? 
 
 When  every  spectacle  thou  look’st  upon 
 Presents  and  acts  thy  execution. 
 
 Each  drooping  season  and  each  flower  doth  cry, 
 
 “  Fooll  as  1  fade  and  wither,  thou  must  dy.” 
 
 The  beating  of  thy  pulse  (when  thou  art  well) 
 
 Is  just  the  tolling  of  thy  passing  bell: 
 
 Night  is  thy  hearse,  whose  sable  canopie 
 Covers  alike  deceased  day  and  thee. 
 
KING. 
 
 165 
 
 And  all  those  weeping  dewes  which  nightly  fall, 
 Are  but  the  tears  shed  for  thy  funerall. 
 
 The  Exequy. 
 
 £On  the  Death  of  a  beloved  Wife.] 
 
 Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  Saint 
 Insteed  of  dirges  this  complaint; 
 
 And  for  sweet  flowres  to  crown  thy  hearse, 
 Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 
 From  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might’st  see 
 Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 
 
 Dear  loss  !  Since  thy  untimely  fate, 
 
 My  task  hath  been  to  meditate 
 On  thee,  on  thee :  thou  art  the  book, 
 
 The  library  whereon  I  look 
 
 Though  almost  blind,  for  thee  (loved  clay) 
 
 I  languish  out,  not  live  the  day, 
 
 Using  no  other  exercise 
 
 But  what  I  practise  with  mine  eyes  : 
 
 By  which  wet  glasses  I  find  out 
 How  lazily  Time  creeps  about 
 To  one  that  mourns  :  this,  onely  this 
 My  exercise  and  business  is: 
 
 So  I  compute  the  weary  lioures 
 With  sighs  dissolved  into  show’res. 
 
 I  could  allow  thee  for  a  time 
 To  darken  me  and  my  sad  clime, 
 
 Were  it  a  month,  a  year,  or  ten, 
 
 I  would  thy  exile  live  till  then; 
 
 And  all  that  space  my  mirth  adjourn, 
 
 So  thou  would’st  promise  to  return  ; 
 
 And  putting  off  thy  ashy  shrowd 
 At  length  disperse  this  sorrow’s  cloud. 
 
 But,  woe  is  me  !  the  longest  date 
 Too  narrow  is  to  calculate 
 These  empty  hopes:  never  shall  I 
 Be  so  much  blest  as  to  descry 
 A  glimpse  of  thee,  till  that  day  come 
 Which  shall  the  earth  to  cinders  doome, 
 
166 
 
 KING, 
 
 And  a  fierce  feaver  must  calcine 
 The  body  of  this  world  like  thine, 
 
 (My  little  world!)  that  fit  of  fire 
 Once  off,  our  bodies  shall  aspire 
 To  our  soules  bliss :  then  we  shall  rise, 
 
 And  view  ourselves  with  cleerer  eyes 
 In  that  calm  region,  where  no  night 
 Can  hide  us  from  each  other’s  sight. 
 
 Mean  time,  thou  hast  her,  Earth:  much  good 
 May  my  harm  do  thee,  since  it  stood 
 With  Heaven’s  will  I  might  not  call 
 Her  longer  mine,  I  give  thee  all 
 My  short-lived  right  and  interest 
 In  her,  whom  living  I  loved  best. 
 
 Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 
 Never  to  be  disquieted  ! 
 
 My  last  good  night !  thou  wilt  not  wake 
 Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake : 
 
 Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 
 Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 
 It  so  much  loves;  and  fill  the  room 
 My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 
 
 Stay  for  me  there ;  I  will  not  fade 
 To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 
 
 And  think  not  much  of  my  delay, 
 
 I  am  already  on  the  way, 
 
 And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
 Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 
 
 Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
 
 And  everv  houre  a  step  towaids  thee. 
 
 At  night  when  I  betake  to  rest, 
 
 Next  morn  I  rise  neerer  my  west 
 Of  life,  almost  by  eight  houres  saile, 
 
 Then  when  sleep  breath’d  his  drowsie  gale. 
 
 Thus  from  the  Sun  my  bottom  stears 
 And  my  dayes  compass. downward  bears  : 
 
 Nor  labour  I  to  stemine  the  tide 
 Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 
 
 ’Tis  true,  with  shame  and  grief  I  yield, 
 Thou  like  the  vann  first  took’st  the  field, 
 
KING. 
 
 167 
 
 And  gotten  hast  the  victory 
 
 In  thus  adventuring  to  dy 
 
 Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 
 
 A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 
 
 But  heark  !  my  pulse  like  a  soft  drum 
 Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come ; 
 And  slow  howere  my  marches  be, 
 
 I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 
 
 The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on, 
 
 And  wait  my  dissolution 
 With  hope  and  comfort  ;  Dear  (forgive 
 The  crime)  I  am  content  to  live 
 Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart, 
 
 Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 
 
 \ 
 
 On  two  Children  dying  of  one  disease,  and  buried  in  one 
 
 grave. 
 
 Brought  forth  in  sorrow,  and  bred  up  in  care, 
 
 Two  tender  Children  here  entombed  are  : 
 
 One  place,  one  sire,  one  womb  their  being  gave, 
 
 They  had  one  mortal  sickness,  and  one  grave, 
 
 And  though  they  cannot  number  many  years 
 In  their  account,  yet  with  their  parents  tears 
 This  comfort  mingles;  though  their  dayes  were  few 
 They  scarcely  sinne,  but  never  sorrow  knew : 
 
 So  that  they  well  might  boast,  they  carry’d  hence 
 WThat  riper  ages  lose,  their  innocence. 
 
 You  pretty  losses,  that  revive  the  fate 
 Which  in  your  mother  death  did  antedate, 
 
 O  let  my  high-swoln  grief  distill  on  you 
 The  saddest  drops  of  a  parentall  dew  : 
 
 You  ask  no  other  dower  then  what  my  eyes 
 Lay  out  on  your  untimely  exequies: 
 
 When  once  I  have  discharged  that  mournfull  skore. 
 Heaven  hath  decreed  you  ne’re  shall  cost  me  more, 
 Since  you  release  and  quit  my  borrow’d  trust, 
 
 By  taking  this  inheritance  of  dust. 
 
168 
 
 BEAUMONT. 
 
 SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT. 
 
 Born  1582.  Died  1628. 
 
 Author  of  Bosworth-field,  and  other  Poems. 
 
 Of  my  deare  Sonne ,  Gervase  Beaumont. 
 
 Can  I,  who  have  for  others  oft  compiled 
 The  songs  of  death,  forget  my  sweetest  child, 
 Which,  like  a  flower  cruslit,  with  a  blast  is  dead, 
 And  ere  full  time  hangs  downe  his  smiling  head, 
 Expecting  with  cleare  hope  to  live  anew, 
 
 Among  the  angels  fed  with  heavenly  dew? 
 
 We  have  this  signe  of  joy,  that  many  dayes, 
 
 While  on  the  earth  his  struggling  spirit  stayes, 
 
 The  name  of  Iesus  in  his  mouth  containes 
 His  onely  food,  his  sleepe,  his  ease  from  paines. 
 
 O  may  that  sound  be  rooted  in  my  mind. 
 
 Of  which  in  him  such  strong  effect  I  find. 
 
 Deare  Lord,  receive  my  sonne,  whose  winning  love 
 To  me  was  like  a  friendship,  farre  above 
 The  course  of  nature,  or  his  tender  age, 
 
 Whose  lookes  could  all  my  bitter  griefes  asswage ; 
 Let  his  pure  soule,  ordain’d  seven  yeeres  to  be 
 In  that  fraile  body,  which  was  part  of  me, 
 
 Remaine  my  pledge  in  Heaven,  as  sent  to  shew, 
 How  to  this  port  at  every  step  I  goe. 
 
 In  Desolation . 
 
 O  thou,  who  sweetly  bend’st  my  stubborne  will, 
 Who  send’st  thy  stripes  to  teach,  and  not  to  kill: 
 Thy  chearefull  face  from  me  no  longer  hide, 
 Withdraw  these  clouds,  the  scourges  of  my  pride ; 
 I  sinke  to  Hell,  if  I  be  lower  throwne : 
 
 I  see  what  man  is,  being  left  alone. 
 
BEAUMONT. 
 
 169 
 
 My  substance,  which  from  nothing  did  begin, 
 
 Is  worse  then  nothing  by  the  waight  of  sin : 
 
 I  see  my  selfe  in  such  a  wretched  state, 
 
 As  neither  thoughts  conceive,  or  words  relate. 
 
 How  great  a  distance  parts  us!  for  in  thee 
 Is  endlesse  good,  and  boundlesse  ill  in  mee. 
 
 All  creatures  prove  me  abiect,  but  how  low, 
 
 Thou  onely  know’st,  and  teaehest  me  to  know. 
 
 To  paint  this-basenesse,  nature  is  too  base; 
 
 This  darknesse  yeelds  not  but  to  beames  of  grace. 
 Where  shall  I  then  this  piercing  splendour  find  ? 
 
 Or  found,  how  shall  it  guide  me,  being  blind  ? 
 
 Grace  is  a  taste  of  blisse,  a  glorious  gift, 
 
 Which  can  the  soule  to  heavenly  comforts  lift. 
 
 It  will  not  shine  to  me,  whose  mind  is  drown’d 
 In  sorrowes,  and  with  worldly  troubles  bound. 
 
 It  will  not  daigne  within  that  house  to  dwell, 
 
 Where  drinesse  raignes,  and  proud  distractions  swell. 
 Perhaps  it  sought  me  in  those  lightsome  dayes 
 Of  my  first  fervour,  when  few  winds  did  raise 
 The  waves,  and  ere  they  could  full  strength  obtaine, 
 Some  whispering  gale  straight  charmed  them  downe 
 again : 
 
 When  all  seem’d  calm,  and  yet  the  Virgin’s  child, 
 
 On  my  devotions  in  his  manger  smil’d ; 
 
 While  then  I  simply  walkt,  nor  heed  could  take 
 Of  complacence,  that  slye  deceitfull  snake; 
 
 When  yet  I  had  not  dangerously  refused 
 So  many  calls  to  vertue,  nor  abused 
 The  spring  of  life,  which  I  so  oft  enioy’d, 
 
 Nor  made  so  many  good  intentions  voy’d, 
 
 Deserving  thus  that  grace  should  quite  depart, 
 
 And  dreadfull  hardnesse  should  possesse  my  heart : 
 Yet  in  that  state  this  onely  good  I  found, 
 
 That  fewer  spots  did  then  my  conscience  wound, 
 Though  who  can  censure,  whether  in  those  times, 
 
 The  want  of  feeling  seem’d  the  want  of  crimes? 
 
 If  solid  vertues  dwell  not  but  in  paine, 
 
 I  will  not  wish  that  golden  age  againe, 
 
 Because  it  flow’d  with  sensible  delights 
 Ot  heavenly  things  :  God  hath  created  nights 
 
 h  '  32 
 
170 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 As  well  as  dayes,  to  decke  the  varied  globe; 
 
 Grace  comes  as  oft  clad  in  the  dusky  robe 
 Of  desolation,  as  in  white  attire, 
 
 Which  better  fits  the  bright  celestiall  quire. 
 
 Some  in  foule  seasons  perish  through  despaire, 
 
 But  more  thro’  boldnesse  when  the  daies  are  faire. 
 This  then  must  be  the  med’cine  for  my  woes, 
 
 To  yeeld  to  what  my  Saviour  shall  dispose : 
 
 To  glory  in  my  basenesse,  to  reioyce 
 In  mine  afflictions,  to  obey  his  voyce, 
 
 As  well  when  threatnings  my  defects  reprove, 
 
 As  when  I  cherisbt  am  with  words  of  love, 
 
 To  say  to  him,  in  every  time  and  place, 
 
 “  Withdraw  thy  comforts,  so  thou  leave  thy  grace.” 
 
 GILES  FLETCHER. 
 
 Born  1588.  Died  1623. 
 
 Author  of  Christ's  Victory  and  Triumph ,  in  four  Cantos;  one  of 
 the  most  interesting  religious  poems  in  our  language,  and  worthy 
 to  be  better  known  than  it  is,  as  the  annexed  specimens  will  show. 
 
 Justice  and  Mercy  are  represented  pleading  before  the  Almighty, 
 in  presence  of  all  the  host  of  heaven,  the  former  for  the  punish¬ 
 ment,  the  latter  for  the  salvation  of  sinners.  The  picture  of  each 
 is  thus  drawn. 
 
 "S 
 
 Justice. 
 
 But  Justice  bad  no  sooner  Mercy  seen 
 Smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  her  father’s  brow, 
 
 But  up  she  starts,  and  throws  herself  between ; 
 
 As  when  a  vapour  from  a  moory  slough, 
 
 Meeting  with  fresh  Eons,  that  but  now 
 
 Open’d  the  world  which  all  in  darkness  lay, 
 
 Doth  Heaven’s  bright  face  of  his  rays  disarray. 
 
 And  sails  the  smiling  orient  of  the  springing  day. 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 171 
 
 She  was  a  virgin  of  austere  regard: 
 
 Not  as  the  world  esteems  her,  deaf  and  blind ; 
 
 But  as  the  eagle,  that  hath  oft  compared 
 Her  eye  with  Heaven’s,  so,  and  more  brightly  shined 
 Her  lamping  sight :  for  she  the  same  could  wind 
 Into  the  solid  heart,  and  with  her  ears, 
 
 The  silence  of  the  thought  loud  speaking  hears, 
 
 And  in  one  hand  a  pair  of  even  scales  she  wears. 
 
 No  riot  of  affection  revel  kept 
 Within  her  breast,  but  a  still  apathy 
 Possessed  all  her  soul,  which  softly  slept, 
 
 Securely,  without  tempest;  no  sad  cry 
 Awakes  her  pity,  but  wrong’d  poverty, 
 
 Sending  his  eyes  to  Heaven  swimming  in  tears, 
 With  hideous  clamours  ever  struck  her  ears, 
 Whetting  the  blazing  sword  that  in  her  hands  she  bears. 
 
 Upon  two  stony  tables,  spread  before  her, 
 
 She  lean’d  her  bosom,  more  than  stony  hard, 
 
 There  slept  the’  impartial  judge,  and  strict  restorer 
 Of  wrong,  or  right,  with  pain,  or  with  reward, 
 
 There  hung  the  score  of  all  our  debts,  the  card 
 
 Where  good,  and  bad,  and  life,  and  death,  were 
 painted : 
 
 Was  never  heart  of  mortal  so  untainted, 
 
 But  when  that  scroll  was  read,  with  thousand  terrours 
 fainted. 
 
 Witness  the  thunder  that  mount  Sinai  heard, 
 
 When  all  the  hill  with  fiery  clouds  did  flame, 
 
 And  wandering  Israel,  with  the  sight  afear’d, 
 
 Blinded  with  seeing,  durst  not  touch  the  same, 
 
 But  like  a  wood  of  shaking  leaves  became. 
 
 On  this  dread  Justice,  she,  the  living  law, 
 
 Bowing  herself  with  a  majestic  awe, 
 
 All  Heaven,  to  hear  her  speech,  did  into  silence  draw. 
 
 [Here  follows  the  speech  of  Justice,  which  is  too  long  for  insertion, 
 and  will  not  admit  of  abridgment.  The  effect  of  her  arguments 
 is  thus  stated.] 
 
 She  ended,  and  the  heavenly  hierarchies, 
 
 Burning  in  zeal,  thickly  imbranded  were ; 
 
 h  2 
 
17  2 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 Like  to  an  army  that  alarum  cries, 
 
 And  every  one  shakes  his  ydreaded  spear, 
 
 And  the  Almighty’s  self,  as  he  would  tear 
 
 1  he  Earth,  and  her  firm  basis  quite  in  sunder, 
 Flamed  all  in  just  revenge,  and  mighty  thunder: 
 Heaven  stole  itself  from  Earth  by  clouds  that  moist¬ 
 en’d  under. 
 
 Mercy. 
 
 As  when  the  cheerful  Sun,  damping  wide, 
 
 Glads  all  the  world  with  his  uprising  ray, 
 
 And  woos  the  widow’d  Earth  afresh  to  pride, 
 
 And  paints  her  bosom  with  the  flowery  May, 
 
 His  silent  sister  steals  him  quite  away,- 
 Wrapt  in  a  sable  cloud,  from  mortal  eyes, 
 
 The  hasty  stars  at  noon  begin  to  rise, 
 
 And  headlong  to  his  early  roost  the  sparrow  flies: 
 
 But  soon  as  lie  again  disliadowed  is, 
 
 Restoring  the  blind  world  his  blemish’d  sight, 
 
 As  though  another  day  were  newly  his, 
 
 The  coz’ned  birds  busily  take  their  flight, 
 
 And  wonder  at  the  shortness  of  the  night: 
 
 So  Mercy  once  again  herself  displays 
 Out  from  her  sister’s  cloud,  and  open  lays 
 Those  sunshine  looks,  whose  beams  would  dim  a 
 thousand  days. 
 
 [Like  that  of  Justice,  the  speech  of  Mercy  is  too  long  for  quota¬ 
 tion.  The  argument  is  thus  happily  decided  in  her  favour.] 
 
 With  that  the  mighty  thunder  dropt  away 
 From  God’s  unwary  arm,  now  milder  grown, 
 
 And  melted  into  tears;  as  if  to  pray 
 For  pardon,  and  for  pity,  it  had  known, 
 
 That  should  have  been  for  sacred  vengeance  thrown  : 
 There  too  the  armies  angelic  devow’d 
 Their  former  rage,  and  all  to  Mercy  bow’d, 
 
 Their  broken  weapons  at  her  feet  they  gladly  strow’U. 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 173 
 
 f<  Bring,  bring,  ye  Graces,  all  your  silver  flaskets, 
 Painted  with  every  choicest  flower  that  grows, 
 
 That  I  may  soon  unflower  your  fragrant  baskets, 
 
 To  strow  the  fields  with  odours  where  he  goes, 
 
 Let  whatsoe’er  he  treads  on  be  a  rose.” 
 
 So  down  she  let  her  eyelids  fall,  to  shine 
 Upon  the  rivers  of  bright  Palestine, 
 
 Whose  woods  drop  honey,  and  her  rivers  skip  with 
 wine. 
 
 Christ,  tempted  in  the  Wilderness. 
 
 £The  following  passage  has  more  than  once  been  pointed  out  as 
 having  probably  suggested  the  corresponding  scene  in  Milton's 
 Paradise  Regained.] 
 
 At  length  an  aged  sire  far  off  he  saw 
 Come  slowly  footing,  every  step  he  guest 
 One  of  his  feet  he  from  the  grave  did  draw. 
 
 Three  legs  he  had,  the  wooden  was  the  best, 
 
 And  all  the  way  he  went,  he  ever  blest 
 With  benedicities,  and  prayers  store, 
 
 But  the  bad  ground  was  blessed  ne’er  the  more, 
 And  all  his  head  with  snow  of  age  was  waxen  hoar. 
 
 A  good  old  hermit  he  might  seem  to  be. 
 
 That  for  devotion  had  the  world  forsaken, 
 
 And  now  was  travelling  some  saint  to  see, 
 
 Since  to  his  beads  he  had  himself  betaken, 
 
 Where  all  his  former  sins  he  might  awaken, 
 
 And  them  might  wash  away  with  dropping  brine, 
 And  alms,  and  fasts,  and  church’s  discipline  ; 
 
 And  dead,  might  rest  his  bones  under  the  holy  shrine. 
 
 But  when  he  nearer  came,  he  lowted  low 
 With  prone  obeisance,  and  with  curtsey  kind, 
 
 That  at  his  feet  his  head  he  seem’d  to  throw : 
 
 What  needs  him  now  another  saint  to  find? 
 Affections  are  the  sails,  and  faith  the  wind, 
 
 That  to  this  Saint  a  thousand  souls  convey 
 Each  hour:  O  happy  pilgrims,  thither  stray! 
 
 What  caren  they  for  beasts,  or  for  the  weary  way? 
 
174 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 Soon  the  old  palmer  his  devotions  sung, 
 
 Like  pleasing  anthems  modelled  in  time  ; 
 
 For  well  that  aged  sire  could  tip  his  tongue 
 With  golden  foil  of  eloquence,  and  lime, 
 
 And  lick  his  rugged  speech  with  phrases  prime. 
 
 “  Ay  me,”  quoth  he,  “  how  many  years  have  been, 
 Since  these  old  eyes  the  Sun  of  Heaven  have  seen ! 
 Certes  the  Son  of  Heaven  they  now  behold,  I  ween. 
 
 “  Ah  !  mote  my  humble  cell  so  blessed  be 
 As  Heaven  to  welcome  in  his  lowly  roof, 
 
 And  be  the  temple  lor  thy  deity ! 
 
 Lo,  how  my  cottage  worships  thee  aloof, 
 
 That  under  ground  hath  hid  his  head,  in  proof 
 It  doth  adore  thee  with  the  ceiling  low, 
 
 Here  honey,  milk,  and  chesnuts,  wild  do  grow. 
 
 The  boughs  a  bed  of  leaves  upon  thee  shall  bestow, 
 
 “  But  oh !”  he  said,  and  therewith  sigh’d  full  deep, 
 
 “  The  Heavens,  alas !  too  envious  are  grown, 
 
 Because  our  fields  thy  presence  from  them  keep ; 
 
 For  stones  do  grow  where  corn  was  lately  sown 
 (So  stooping  down  he  gather’d  up  a  stone) 
 
 “  But  thou  with  corn  canst  make  this  stone  to  ear. 
 What  neederi  we  the  angry  Heavens  to  fear? 
 
 Let  them  envy  us  still,  so  we  enjoy  Thee  here.” 
 
 Redemption  bp  Christ. 
 
 When  I  remember  Christ  our  burden  bears, 
 
 I  look  for  glory,  but  find  misery; 
 
 I  look  for  joy,  but  find  a  sea  of  tears ; 
 
 3  look  that  we  should  live,  and  find  Him  die ; 
 
 I  look  for  angels’  songs,  and  hear  Him  cry: 
 
 Thus  what  I  look,  I  cannot  find  so  well; 
 
 Or  rather,  what  I  find  I  cannot  tell, 
 
 These  banks  so  narrow  are,  those  streams  so  highly 
 swell. 
 
 Christ  suffers,  and  in  this  his  tears  begin, 
 
 Suffers  for  us,  and  our  joy  springs  in  this; 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 175 
 
 Suffers  to  death,  here  is  his  manhood  seen  ; 
 
 Suffers  to  rise,  and  here  his  Godhead  is, 
 
 For  man,  that  could  not  by  himself  have  ris’, 
 
 Out  of  the  grave  doth  by  the  Godhead  rise, 
 
 And  God,  that  could  not  die,  in  manhood  dies, 
 That  we  in  both  might  live  by  that  sweet  sacrifice. 
 
 What  better  friendship,  than  to  cover  shame  ? 
 
 What  greater  love,  than  for  a  friend  to  die  ? 
 
 Yet  this  is  better  to  asself  the  blame, 
 
 And  this  is  greater  for  an  enemy: 
 
 But  more  than  this,  to  die  not  suddenly, 
 
 Not  with  some  common  death,  or  easy  pain, 
 
 But  slowly,  and  with  torments  to  be  slain : 
 
 O  depth  without  a  depth,  far  better  seen  than  say  n. 
 
 And  yet  the  Son  is  humbled  for  the  slave, 
 
 And  yet  the  slave  is  proud  before  the  Son : 
 
 Yet  the  Creator  for  his  creature  gave 
 Himself,  and  yet  the  creature  hastes  to  run 
 From  his  Creator,  and  self-good  doth  shun : 
 
 And  yet  the  Prince,  and  God  himseh  doth  cry 
 To  man,  his  traitour,  pardon  not  to  fly ; 
 
 Yet  man  is  God,  and  traitour  doth  his  Prince  defy. 
 
 A  tree  was  first  the  instrument  of  strife, 
 
 Where  Eve  to  sin  her  soul  did  prostitute ; 
 
 A  tree  is  now  the  instrument  of  life, 
 
 Though  all  that  trunk,  and  this  fair  body  suit : 
 
 Ah  cursed  tree,  and  yet  O  blessed  fruit ! 
 
 That  death  to  Him,  this  life  to  us  doth  give : 
 Strange  is  the  cure,  when  things  past  cure  revive, 
 And  the  Physician  dies,  to  make  his  patient  live. 
 
 Sweet  Eden  was  the  arbour  of  delight, 
 
 Yet  in  his  honey  flowers  our  poison  blew ; 
 
 Sad  Gethseman  the  bower  of  baleful  night, 
 
 Where  Christ  a  health  of  poison  for  us  drew, 
 
 Yet  all  our  honey  in  that  poison  grew : 
 
 So  we  from  sweetest  flowers  could  suck  our  bane, 
 And  Christ  from  bitter  venom  could  again  _ 
 Extract  life  out  of  death,  and  pleasure  out  of  pain. 
 
J76 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 A  man  was  first  the  author  of  our  fall, 
 
 A  man  is  now  the  author  of  our  rise  : 
 
 A  garden  was  the  place  we  perish’d  all, 
 
 A  garden  is  the  place  He  pays  our  price : 
 
 And  the  old  serpent  with  a  new  device, 
 
 Hath  found  a  way  himselfe  for  to  beguile: 
 
 So  he  that  all  men  tangled  in  his  wile, 
 
 Is  now  by  one  man  caught,  beguiled  with  his  own  guile. 
 
 The  dewy  night  had  with  her  frosty  shade 
 Immantled  all  the  world,  and  the  stiff  ground 
 Sparkled  in  ice,  only  the  Lord,  that  made 
 All  for  himself,  himself  dissolved  found, 
 
 Sweat  without  heat,  and  bled  without  a  wound: 
 
 Of  Heaven,  and  .Earth,  and  God,  and  man  forlore, 
 Thrice  begging  help  of  those,  whose  sins  He  bore, 
 And  thrice  denied  of  those,  not  to  deny  had  swore. 
 
 Christ's  Triumph  after  Death. 
 
 13i/r  now  the  second  morning  from  her  bower 
 Began  to  glister  in  her  beams,  and  now 
 1  he  roses  of  the  day  began  to  flower 
 In  the  eastern  garden;  for  Heaven’s  smiling  brow 
 Halt  insolent  for  joy  begun  to  show; 
 
 The  early  Sun  came  lively  dancing  out, 
 
 And  the  brag  lambs  ran  wantoning  about, 
 
 That  Heaven  and  Earth  might  seem  in  triumph  both 
 to  shout. 
 
 ’Ihe  engladden  d  spring,  forgetful  now  to  wreep, 
 
 Began  to’  enblazon  from  her  Jeavy  bed  : 
 
 The  waking  swallow^  broke  her  half  year’s  sleep, 
 
 And  every  bush  lay  deeply  purpured 
 With  violets,  the  wmod’s  late  wintry  head 
 Wide  flaming  primroses  set  all  on  fire, 
 
 And  his  bald  trees  put  on  their  green  attire, 
 
 Among  v\ nose  infant  leaves  the  joyous  birds  conspire. 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 'a  -*-? 
 
 i  i  i 
 
 And  now  the  taller  sons  (whom  Titan  warms) 
 
 Of  unshorn  mountains,  blown  with  easy  winds, 
 Dandled  the  morning’s  childhood  in  their  arm's, 
 
 And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
 
 The  under  corylets  did  catch  the  shines, 
 
 To  gild  their  leaves;  saw  never  happy  year 
 Such  joyful  triumph  and  triumphant  cheer, 
 
 As  though  the  aged  world  anew  created  were. 
 
 Say,  Earth,  why  hast  thou  got  thee  new  attire, 
 
 And  stick’st  thy  habit  full  of  daisies  red? 
 
 Seems  that  thou  dost  to  some  high  thought  aspire, 
 
 And  some  new-found-out  bridegroom  mean’st  to  wed; 
 Tell  me,  ye  trees,  so  fresh  apparelled, 
 
 So  never  let  the  spiteful  canker  waste  you, 
 
 So  never  let  the  Heavens  with  lightning  blast  you. 
 Why  go  you  now  so  trimly  drest,  or  whither  haste  you  ? 
 
 Answer  me,  Jordan,  why  thy  crooked  tide 
 So  often  wanders  from  his  nearest  way, 
 
 As  though  some  other  way  thy  stream  would  slide, 
 And  fain  salute  the  place  where  something  lay. 
 
 And  you  sweet  birds,  that,  shaded  from  the  ray, 
 
 Sit  caroling,  and  piping  grief  away, 
 
 The  while  the  lambs  to  hear  you  dance  and  play, 
 Tell  me,  sweet  birds,  what  is  it  you  so  fain  would  say? 
 
 And  thou  fair  spouse  of  Earth,  that  every  year 
 Gett’st  such  a  numerous  issue  of  thy  bride, 
 
 How  chance  thou  hotter  shin’st,  anddraw’st,  more  near? 
 Sure  thou  somewhere  some  worthy  sight  hast  spy’d, 
 That  in  one  place  for  joy  thou  can’st  not  hide; 
 
 And  you,  dead  swallows,  that  so  lively  now 
 Through  the  fleet  air  your  winged  passage  row, 
 How  could  new  life  into  your  frozen  ashes  flow? 
 
 Ye  primroses,  and  purple  violets, 
 
 Tell  me,  why  blaze  ye  from  your  leavy  bed, 
 
 And  woo  men’s  hands  to  rent  you  from  your  sets. 
 
 As  though  you  would  somewhere  be  carried, 
 
 With  fresh  perfumes,  and  velvets  garnished? 
 
 H  3 
 
178 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 But  ah !  I  need  not  ask,  ’tis  surely  so, 
 
 You  all  would  to  your  Saviour’s  triumphs  go. 
 
 There  would  ye  all  await,  and  humble  homage  do. 
 
 There  should  the  Earth  herself  with  garlands  new 
 And  lovely  flowers  embellished  adore: 
 
 Such  roses  never  in  her  garland  grew, 
 
 Such  lilies  never  in  her  breast  she  wore, 
 
 Like  beauty  never  yet  did  shine  before  : 
 
 There  should  the  Sun  another  Sun  behold, 
 
 From  whence  himself  borrows  his  locks  of  gold, 
 That  kindle  Heaven  and  Earth  with  beauties  manifold. 
 
 There  might  the  violet,  and  primrose  sweet, 
 
 Beams  of  more  lively,  and  more  lovely  grace, 
 
 Arising  from  their  beds  of  incense,  meet; 
 
 There  should  the  swallow  see  new  life  embrace 
 Dead  ashes,  and  the  grave  unseal  his  face, 
 
 To  let  the  living  from  his  bowels  creep, 
 
 Unable  longer  his  own  dead  to  keep : 
 
 There  Heaven  and  Earth  should  see  their  Lord  awake 
 from  sleep. 
 
 Their  Lord,  before  by  others  judged  to  die, 
 
 Now  judge  of  all  himself;  before  forsaken 
 Of  all  the  world,  that  from  his  aid  did  fly, 
 
 Now  by  the  saints  into  their  armies  taken; 
 
 Before  for  an  unworthy  man  mistaken, 
 
 Now  worthy  to  be  God  confess’d ;  before 
 With  blasphemies  by  all  the  basest  tore, 
 
 Now  worshipped  by  angels,  that  Him  low  adore. 
 
 So  fairest  Phosphor,  the  bright  morning  star, 
 
 But  newly  wash’d  in  the  green  element, 
 
 Before  the  drowsey  night  is  half  aware, 
 
 Shooting  his  flaming  locks  with  dew  besprent, 
 
 Springs  lively  up  into  the  orient, 
 
 And  the  bright  drove,  fleeced  all  in  gold,  he  chaces 
 To  drink,  that  on  the  Olympic  mountain  grazes, 
 The  while  the  minor  planets  forfeit  all  their  faces. 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 179 
 
 Hark  how  the  floods  clap  their  applauding  hands, 
 
 The  pleasant  valleys  singing  for  delight, 
 
 And  wanton  mountains  dance  about  the  lands, 
 
 The  while  the  fields,  struck  with  the  heavenly  light, 
 Set  all  their  flowers  a  smiling  at  the  sight ; 
 
 The  trees  laugh  with  their  blossoms,  and  the  sound 
 Of  the  triumphant  shout  of  praise,  that  crown’d 
 The  flaming  Lamb,  breaking  through  Heaven  hath 
 passage  found. 
 
 Out  leap  the  antique  patriarchs  all  in  haste, 
 
 To  see  the  powers  of  Hell  in  triumph  led, 
 
 And  with  small  stars  a  garland  interchast 
 Of  olive-leaves  they  bore  to  crown  his  head, 
 
 That  was  before  with  thorns  degloried : 
 
 After  them  flew  the  prophets,  brightly  stol  d 
 In  shining  lawn,  and  wimpled  manifold, 
 
 Striking  their  ivory  harps,  strung  all  in  cords  of  gold. 
 
 To  which  the  saints  victorious  carols  sung, 
 
 Ten  thousand  saints  at  once,  that  with  the  sound 
 The  hollow  vaults  of  Heaven  for  triumph  rung: 
 
 The  cherubims  their  clamours  did  confound 
 With  all  the  rest,  and  clapt  their  wings  around : 
 Down  from  their  thrones  the  dominations  flow 
 And  at  his  feet  their  crowns  and  scepters  throw, 
 And  all  the  princely  souls  fell  on  their  faces  low. 
 
 Nor  can  the  martyrs’  wounds  them  stay  behind, 
 
 But  out  they  rush  among  the  heavenly  crowd. 
 Seeking  their  Heaven  out  of  their  Heaven  to  find, 
 Sounding  their  silver  trumpets  out  so  loud, 
 
 That  the  shrill  noise  broke  through  the  starry  cloud, 
 And  all  the  virgin  souls,  in  pure  array, 
 
 Came  dancing  forth  and  making  joyous  play ; 
 
 So  Him  they  led  along  into  the  courts  of  day. 
 
180 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 PHINEAS  FLETCHER. 
 
 Born  1582.  Died  1650. 
 
 Brother  of  Giles  Fletcher.  Principal  Works  :—The  Purple 
 Island,  (a  fantastical  Allegory  describing  the  body  and  soul  of 
 man,  but  containing  many  rich  and  picturesque  passages)  Pisca¬ 
 tory  Eclogues,  &c.  ° 
 
 The  Triumph  of  the  Church. 
 
 i0/^'r</S  lhe  tt  the  Purple  Island,  the  Virtues,  and  best 
 Affections  of  the  Heart,  conducted  by  their  Prince,  Intellect 
 engage  in  a  war  with  the  Vices,  led  on  by  the  “  Great  Red  Dragon ” 
 or  the  Apocalypse  The  battle  is  against  the  former,  when 
 Eclecta  (the  church)  prays  for  heavenly  aid.  Thereupon  a 
 mighty  angel  blows  a  trumpet,  “  frighting  the  guilty  earth  with 
 thundering  knell/  and  afterwards  proclaims  aloud  “  Babel 
 proud  Babel’s  fallen.”  Then  follows  the  conflict.  ’ 
 
 The  broken  heavens  dispart  with  fearful  noise, 
 
 And  from  the  breach  outshoots  a  sudden  light : 
 
 Sti aight  shrilling  trumpets  with  loud  sounding  voice, 
 Give  echoing  summons  to  new  bloody  fight; 
 
 Well  knew  the  Dragon  that  all-quelling  blast, 
 And  soon  perceived  that  day  must  be  his  last; 
 Which  strook  his  frighten’d  heart,  and  all  his  troops 
 aghast.  1 
 
 Yet  full  of  malice,  and  of  stubborn  pride, 
 
 Though  oft  had  strove,  and  had  been  foil’d  as  oft, 
 Boldly  his  death  and  certain  fate  defy’d  : 
 
 And  mounted  on  his  flaggy  sails  aloft, 
 
 With  boundless  spite  he  longed  to  try  again 
 A  second  loss,  and  new  death; — glad  and  fain 
 i  o  shew  his  pois  nous  hate,  though  ever  skew’d  in  vain. 
 
 So  up  he  arose  upon  his  stretched  sails 
 Fearless  expecting  his  approaching  death; 
 So  up  he  arose,  that  the  air  starts  and  fails, 
 And  over-pressed,  sinks  his  load  beneath; 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 181 
 
 So  up  lie  arose,  as  does  a  thunder-cloud, 
 
 Which  all  the  Earth  with  shadows  black  doth 
 shroud : 
 
 So  up  he  arose,  and  through  the  weary  air  he  row’d. 
 
 Now  his  Almighty  Foe  far  off  he  spies  ; 
 
 Whose  sun-like  arms  dazed  the  eclipsed  day, 
 Confounding  with  their  beams  less  glittering  skies, 
 Firing  the  air  with  more  than  heavenly  ray ; 
 
 Like  thousand  suns  in  one; — such  is  their  light, 
 A  subject  only  for  immortal  sprite; 
 
 Which  never  can  be  seen,  but  by  immortal  sight. 
 
 His  threatening  eyes  shine  like  that  dreadful  flame, 
 With  which  the  Thunderer  arms  his  angry  hand: 
 Himself  had  fairly  wrote  his  wondrous  name, 
 
 Which  .neither  Earth  nor  Heaven  could  understand ; 
 A  hundred  crowns,  like  towers,  beset  around 
 His  conquering  head :  well  may  they  there  abound, 
 When  all  his  limbs,  and  troops,  with  gold  are  richly 
 crown’d. 
 
 His  armour  all  was  dy’d  in  purple  blood : 
 
 (In  purple  blood  of  thousand  rebel  kings) 
 
 In  vain  their  stubborn  powers  His  arm  withstood; 
 Their  proud  necks  chain’d,  He  now  in  triumph  brings, 
 And  breaks  their  spears,  and  cracks  their  traitor 
 swords : 
 
 Upon  whose  arms  and  thigh  in  golden  words 
 Was  fairly  writ,  “  The  King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords.” 
 
 His  snow-white  steed  was  born  of  heavenly  kind, 
 Begot  by  Boreas  on  the  Thracian  hills; 
 
 More  strong  and  speedy  than  bis  parent  wind : 
 
 And  (which  his  foes  with  fear  and  horrour  fills) 
 
 Out  from  his  mouth  a  two-edged  sword  he  darts : 
 Whose  sharpest  steel  the  bone  and  marrow  parts, 
 And  with  his  keenest  point  unbreast  the  naked  hearts. 
 
 The  Dragon  wounded  with  his  flaming  brand 
 They  take,  and  in  strong  bonds  and  fetters  tie : 
 Short  was  the  fight,  nor  could  he  long  withstand 
 flim,  whose  appearance  is  his  victory. 
 
182 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 So  now  he’s  bound  in  adamantine  chain : 
 
 He  storms,  he  roars,  he  yells  for  high  disdain  : 
 His  net  is  broke,  the  fowl  go  free,  the  fowler  ta’en. 
 
 Soon  at  this  sight,  the  knights  (a)  revive  again, 
 
 As  fresh  as  when  the  flowers  from  winter  tomb 
 (When  now  the  Sun  brings  back  his  nearer  wain) 
 Peep  out  again  from  their  fresh  mother’s  womb: 
 The  primrose  lighted  new,  her  flame  displays, 
 And  frights  the  neighbour  hedge  with  fiery  rays; 
 And  all  the  world  renew  their  mirth  and  sportive  plays. 
 
 The  prince,  (6)  who  saw  his  long  imprisonment 
 Now  end  in  never  ending  liberty  : 
 
 To  meet  the  Victor  from  his  castle  went, 
 
 And  falling  down,  clasping  his  royal  knee, 
 
 Pours  out  deserved  thanks  in  grateful  praise : 
 
 But  him  the  heavenly  Saviour  soon  doth  raise, 
 And  bids  him  spend  in  joy  his  never-ending  days. 
 
 The  fair  Eclecta,  (c)  that  with  widow’d  brow 
 Her  absent  Lord  (d)  long  mourn’d  in  sad  array, 
 Now  silken  cloth’d  (e)  like  frozen  snow, 
 
 Whose  silver  spanglets  sparkle  ’gainst  the  day: 
 
 This  shining  robe  her  Lord  himself  had  wrought, 
 While  he  her  love  with  hundred  presents  sought, 
 And  it  with  many  a  wound,  and  many  a  torment  bought ! 
 
 And  thus  array’d,  her  heavenly  beauties  shin’d 
 (Drawing  their  beams  from  his  most  glorious  face) 
 Like  to  a  precious  jasper,  (/)  pure  refin’d, 
 
 Which  with  a  crystal  mixt,  much  mends  his  grace : 
 The  golden  stars  a  garland  fair  did  frame 
 To  crown  her  locks ;  the  Sun  lay  hid  for  shame, 
 And  yielded  all  his  beams  to  her  more  glorious  flame. 
 
 Ah  !  who  that  flame  can  tell  ?  Ah  !  who  can  see  ? 
 Enough  is  me  with  silence  to  admire ; 
 
 (a)  The  Virtues  and  Affections.  (6)  The  Intellect. 
 
 (c)  The  Church,  (d)  Christ,  (e)  Rev.  xix.  8.  (/)  Rev.  xxi.  11. 
 
EEETCHER. 
 
 183 
 
 While  bolder  joy,  and  humble  majesty 
 In  either  cheek  had  kindled  graceful  fire : 
 
 Long  silent  stood  she,  while  her  former  fears 
 And  griefs  ran  all  away  in  sliding  tears ; 
 
 That  like  a  watry  sun  her  gladsome  face  appears. 
 
 At  length  when  joys  had  left  her  closer  heart, 
 
 To  seat  themselves  upon  her  thankful  tongue : 
 
 First  in  her  eyes  they  sudden  flashes  dart, 
 
 Then  forth  in  the’  music  of  her  voice  they  throng : 
 
 “  My  hope,  my  love,  my  joy,  my  life,  my  bliss, 
 (Whom  to  enjoy  is  Heaven,  but  Hell  to  miss) 
 What  are  the  world’s  false  joys,  what  Heaven’s  true 
 joys  to  this  ?” 
 
 Upon  his  lightning  brow  Love  proudly  sitting 
 Flames  out  in  power,  shines  out  in  majesty; 
 
 There  all  his  lofty  spoils  and  trophies  fitting; 
 
 Displays  the  marks  of  highest  Deity  ! 
 
 There  full  of  strength  in  lordly  arms  he  stands, 
 And  every  heart,  and  every  soul  commands : 
 
 No  heart,  no  soul,  his  strength  and  lordly  force  with¬ 
 stands. 
 
 Upon  her  forehead  thousand  cheerful  Graces, 
 Seated  on  thrones  of  spotless  ivory ; 
 
 There  gentle  love  his  armed  hand  unbraces ; 
 
 His  bow  unbent  disclaims  all  tyranny ; ' 
 
 There  by  his  play  a  thousand  souls  beguiles, 
 Persuading  more  by  simple  modest  smiles, 
 
 Than  ever  he  could  force  by  arms,  or  crafty  wiles. 
 
 Upon  her  cheek  doth  Beauty’s  self  implant 
 The  freshest  garden  of  her  choicest  flowers; 
 
 On  which,  if  Envy  might  but  glance  ascant, 
 
 Her  eyes  would  swell,  and  burst,  and  melt  in  showers : 
 Thrice  fairer  both  than  ever  fairest  ey’d ; 
 
 Heaven  never  such  a  bridegroom  yet  descry’d  ; 
 Nor  ever  earth  so  fair,  so  undefiled  a  bride. 
 
 Full  of  his  Father  shines  his  glorious  face, 
 
 As  far  the  Sun  surpassing  in  his  light, 
 
J84 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 As  doth  the  Sun  the  Earth,  with  flaming  blaze : 
 Sweet  influence  streams  frorti  his  quickening  sight} 
 His  beams  from  nought  did  all  this  all  display ; 
 And  when  to  less  than  nought  they  fell  away, 
 
 He  soon  restored  again  by  his  new  orient  ray. 
 
 The  Dying  Husband’s  Farewell. 
 
 “  My  dearest  consort,  my  more  loved  heart, 
 
 I  leave  thee  now;  with  thee  all  earthly  joying: 
 Heaven  knows,  with  thee  alone  I  sadly  part : 
 
 All  other  earthly  sweets  have  had  their  cloying; 
 
 Yet  never  full  of  thy  sweet  loves’  enjoying, 
 
 Thy  constant  loves,  next  Heaven,  I  did  refer  them  : 
 Had  not  much  grace  prevail’d,  ’fore  Heav’n  I  should 
 prefer  them. 
 
 “  I  leave  them,  now  the  trumpet  calls  away; 
 
 In  vain  thine  eyes  beg  for  some  time’s  reprieving; 
 
 Yet  in  my  children  here  immortal  stay: 
 
 In  one  I  die,  in  many  ones  am  living: 
 
 In  them,  and  for  them,  stay  thy  too  much  grievin<ir: 
 Look  but  on  them,  in  them  thou  still  wilt  see 
 Marry’d  with  thee  again  thy  twice-two  Antony. 
 
 “  And  when  with  little  hands  they  stroke  thy  face, 
 
 As  in  thy  lap  they  sit  (ah,  careless!)  playing, 
 
 And  stammering  ask  a  kiss,  give  them  a  brace ; 
 
 The  last  from  me  :  and  then  a  little  staying, 
 
 And  in  their  face  some  part  of  me  surveying, 
 
 In  them  give  me  a  third,  and  with  a  tear 
 Show  thy  dear  love  to  him,  who  loved  thee  ever  dear. 
 
 “  And  now  our  falling  house  leans  all  on  thee; 
 
 This  little  nation  to  thy  care  commend  them : 
 
 In  thee  it  lies  that  hence  they  want  not  me; 
 Themselves  yet  cannot,  thou  the  more  defend  them ; 
 And  when  green  age  permits,  to  goodness  bend 
 them : 
 
 A  mother  were  you  once,  now  both  you  are; 
 
 Ihen  with  this  double  style  double  your  love  and  care. 
 
HABINGTON. 
 
 185 
 
 “  Turn  their  unwary  steps  into  the  way : 
 
 What  first  the  vessel  drinks,  it  long  retaineth  ; 
 
 No  bars  will  hold,  when  they  have  used  to  stray; 
 
 And  when  for  me  one  asks,  and  weeping  plaineth, 
 Point  thou  to  heaven,  and  say,  ‘He  there  remaineth:’ 
 And  if  they  live  in  grace,  grow,  and  persever, 
 
 There  shall  they  live  with  me :  else  shall  they  see  me 
 never. 
 
 “  My  God,  oh  !  in  thy  fear  here  let  me  live  ! 
 
 Thy  wards  they  are,  take  them  to  thy  protection ; 
 Thou  gavest  them  first,  now  back  to  Thee  I  give ; 
 Direct  them  Thou,  and  help  her  weak  direction; 
 That  re-united  by  thy  strong  election, 
 
 Thou  now  in  them,  they  then  may  live  in  Thee; 
 And  seeing  here  thy  will,  may  there  thy  glory  see. 
 
 “  Farewel,  farewel !  I  feel  my  long  long  rest, 
 
 And  iron  sleep  my  leaden  heart  oppressing: 
 
 Night  after  day,  sleep  after  labour’s  best; 
 
 Port  after  storms,  joy  after  long  distressing  : 
 
 So  weep  thy  loss,  as  knowing  ’tis  my  blessing : 
 Both  as  a  widow  and  a  Christian  grieve: 
 
 Still  live  I  in  thy  thoughts,  but  as  in  Heaven  I  live.” 
 
 WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 
 
 Born  1605.  Died  1645. 
 
 Author  of  Castara,  a  volume  of  poems,  some  celebrating  human 
 and  some  divine  love. 
 
 On  George  Talbot. 
 
 There  is  no  peace  in  sinne.  iEternall  warr 
 Doth  rage  ’mong  vices.  But  all  vertues  are 
 Friends  ’mong  themselves,  and  choicest  accents  be 
 Harsh  ecchos  of  their  heavenly  harmonie. 
 
 While  thou  didst  live  we  did  that  union  finde 
 In  the  so  faire  rapublick  of  thy  mind. 
 
186 
 
 HABINGTON. 
 
 Where  discord  never  swel’d.  And  as  we  dare 
 Affirme  those  goodly  structures,  temples  are 
 Where  well-tun’d  quires  strike  zeale  into  the  eare 
 The  musique  of  thy  soule  made  us  say,  there 
 God  had  his  altars;  every  breath  a  spice, 
 
 And  each  religious  act  a  sacrifice. 
 
 But  death  hath  that  demolisht.  All  our  eye 
 Of  thee  now  sees  doth  like  a  cittie  lye 
 Ilased  by  the  cannon. 
 
 Night  teachetli  knowledge. 
 
 When  I  survay  the  bright 
 Ccelestiall  spheare : 
 
 So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 
 Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appeare  : 
 
 My  soule  her  wings  doth  spread, 
 
 And  heaven-ward  flies, 
 
 The  Almighty’s  mysteries  to  read 
 In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies. 
 
 For  the  bright  firmament 
 Shootes  forth  no  flame 
 So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
 In  speaking  the  Creator’s  name. 
 
 No  unregarded  star 
 Contracts  its  light 
 Into  so  small  a  character, 
 
 Removed  far  from  our  humane  sight : 
 
 But  if  we  stedfast  looke 
 We  shall  discerne 
 In  it,  as  in  some  holy  booke, 
 
 How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learne. 
 
 It  tells  the  conqueror, 
 
 That  farre-stretcht  powre, 
 
 Which  his  proud  dangers  traffique  for, 
 
 Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  houre. 
 
HABINGTON. 
 
 187 
 
 That  from  the  farthest  North, 
 Some  nation  may 
 Yet  undiscovered  issue  forth, 
 
 And  ore  his  new  got  conquest  sway. 
 
 Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
 With  hills  of  ice 
 
 May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sinne. 
 Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 
 
 And  then  they  likewise  shall 
 Their  mine  have ; 
 
 For  as  your  selves  your  empires  fall. 
 And  every  kingdome  hath  a  grave. 
 
 Thus  those  ccelestiall  fires, 
 
 Though  seeming  mute, 
 
 The  fallacie  of  our  desires 
 And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute. 
 
 For  they  have  watcht  since  first 
 The  world  had  birth  : 
 
 And  found  sinne  in  it  selfe  accurst. 
 And  nothing  permanent  on  Earth. 
 
 A To  peace  for  the  wicked . 
 
 But  you,  bold  sinners  !  still  pursue 
 Yrour  valiant  wickednesse,  and  brave 
 The’  Almighty  iustice  :  He’ll  subdue 
 And  make  you  cowards  in  the  grave. 
 
 Then  when  He  as  your  iudge  appeares. 
 
 In  vaine  you’ll  tremble  and  lament, 
 
 And  hope  to  soften  Him  with  teares, 
 
 To  no  advantage  penitent. 
 
 The  neigh’ring  mountaines  which  you  shall 
 Wooe  to  oppresse  you  with  their  weight : 
 
 Disdainefull  will  deny  to  fall ; 
 
 By  a  sad  death  to  ease  your  fate. 
 
183 
 
 habington. 
 
 In  vaine  some  midnight  storme  at  sea 
 To  swallow  you,  you  will  desire  : 
 
 In  vaine  upon  the  wheele,  you’ll  pray, 
 Broken  with  torments  to  expire. 
 
 Death,  at  the  sight  of  which  you  start, 
 
 In  a  mad  fury  then  you’ll  court: 
 
 Yet  hate  the’  expressions  of  your  heart, 
 Which  onely  shall  be  sigh’d  for  sport. 
 
 No  sorrow  then  shall  enter  in 
 With  pitty  the  great  judge’s  eares. 
 
 This  moment’s  ours.  Once  dead,  his  sin 
 Man  cannot  expiate  with  teares. 
 
 % 
 
 God  exalts  the  humble. 
 
 How  cheerefully  the’  unpartiall  Sunne 
 Gilds  with  his  beames 
 The  narrow  streames 
 O’  the’  brooke,  which  silently  doth  runne 
 Without  a  name  ! 
 
 And  yet  disdaines  to  lend  his  flames 
 To  the  wide  channel!  of  the  Thames  ! 
 
 The  largest  mountaines  barren  lye 
 And  lightning  feare, 
 
 Though  they  appeare 
 ,  To  bid  defiance  to  the  skie ; 
 
 Which  in  one  houre 
 
 We’  have  seene  the  opening  earth  devoure, 
 When  in  their  height  they  proudest  were. 
 
 The  humble  man  heaves  up  his  head, 
 
 Like  some  rich  vale 
 Whose  fruites  nere  faile, 
 
 With  fiowres,  with  corne,  and  vines  ore-spread ; 
 Nor  doth  complaine 
 Oreflowed  by  an  ill- season’d  raine, 
 
 Or  batter’d  by  a  storme  of  haile. 
 
hafington. 
 
 189 
 
 Like  a  tall  barke  with  treasure  fraught, 
 
 He  the  seas  cleere 
 Doth  quiet  steere: 
 
 But  when  they  are  to’  a  tempest  wrought ; 
 More  gallantly 
 
 He  spreads  his  saile,  and  doth  more  high 
 By  swelling  of  the  waves,  appeare. 
 
 For  the  Almighty  joyes  to  force 
 The  glorious  tide 
 Of  humane  pride 
 
 To  the  lowest  ebbe ;  that  ore  his  course 
 (Which  rudely  bore 
 Downe  what  opposed  it  heretofore) 
 
 His  feeblest  enemie  may  stride. 
 
 But  from  his  ill-thatcbt-roofe,  He  brings 
 The  cottager 
 And  doth  preferre 
 Him  to  the’  adored  state  of  kings : 
 
 He  bids  that  hand 
 
 Which  labour  hath  made  rougli  and  tan’d 
 The  all  commanding  scepter  beare. 
 
 Let  then  the  mighty  cease  to  boast 
 Their  boundless  sway ; 
 
 Since  in  their  sea 
 
 Few  sayle,  but  by  some  storme  are  lost. 
 
 Let  them  themselves 
 Beware  for  they  are  their  owne  shelves: 
 Man  still  himselfe  hath  cast  away. 
 
 Retrospection. 
 
 1  ime  !  where  didst  thou  those  yeares  inter, 
 Which  I  have  seene  decease  ? 
 
 My  soule’s  at  war,  and  truth  bids  her 
 Finde  out  their  hidden  sepulcher, 
 
 To  give  her  troubles  peace. 
 
190 
 
 HABINGTON. 
 
 Pregnant  with  flowers,  doth  not  the  spring 
 Like  a  late  bride  appeare? 
 
 Whose  fether’d  musicke  onely  bring 
 Caresses,  and  no  requiem  sing 
 On  the  departed  yeare? 
 
 The  earth,  like  some  rich  wanton  heire, 
 
 Whose  parents  coffin’d  lye, 
 
 Forgets  it  once  lookt  pale  and  bare, 
 
 And  doth  for  vanities  prepare, 
 
 As  the  spring  nere  should  dye. 
 
 The  present  houre,  flatter’d  by  all, 
 
 Reflects  not  on  the  last ; 
 
 But  I,  like  a  sad  factor  shall 
 
 To’  account  my  life  each  moment  call, 
 
 And  onely  weepe  the  past. 
 
 My  memory  trackes  each  spverall  way, 
 
 Since  reason  did  begin 
 Over  my  actions  her  first  sway; 
 
 And  teacheth  me,  that  each  new  day 
 Did  onely  vary  sin. 
 
 t 
 
 Poore  banekrout  conscience  !  where  are  those 
 Rich  houres  but  farmed  to  thee? 
 
 How  carelessely  I  some  did  lose, 
 
 And  other  to  my  lust  dispose, 
 
 As  no  rent  day  should  be? 
 
 I  have  infected  with  impure 
 Disorders  my  past  yeares ; 
 
 But  I’ll  to  penitence  inure 
 Those  that  succeed.  There  is  no  cure 
 Nor  antidote  but  teares. 
 
CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 191 
 
 V  • 
 
 WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 Born  1611.  Died  1643. 
 
 Author  of  many  ingenious  Poems,  celebrated  in  their  time. 
 
 Confession . 
 
 I  do  confess,  O  God,  my  wandering  fires 
 Are  kindled  not  from  zeal,  but  loose  desires; 
 
 My  ready  tears,  shed  from  instructed  eyes, 
 Have  not  been  pious  griefs,  but  subtleties; 
 
 And  only  sorry  that  sins  miss,  I  owe 
 To  thwarted  wishes  all  the  sighs  I  blow : 
 
 My  fires  thus  merit  fire;  my  tears  the  tall 
 Of  showers  provoke ;  my  sighs  for  blasts  do  call. 
 
 O  then  descend  in  fire ;  but  let  it  be 
 Such  as  snatch’d  up  the  prophet;  such  as  we 
 Read  of  in  Moses’  bush,  a  fire  of  joy, 
 
 Sent  to  enlighten,  rather  than  destroy. 
 
 O  then  descend  in  showers ;  but  let  them  be 
 Showers  only  and  not  tempests ;  such  as  we 
 Feel  from  the  morning’s  eye-lids;  such  as  feed, 
 Not  choak  the  sprouting  of  the  tender  seed. 
 
 O  then  descend  in  blasts :  but  let  them  be 
 Blasts  only,  and  not  whirlwinds ;  such  as  we 
 Take  in  for  health’s  sake,  soft  and  easie  breaths, 
 Taught  to  conveigh  refreshments,  and  not  deaths. 
 
 So  shall  the  fury  of  my  fires  asswage, 
 
 And  that  turn  fervour  which  was  brutish  rage ; 
 
 So  shall  my  tears  be  then  untaught  to  feign,’ 
 And  the  diseased  waters  heal’d  again; 
 
 So  shall  my  sighs  not  be  as  clouds  to’  invest 
 My  sins  with  night,  but  winds  to  purge  my  brest. 
 
192 
 
 CRA3IIAW. 
 
 RICHARD  CRASH  AW. 
 
 / 
 
 Died  1650. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Steps  to  the  Temple,  Divine  Epigrams,  The 
 Delights  of  the  Muses ,  &c. 
 
 Upon  the  Sepulchre  of  our  Lord. 
 
 Here,  where  our  Lord  once  laid  his  head, 
 Now  the  grave  lies  buried. 
 
 The  Widow's  Mites. 
 
 Two  mites,  two  drops,  (yet  all  her  house  and  land) 
 Falls  from  a  steady  heart,  though  trembling  hand: 
 The  other’s  wanton  wealth  foams  high  and  brave, 
 The  other  cast  away,  she  only  gave. 
 
 Two  went  up  to  the  Temple  to  pray. 
 
 A 
 
 Two  went  to  pray  ?  O  rather  say, 
 
 One  went  to  brag,  the’  other  to  pray : 
 
 One  stands  up  close  and  treads  on  high, 
 Where  the’  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye. 
 
 One  nearer  to  God’s  altar  trod, 
 
 The  other  to  the  altar’s  God. 
 
 The  blind  cured  by  the  word  of  our  Saviour. 
 
 Thou  speak’st  the  word  (thy  word’s  a  law) 
 Thou  speak’st,  and  straight  the  blind  man  saw. 
 
CRASHAW. 
 
 193 
 
 To  speak  and  make  the  blind  man  see, 
 
 “  Was  never  man  Lord  spake  like  thee.” 
 
 To  speak  thus,  was  to  speak  (say  I) 
 
 Not  to  his  ear,  but  to  his  eye. 
 
 WWVWWVI 
 
 I  am  ready  not  onely  to  be  bound  but  to  dye. 
 
 Come  Death,  come  bands,  nor  do  you  shrink,  my  ears, 
 At  those  hard  words  man’s  cowardice  calls  fears, 
 
 Save  those  of  fear,  no  other  bands  fear  I ; 
 
 Nor  other  death  than  this ;  the  fear  to  die. 
 
 The  Martyrs. 
 
 [From  the  Hymn  to  the  Name  of  Jesus.] 
 
 O  that  it  were  as  it  was  wont  to  be! 
 
 When  thy  old  friends  of  fire,  all  full  of  Thee, 
 
 Fought  against  frowns  with  smiles;  gave  glorious  chase 
 To  persecutions;  and  against  the  face 
 Of  death  and  fiercest  dangers,  durst  with  brave 
 Ami  sober  pace  march  on  to  meet  a  grave. 
 
 On  their  bold  breasts  about  the  world  they  bore  Thee, 
 And  to  the  teeth  of  hell  stood  up  to  teach  Thee; 
 
 In  centre  of  their  inmost  souls  they  wore  Thee, 
 Where  racks  and  torments  strived  in  vain  to  reach  Thee. 
 
 Each  wound  of  theirs  was  thy  new  morning ; 
 
 And  rein  thron’d  Thee  in  thy  rosy  nest, 
 
 With  blush  of  thine  own  blood  thy  day  adorning: 
 
 It  was  the  wit  of  love  o’erflow’d  the  bounds 
 Of  wrath,  and  made  the  way  through  all  these  wounds. 
 Welcome,  dear,  all-adored  Name! 
 
 For  sure  there  is  no  knee 
 That  knows  not  Thee. 
 
 Or  if  there  be  such  sons  of  shame, 
 
 Alas  !  what  will  they  do 
 When  stubborn  rocks  shall  bow, 
 
194 
 
 CRASHAW. 
 
 And  hills  hang  down  their  heaven-saluting  heads 
 To  seek  for  humble  beds 
 Of  dust,  where  in  the  bashful  shades  of  night 
 Next  to  their  own  low  nothing  they  may  lie, 
 
 And  couch  before  the  dazzling  light  of  thy  dread  majesty? 
 They  that  by  love’s  mild  dictate  now 
 Will  not  adore  Thee, 
 
 Shall  then  with  just  confusion,  bow 
 And  break  before  Thee. 
 
 Meditation  on  the  Day  of  Judgment. 
 
 O  that  fire !  before  whose  face 
 Heaven  and  Earth  shall  find  no  place : 
 
 O  those  eyes  !  whose  angry  light 
 Must  be  the  day  of  that  dread  night. 
 
 O  that  trump  !  whose  blast  shall  run 
 And  even  round  with  the’  circling  Sun, 
 
 And  urge  the  murmuring  graves  to  bring 
 Pale  mankind  forth  to  meet  his  King. 
 
 Horrour  of  Nature,  Hell  and  Death  ! 
 When  a  deep  groan  from  beneath 
 Shall  cry,  “  We  come,  we  come,”  and  all 
 The  caves  of  night  answer  one  call. 
 
 O  that  book !  whose  leaves  so  bright 
 Will  set  the  world  in  severe  light. 
 
 O  that  Judge  !  whose  hand,  whose  eye 
 None  can  indure;  yet  none  can  fly. 
 
 Ah,  then,  poor  soul,  what  wilt  thou  say? 
 And  to  what  patron  choose  to  pray? 
 
 When  stars  themselves  shall  stagger,  and 
 The  most  firm  foot  no  more  then  stand. 
 
 Mercy,  my  Judge,  mercy,  I  cry, 
 
 With  blushing  cheek  and  bleeding  eye ; 
 
 If  sin  can  weep,  love  can  forgive; 
 
 O  say  the  word,  my  soul  shall  live. 
 
SHERBURNE. 
 
 195 
 
 Those  mercies  which  thy  Mary  found, 
 
 Or  who  thy  cross  confess’d  and  crown’d, 
 
 Hope  tells  my  heart,  the  same  loves  be 
 Still  alive,  and  still  for  me. 
 
 Though  both  my  prayers  and  tears  combine, 
 Both  worthless  are;  for  they  are  mine. 
 
 But  Thou  thy  bounteous  self  still  be ; 
 
 And  show  Thou  art,  by  saving  me. 
 
 SIR  EDWARD  SHERBURNE. 
 
 Born  1618.  Died  1702. 
 Translations  and  Miscellanies. 
 
 To  the  Eternal  Wisdom. 
 
 O  thou  Eternal  Mind !  whose  wisdom  sees, 
 
 And  rules  our  changes  by  unchanged  decrees, 
 
 As  with  delight  on  thy  grave  works  we  look, 
 
 Say,  art  Thou  too  with  our  light  follies  took? 
 
 For  when  thy  bounteous  hand,  in  liberal  showers 
 Each  way  diffused,  thy  various  blessings  pours; 
 We  catch  at  them  with  strife  as  vain  to  sight, 
 
 As  children,  when  for  nuts  they  scrambling  fight. 
 This  snatching  at  a  sceptre,  breaks  it ;  be, 
 
 That  broken  does  ere  he  can  grasp  it,  see. 
 
 The  poor  world  seeming  like  a  ball,  that  lights 
 Betwixt  the  hands  of  powerful  opposites  : 
 
 Which,  while  they  cantonise  in  their  bold  pride, 
 They  but  an  immaterial  point  divide. 
 
 O  whilst  for  wealthy  spoils  these  fight,  let  me, 
 Though  poor,  enjoy  a  happy  peace  with  Thee! 
 
 i  2 
 
196 
 
 SHERBURNE. 
 
 On  the  Innocents  Slain  by  Herod. 
 
 Go,  blessed  innocents  !  and  freely  pour 
 Your  souls  forth  in  a  purple  shower. 
 
 And,  for  that  little  earth  each  shall  lay  down, 
 Purchase  a  heavenly  crown. 
 
 Nor  of  original  pollution  fear 
 
 The  stains  should  to  your  bloods  adhere; 
 For  yours  now  shed,  ere  long  shall  in  a  flood 
 Be  wash’d  of  better  blood. 
 
 The  Fountain. 
 
 Stranger,  whoe’er  thou  art,  that  stoop’st  to  taste 
 These  sweeter  streams,  let  me  arrest  thy  baste; 
 Nor  of  their  fall 
 The  murmurs  (though  the  lyre 
 Less  sweet  be)  stand  to’  admire : 
 
 But  as  you  shall 
 See  from  this  marble  tun 
 The  liquid  christal  run, 
 
 And  mark  withal 
 How  fixt  the  one  abides, 
 
 How  fast  the  other  glides; 
 
 Instructed  thus,  the  difference  learn  to  see 
 ’Twixt  mortal  life  and  immortality. 
 
BROME. 
 
 197 
 
 ALEXANDER  BROME. 
 
 Born  1620.  Died  1666. 
 
 This  loyal  Author’s  poems  were  principally  political  satires, 
 written  during  the  civil  wars. 
 
 On  the  loss  of  a  Garrison. 
 
 Another  city  lost !  Alas,  poor  king  ! 
 
 Still  future  griefs  from  former  griefs  do  spring. 
 
 The  world’s  a  seat  of  change :  kingdoms  and  kings, 
 Though  glorious,  are  but  sublunary  things  : 
 
 Crosses  and  blessings  kiss;  there’s  none  that  be 
 So  happy,  but  they  meet  with  misery. 
 
 He  that  ere  while  sat  center’d  to  his  throne, 
 
 And  all  did  homage  unto  him  alone ; 
 
 Who  did  the  sceptre  of  his  power  display 
 Erom  pole  to  pole,  while  all  this  rule  obey, 
 
 From  stair  to  stair  now  tumbles,  tumbles  down, 
 And  scarce  one  pillar  doth  support  his  crown. 
 Town  after  town,  field  after  field, 
 
 This  turns,  and  that  perfidiously  doth  yield : 
 
 He’s  banded  on  the  traitorous  thought  of  those 
 That,  Janus  like,  look  to  him  and  his  foes. 
 
 In  vain  are  bulwarks,  and  the  strongest  hold, 
 
 If  the  besiegers’  bullets  are  of  gold. 
 
 My  soul,  be  not  dejected:  would’st  thou  be 
 From  present  trouble  or  from  danger  free? 
 
 Trust  not  in  rampires,  nor  the  strength  of  walls, 
 The  town  that  stands  to  day,  to  morrow  falls ; 
 Trust  not  in  soldiers,  though  they  seem  so  stout,' 
 Where  sin’s  within,  vain  is  defence  without; 
 
 Trust  not  in  wealth,  for  in  this  lawless  time, 
 
 Where  prey  is  penalty,  there  wealth  is  crime ; 
 Trust  not  in  strength  or  courage,  we  all  see 
 The  weak’st  of  times  do  gain  the  victory; 
 
 Trust  not  in  honour ;  honour’s  but  a  blast, 
 
 Quickly  begun,  and  but  a  while  doth  last. 
 
198 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 Ihey  that  to  day  to  thee  “  Hosanna”  cry, 
 
 To  morrow  change  their  note  for  “Crucify.” 
 
 Trust  not  in  friends,  for  friends  will  soon  deceive  thee 
 they  are  in  nothing  sure,  but  sure  to  leave  thee, 
 liust  not  in  wit:  who  run  from  place  to  place, 
 Changing  religion,  as  chance  does  her  face, 
 
 In  spite  of  cunning,  and  their  strength  of  brain, 
 
 Ihey  re  often  catch’d,  and  all  their  plots  are  vain. 
 Trust  not  in  counsel :  potentates,  or  kings, 
 
 All  are  but  frail  and  transitory  things. 
 
 Since  neither  soldiers,  castles,  wealth,  or  wit, 
 
 Can  keep  oft  harm  from  thee,  or  thee  from  it ; 
 
 Since  neither  strength  nor  honour,  friends  nor  lords, 
 Tvor  princes,  peace  or  happiness  affords, 
 
 Tiust  thou  in  God,  ply  Him  with  prayers  still, 
 
 Be  sure  ot  help ;  for  He  both  can,  and  will. 
 
 ROBERT  HERRICK. 
 
 Born  1591.  Died  16**. 
 
 Author  of  “  The  Hesperides a  volume  of  light  and  occasionally 
 
 elegant  Poems. 
 
 The  Daffodils. 
 
 Fair.  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
 You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
 
 As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
 Hath  not  attain’d  his  noon: 
 Stay,  stay, 
 
 UntiLthe  hastening  day 
 Hafh  run 
 
 But  to  the  even-song;. 
 
 And  having  pray’d  together,  we 
 Will  go  with  you  along. 
 
HERRICK. 
 
 199 
 
 We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you ; 
 We  have  as  short  a  spring, 
 
 As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
 As  you,  or  any  tiling  : 
 
 We  die, 
 
 As  your  hours  do  ;  and  dry 
 Away, 
 
 Like  to  the  summer-rain, 
 
 Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning-dew, 
 Ne’er  to  he  found  again. 
 
 Prayer  for  Absolution. 
 
 r  Written  apparently  in  penitence  on  account  of  his  licentious 
 
 Poems.] 
 
 For  those  my  unbaptized  rhymes, 
 
 Writ  in  my  wild  unhallow’d  times ; 
 
 For  every  sentence,  clause  and  word. 
 
 That’s  not  inlaid  with  Thee,  my  Lord ; 
 
 Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
 Out  of  my  book,  that  is  not  thine. 
 
 But  if,  ’mongst  all.  Thou  find’st  here  oiie 
 Worthy  thy  benediction ; 
 
 That  one,  of  all  the  rest,  shall  be 
 The  glory  of  my  work  and  me. 
 
 To  God. 
 
 Do  with  me,  God,  as  Thou  didst  deal  with  John, 
 Who  writ  that  heavenly  Revelation  ; 
 
 Let  me,  like  him,  first  cracks  of  thunder  heare, 
 Then  let  the  harp’s  inchantments  strike  mine  eare ; 
 Here  give  me  thornes ;  there,  in  thy  kingdom,  set 
 Upon  my  head  the  golden  coronet; 
 
 There  give  me  day;  but  here  my  dreadful  night; 
 My  sack-cloth  here;  but  there  my  stole  of  white. 
 
200 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 F or  comfort  in  Death. 
 
 In  the  hour  of  my  distresse, 
 
 ^  lien  temptations  me  oppresse, 
 
 And  when  I  my  sins  confesse; 
 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
 
 Sick  in  heart  and  sick  in  head, 
 
 And  with  doubts  disquieted; 
 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
 And  the  world  is  drown’d  in  sleep/ 
 "iet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep  ; 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When  the  passing-bell  doth  toll, 
 
 And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal, 
 
 Come  to  fright  my  parting  soul, 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When,  God  knowes,  I’m  tost  about, 
 Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
 
 Yet  before  the  glasse  be  out, 
 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When  the  Tempter  me  pursu’th 
 With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
 
 And  half-damns  me  with  untruth, 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 When  the  judgement  is  reveal’d, 
 
 And  that  open’d  which  was  seal’d, 
 When  to  Thee  I  have  appeal’d, 
 
 Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 
 
 *vvw*vvw< 
 
 Honours  are  hindrances. 
 
 Give  me  honours; — what  are  these 
 But  the  pleasing  hindrances  ? 
 
MORE. 
 
 201 
 
 Stiles,  and  stops,  and  stays,  that  come 
 In  the  way  ’twixt  me  and  home; 
 
 Clear  the  walk, — and  then  shall  I 
 To  my  heaven  lesse  run  than  die  ! 
 
 To  my  Saviour. 
 
 Night  hath  no  wings  to  him  that  cannot  sleep, 
 
 And  time  seems  then,  not  for  to  die,  but  creep  ; 
 
 Just  so  it  is  with  me,  who,  listening,  pray 
 The  winds  to  blow  the  tedious  night  away!  >■ 
 
 That  I  might  see  the  cheerful  peeping  day.  ) 
 
 Sick  is  my  heart;  O  Saviour,  do  Thou  please 
 To  make  my  bed  soft  in  my  sicknesses; 
 
 Lighten  my  candle,  so  that  I  beneath 
 Sleep  not  for  ever  in  the  vaults  of  death. 
 
 Let  me  thy  voice  betimes  i’  th’  morning  heare ; 
 
 Call,  and  I’ll  come;  say  Thou,  the  when  and  where ; 
 Draw  me  but  drst,  and  after  Thee  I’ll  run, 
 
 And  make  no  stop  until  my  race  be  done. 
 
 IIENRY  MORE. 
 
 Born  1614.  Died  1687. 
 
 Author  of  the  “  Songe  of  the  Soule,"  a  Platonic  Poem. 
 
 Invocation  of  the  Divine  Spirit. 
 
 O  tiiou  eternal  Spright !  cleave  ope  the  skie, 
 And  take  thy  diglit  into  my  feeble  breast, 
 Enlarge  my  thoughts,  enlight  my  dimmer  eye, 
 That  wisely,  of  that  burthen  (closely  prest 
 
202 
 
 MORE. 
 
 strai£ht  mind>)  I  may  be  dispossest: 
 
 My  Muse  must  sing  of  things  of  mickle  weight ; 
 lne  Soule  s  eternitie  is  my  great  guest: 
 
 Do  Thou  me  guide,  Thou  art  the  Soule’s  sure  light 
 Orant  that  I  never  err,  but  ever  wend  aright. 
 
 False  and  True  Religion. 
 
 Can  warres,  and  jarres,  and  fierce  contention, 
 Swoln  hatred,  and  consuming  envie  spring 
 From  Piety  ? — No,  ’tis  Opinion , 
 
 That  makes  the  riven  heaven  with  trumpets  ring 
 And  thundering  engin  murderous  balls  out-sling/ 
 And  send  men’s  groning  ghosts  to  lower  shade 
 Of  horrid  hell.— This  the  wide  world  doth  bring 
 io  devastation,  makes  mankind  to  fade: 
 
 Such  direful  things  doth  false  Religion  persuade. 
 
 But  true  Religion,  sprung  from  God  above, 
 
 Is  like  her  fountain,  full  of  charity; 
 
 Embracing  all  things  with  a  tender  love, 
 
 Full  Oi  good-will  and  meek  expectancy, 
 
 Full  of  true  justice  and  sure  verity, 
 
 In  heart  and  voice;  free,  large,  even  infinite, 
 
 Not  wedged  in  strait  particularity, 
 
 But  grasping  all  in  her  vast  active  spright; 
 
 Bright  Lamp  of  God,  Jfchat  men  would  iov  in  thv 
 light!  .  J 
 
 Sensual  and  Spiritual  Life. 
 
 Iear,  anger,  hope,  fierce  vengeance,  rabid  hate 
 Tumultuous  joy,  envie  and  discontent, 
 
 Self-love,  vain-glory,  strife  and  fell  debate, 
 Unsatiate  covetize,  desire  impotent, 
 Low-sinking  grief,  pleasure,  lust  violent, 
 fond  emulation, — all  these  dim  the  mind, 
 
 That,  with  toul  filth  the  inward  eye  yblent, 
 
MORE. 
 
 203 
 
 The  light  that  is  so  near  it  cannot  find : 
 
 So  shines  the  Sunne  unseen  on  a  tree’s  rugged  rind. 
 
 But  the  clear  soule,  by  virtue  purified, 
 
 Collecting  her  own  strength,  from  the  foul  steem 
 Of  earthly  life,  is  often  dignified 
 With  that  pure  pleasure  that  from  God  doth  stream ; 
 Often’s  enlightened  by  the  radiant  beam, 
 
 That  issues  forth  from  his  Divinity; 
 
 Then  feelingly  immortall  she  doth  deem 
 
 Herself,  conjoyn’d  by  so  near  unity 
 
 With  God,  and  nothing  doubts  of  her  eternitie. 
 
 Nor  death,  nor  sleep,  nor  any  dismall  shade 
 Of  low,  contracting  life,  she  then  doth  fear; 
 
 No  troubled  thoughts  her  settled  mind  invade, 
 
 The  immortall  root  of  life  she  seeth  clear, 
 
 Wisheth  she  ever  were  engrafted  here : 
 
 No  cloud,  no  darknesse,  no  deficiency 
 In  this  high,  heavenly  life  doth  e’er  appear ; 
 Redundant  fulnesse,  and  free  liberty, 
 
 Sweet-flowing  knowledge,  never-wearying  energy:  — 
 
 Broad,  open  sight,  eternall  wakefulnesse, 
 
 Withouten  labour,  or  consuming  pain: — 
 
 The  Soule  all  these,  in  God,  must  needs  possesse, 
 When  there  deep-rooted  life  she  doth  obtain. 
 
 The  Soule  in  and  out  of  the  Body. 
 
 Like  as  a  light,  fast  lockt  in  lanthorn  dark, 
 Wherewith  by  night  our  wary  steps  we  guide 
 In  slabby  streets,  and  dirty  channels  mark; 
 
 Some  weaker  rays  through  the  black  top  do  glide, 
 And  flusher  streams  perhaps  from  horny  side : 
 
 But  when  we’ve  past  the  perill  of  the  way, 
 
 Arrived  at  home,  and  laid  that  case  aside, 
 
 The  naked  light,  how  clearly  doth  it  ray, 
 
 And  spread  its  joyfull  beams  as  bright  as  summer’s  day 
 
204 
 
 BROWN. 
 
 Even  so  the  Soule,  in  this  contracted  state, 
 
 Confined  to  these  strait  instruments  of  sense, 
 
 More  dull  and  narrowly  doth  operate ; 
 
 At  this  hole  hears,  the  sight  must  ray  from  thence, 
 Here  tastes,  there  smells: — -but,  when  she’s  gone  from 
 hence, 
 
 Eike  naked  lamp,  she  is  one  shining  sphere, 
 
 And  round  about  hath  perfect  cognizance, 
 
 Whate’er  in  her  horizon  doth  appear: 
 
 She  is  one  Orb  of  sense,  all  eye,  all  airy  ear. 
 
 SIR  THOMAS  BROWN. 
 
 Born  1605.  Died  1632. 
 
 'A  celebrated  Physician,  Author  of  some  of  the  most  extraor- 
 dmary  Worksof  the  age  in  which  he  lived ;  such  as  Religio  Medici 
 a  Treatise  on  l  ulgar  Errors,  &c.  In  the  former,  we  find  the  fol¬ 
 lowing  lines  curious  in  themselves,  but  more  so  as  apparently 
 containing  the  germinal  ideas  of  Bishop  Ken’s  Evening  Hymn. 
 They  are  thus  introduced  in  the  Author’s  quaint  but  impressive 
 manner.  Speaking  of  Sleep,  he  says It  is  that  death  by 
 we  may  be  said  to  dye  daily ;  a  death  which  Adam  dyed 
 Lefore  his  mortality ;  a  death  whereby  we  live  a  middle  and  mo- 
 derating  point  between  life  and  death  :  in  fine,  so  like  death  I 
 
 irrwnlirM  14  Wltj10ut  “7.  Payers,  and  an  half-adieu  unto  the 
 world,  and  take  my  farewell  in 
 
 A  Colloquy  ivith  God.” 
 
 The  night  is  come.  Like  to  the  day, 
 Depart  not,  Thou,  great  God,  away ; 
 Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
 Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light: 
 
 Keep  still  in  my  horizon,  for  to  me 
 The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  Thee. 
 
 Thou,  whose  Nature  cannot  sleep 
 On  my  temples  sentry  keep; 
 
 Guard  me  ’gainst  those  watchful  foes, 
 Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close : 
 
BROWN. 
 
 205 
 
 Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
 But  such  as  Jacob’s  temples  blest. 
 
 While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance ; 
 
 Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 
 
 That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
 Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 
 
 And  with  as  active  vigour  run 
 My  course  as  doth  the  nimble  Sim. 
 
 Sleep  is  a  death;  O  make  me  try, 
 
 By  sleeping  what  it  is  to  dye, 
 
 And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
 On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
 
 Howe’er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
 Awake  again  at  last  with  Thee; 
 
 And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 
 Securely,  or  to  wake,  or  dye. 
 
 These  are  my  drowsie  days  ;  in  vain 
 I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again; 
 
 O  come,  sweet  hour,  when  I  shall  never 
 Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever  ! 
 
206 
 
 WITHER. 
 
 GEORGE  WITHER. 
 
 Born  1588.  Died  1667. 
 
 ^‘Pt,  Britain’s  Remem. 
 pieces  never  collortpa  ti  ’  Emblems^  and  numberless  other 
 
 be  noticed  hereafter  ThoS  TOtiS  S' «f  2“a,rles  "M1 
 
 Christian  meekness  in  tiVp  i.pnf  At  i  ^  ^reQuently  lost  his 
 with  it  eveTy evEce of  ho iSv  *£  £““**  but  bis  zeal  carried 
 martyrdom,  both  for  his  loyalty  aAd  his  ortScxv" t0 
 times  m  which  he  lived.  That  hewasTSin  the  t™ubIous 
 
 S33SS  SSpSE 
 
 That  he  was  a  Christian,  will  be  as mtle oucsXed  ifvTn*  T' 
 are  most  extensively  acquainted  with  theJhSarterof^tl  .2  "ho 
 compositions  of  which  specimens  are  gi™ \n the . i,u e!81°US 
 
 ttracikgnfhi1frien-d,S  genius>  and  encouraging  Mmtopersevereln  the 
 
 ££££?&  a?d  detf  c<?o»>  tiU  £33??^ uS 
 
 sssiHIsssss 
 
 The  comforts  of  the  Miise. 
 
 Let  nought,  therefore,  thee  affright, 
 But  make  forward  in  thy  flight; 
 
 *or,  it  I  could  match  thy  rhyme. 
 
 To  the  very  stars  I’d  climb; 
 
 There  begin  again,  and  fly 
 Till  I  reach’d  eternity. 
 
 But  alas  !  my  muse  is  slow; 
 
 For  thy  place  she  flags  too  low1; 
 
 Yea,  the  more’s  her  hapless  fate, 
 
 Her  short  wings  were  dipt  of  late, 
 
WITHER. 
 
 207 
 
 And  poor  I,  her  fortune  rueing, 
 
 Am  myself  put  up  a-mewing; 
 
 But  if  I  my  cage  can  rid, 
 
 I’ll  fly  where  I  never  did  : 
 
 And  though  for  her  sake  I’m  crost, 
 Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost, 
 
 And  know  she  would  make  my  trouble 
 Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double, 
 
 I  should  love  and  keep  her  too, 
 
 Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 
 
 For,  though  banish’d  from  my  flocks, 
 And  confined  within  these  rocks, 
 
 Here  I  waste  away  the  light, 
 
 And  consume  the  sullen  night, 
 
 She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 
 
 And  keeps  many  cares  away. 
 
 Though  I  miss  the  flowery  fields, 
 
 With  those  sweets  the  spring-tide  yields ; 
 Though  I  may  not  see  those  groves, 
 
 "W  here  the  Shepherds  chant  their  loves, 
 And  the  lasses  more  excell 
 Than  the  sweet- voiced  Philomel: 
 Though,  of  all  those  pleasures  past, 
 Nothing  now  remains  at  last, 
 
 But  remembrance,  poor  relief, 
 
 That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief: 
 S/ies  my  mind’s  companion  still, 
 
 Maugre  Envy’s  evil  will. 
 
 She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
 Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow; 
 
 Makes  the  desolatest  place 
 To  her  presence  be  a  grace  ; 
 
 And  the  blackest  discontents 
 To  be  pleasing  ornaments. 
 
 In  my  days  of  former  bliss, 
 
 Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this, 
 
 That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
 I  could  some  invention 'draw; 
 
 And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
 Through  the  meanest  object’s  sight; 
 
208 
 
 WITHER. 
 
 By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
 
 Or  the  least  bough’s  rustleing; 
 
 By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves,  spread, 
 
 Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed ; 
 
 Or  a  shady  bush,  or  tree, 
 
 She  could  more  infuse  in  me. 
 
 Than  all  nature’s  beauties  can 
 In  some  other  wiser  man. 
 
 By  her  help  I  also  now 
 Make  this  churlish  place  allow 
 Some  tilings  that  may  sweeten  gladness, 
 
 In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 
 
 The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade, 
 
 That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made  ; 
 
 The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 
 
 Beating  on  these  hollow  caves ; 
 
 This  dark  den  which  rocks  emboss, 
 Overgrown  with  eldest  moss; 
 
 The  rude  portals,  that  give  light 
 More  to  terror  than  delight; 
 
 This  my  chamber  of  neglect 
 Wall’d  about  with  disrespect: 
 
 -—From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 
 
 A  fit  object  for  despair, 
 
 She  hath  taught  me,  by  her  might, 
 
 To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 
 
 Therefore,  Thou  best  earthly  bliss  ! 
 
 I  will  chsrish  Thee  for  this: 
 
 Poesy  !  thou  sweet’st  content, 
 
 That  e’er  heaven  to  mortals  lent; 
 
 Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  Thee, 
 
 Whose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive  Thee, 
 Though  Thou  be  to  them  a  scorn, 
 
 Who  to  nought  but  earth  are  born, 
 
 Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
 Than  I  am  in  love  with  Thee. 
 
 Though  our  wise  ones  call  Thee  madness, 
 Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness, 
 
 If  I  love  not  thy  madd’st  fits 
 More  than  all  their  greatest  wits. 
 
WITHER. 
 
 209 
 
 And  though  some,  too-seeming  holy, 
 Do  account  thy  raptures  folly, 
 
 Thou  dost  teach  me  to  condemn 
 What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them. 
 
 The  Mart/gold. 
 
 When  with  a  serious  musing  I  behold 
 The  grateful  and  obsequious  marygold, 
 
 How  duly,  every  morning,  she  displays 
 Her  open  breast,  when  Titan  spreads  his  rays; 
 
 How  she  observes  him  in  his  daily  walk, 
 
 Still  bending  tow’rds  him  her  small  slender  stalk ; 
 How,  when  he  down  declines,  she  droops  and  mourns, 
 Bedew’d,  as  ’twere  with  tears,  till  he  returns  ; 
 
 And  how  she  vails  her  flowers  when  he  is  gone, 
 
 As  if  she  scorned  to  be  looked  on 
 By  an  inferior  eye ;  or  did  contemn 
 To  wait  upon  a  meaner  light  than  him  •. 
 
 — When  this  I  meditate,  methinks  the  flowers 
 Have  spirits  far  more  generous  than  ours, 
 
 And  give  us  fair  examples,  to  despise 
 The  servile  fawnings  and  idolatries, 
 
 Wherewith  we  court  these  earthly  things  below, 
 Which  merit  not  the  service  we  bestow. 
 
 But,  O  my  God !  though  grovelling  I  appear 
 Upon  the  ground,  and  have  a  rooting  here, 
 
 Which  hales  me  downward,  yet  in  my  desire 
 To  that  which  is  above  me  I  aspire; 
 
 And  all  my  best  affections  I  profess 
 To  Him  that  is  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 
 
 Oh!  keep  the  morning  of  his  incarnation, 
 
 The  burning  noontide  of  his  bitter  passion, 
 
 The  night  of  his  descending,  and  the  height 
 Of  his  ascension, — ever  in  my  sight; 
 
 That,  imitating  Him  in  what  I  may, 
 
 I  never  follow  an  inferior  way. 
 
210 
 
 WITHER. 
 
 Hope  in  Death. 
 
 [The  Emblem  represents  a  scull,  out  of  which  wheat  ears  are 
 springing  at  the  apertures.] 
 
 I  will  not  blame  those  grieved  hearts,  that  shed 
 Becoming  tears  for  their  departed  friends; 
 
 Nor  those  who  sigh  out  passions  for  the  dead ; 
 
 Since  on  good  nature  this  disease  attends  : 
 
 When  sorrow  is  conceived  it  must  have  vent, 
 
 In  sighs  or  moisture,  or  the  heart  will  break ; 
 
 And  much  they  aggravate  our  discontent, 
 
 Who,  out  of  season,  reason  seem  to  speak 
 Yet  since  our  folly  may  require  we  should 
 Remembrances  admit  to  keep  us  from 
 Excess  in  grief,  this  emblem,  understood, 
 
 Will  yield  such  hope  as  may  our  tears  o’ercome. 
 
 The  Wheat,  although  it  lies  a  while  in  earth, 
 
 And  seemeth  lost,  consumes  not  quite  away; 
 
 But  from  that  womb  receives  another  birth, 
 
 And  with  additions  riseth  from  the  clay. 
 
 Much  more  shall  Man  revive,  whose  worth  is  more; 
 For  Death,  who  from  our  dross  will  us  refine, 
 
 Unto  that  other  life  becomes  the  door, 
 
 Where  we  in  immortality  shall  shine. 
 
 When  once  our  glass  is  run,  we  presently 
 Give  up  our  souls  to  Death ; — so  Death  must  give 
 Our  bodies  back  again,  that  we,  thereby, 
 
 The  light  of  life  eternal  may  receive ; 
 
 The  venom’d  sting  of  Death  is  took  away ; 
 
 And  now  the  grave,  that  was  a  place  of  fear, 
 
 Is  made  a  bed  of  rest,  wherein  we  may 
 Lie  down  in  hope,  and  bide  in  safety  there. 
 
 When  we  are  born,  to  death-ward  straight  we  run 
 And  by  our  death  our  life  is  new  begun. 
 
 Seed-time  and  Harvest. 
 
 When  in  the  sweet  and  pleasant  month  of  May, 
 We  see  both  leaves  and  blossoms  on  the  tree, 
 
WITHER. 
 
 211 
 
 And  view  the  meadows  in  their  best  array, 
 
 We  hopeful  are  a  joyful  spring  to  see; 
 
 Yet  oft,  before  the  following  night  be  past, 
 
 It  chanceth,  that  a  vapour  or  a  frost 
 
 Doth  all  those  forward  bloomings  wholly  waste, 
 
 And  then  their  sweetness  and  their  beauty’s  lost. 
 
 Such  is  the  state  of  every  mortal  wight : 
 
 In  youth  our  glories  and  our  lusts  we  shew ; 
 
 We  fill  ourselves  with  every  vain  delight, 
 
 And  will  least  think  of  that  which  may  ensue. 
 
 But  let  us  learn  to  heed  as  well  as  know , 
 
 That  Spring  doth  pass,  that  Summer  steals  away, 
 And  that  the  flower  which  makes  the  fairest  show, 
 Ere  many  weeks  may  wither  and  decay. 
 
 And  from  this  emblem,  every  labouring  swain 
 (In  whatsoever  course  of  life  he  be) 
 
 Take  heart  and  hope,  amidst  his  daily  pain, 
 
 That  of  his  travails  he  good  fruits  shall  see. 
 
 The  plow’d  and  harrow’d  field,  which,  to  thine  eye, 
 Seems  like  to  be  the  grave,  in  which  the  seeds 
 Shall,  without  hope  of  rising,  buried  lie, 
 
 Becomes  the  fruitful  womb  where  plenty  breeds. 
 There  will  be  corn  where  nought  but  mire  appears ; 
 The  little  seed  will  form  a  greenish  blade; 
 
 The  blade  will  rise  to  stems  with  fruitful  ears, 
 Those  ears  will  ripen,  and  be  yellow  made. 
 
 So,  if  in  honest  hopes  thou  persevere, 
 
 A  joyful  harvest  will  at  last  appear. 
 
 Divers  Providences. 
 
 When  all  the  year  our  fields  are  fresh  and  green, 
 And  while  sweet  showers  and  sunshine,  every  day, 
 As  oft  as  need  requireth,  come  between 
 The  heavens  and  earth, — they  heedless  pass  away. 
 The  fulness  and  continuance  of  a  blessing 
 Doth  make  us  to  be  senseless  of  the  good ; 
 
 And,  if  sometimes  it  fly  not  our  possessing, 
 
 The  sweetness  of  it  is  not  understood. 
 
212 
 
 STORER. 
 
 Had  we  no  winter,  summer  would  be  thought 
 Not  half  so  pleasing;  and  if  tempests  were  not, 
 Such  comforts  by  a  calm  could  not  be  brought; 
 bor  things,  save  by  their  opposites,  appear  not. 
 Both  health  and  wealth  are  tasteless  unto  some, 
 And  so  is  ease,  and  every  other  pleasure, 
 
 Till  poor,  or  sick,  or  grieved,  they  become ; 
 
 And  then  they  relish  these  in  ampler  measure. 
 
 God,  therefore,  full  as  kind  as  He  is  wise, 
 
 So  tempereth  all  the  favours  He  will  do  us, 
 
 That  we  his  bounties  may  the  better  prize, 
 
 And  make  his  chastisements  less  bitter  to  us. 
 One  while  a  scorching  indignation  burns 
 The  flowers  and  blossoms  of  our  hopes  away, 
 Which  into  scarcity  our  plenty  turns, 
 
 And  changeth  unmown  grass  to  parched  hay. 
 Anon,  his  fruitful  showers  and  pleasing  dews, 
 Commixt  with  cheerful  rays,  He  sendeth  down, 
 And  then  the  barren  earth  her  crops  renews, 
 Which  with  rich  harvests  hills  and  vallies  crown 
 For,  as  to  relish  joys,  He  sorrows  sends, 
 
 So  comfort  on  temptation  still  attends. 
 
 THOMAS  STORER. 
 [From  England’s  Parnassus,  1600.] 
 
 Theology. 
 
 In  chariot,  framed  of  celestial  mould, 
 
 And  simple  pureness  of  the  purest  sky, 
 
 A  more  than  heavenly  Nymph  I  did  behold, 
 Who,  glancing  on  me  with  her  gracious  eye, 
 
 So  gave  me  leave  her  beauty  to  espy ; 
 
 For  sure  no  sense  such  sight  can  comprehend, 
 Except  her  beams  their  fair  resplendunce  lend. 
 
STORER. 
 
 Her  beauty  with  eternity  began, 
 
 And  only  unto  God  was  ever  seen  ; 
 
 When  Eden  was  possess’d  with  sinful  man, 
 
 She  came  to  him,  and  gladly  would  have  been 
 The  long-succeeding  world’s  eternal  queen; 
 
 But  Man  rejected  her;— Oh  !  heinous  deed  ! 
 
 And  from  the  garden  banish’d  was  that  seed. 
 
 Since  when,  at  sundrie  times,  in  divers  ways, 
 Atheism  and  blinded  Ignorance  conspire, 
 
 How  to  obscure  those  holy  burning  rays, 
 
 And  quench  that  zeal  of  heart  in  flaming  fire, 
 Which  makes  our  souls  to  heavenly  things  aspire: 
 But  all  in  vain  ;  for,  maugre  all  their  might, 
 
 She  never  lost  one  sparkle  of  her  light. 
 
 Pearls  may  be  foil’d,  and  gold  be  changed  to  dross, 
 The  sun  obscured,  the  moon  be  turn’d  to  blood; 
 The  world  may  sorrow  for  Astnea’s  loss, 
 
 The  heavens  be  darken’d  like  a  dusky  wood, 
 
 Waste  deserts  lie  where  watry  fountains  stood; 
 
 But  fair  Theology  (for  so  she  bight) 
 
 Shall  never  lose  one  sparkle  of  her  light. 
 
 Such  one  she  was,  as  in  his  Hebrew  song. 
 
 The  wisest  king  for  fairest  creature  proves  ; 
 Embracing  her,  the  cedar- trees  among, 
 
 Comparing  her  to  roses  and  to  doves, 
 
 Preferring  her  before  all  other  loves  : 
 
 Such  one  she  was,  and  every  whit  as  fair; 
 
 Besides  these  two  was  never  such  a  pair. 
 
216 
 
 JORDAN. 
 
 Whom  subjects’  love  doth  guard,  because  that  he 
 Guards  them  from  all  oppression,  and  makes  free 
 His  noble  favours  to  desert  and  worth, 
 
 Spreading  his  valiant  virtues  frankly  forth, 
 
 That  both  his  own  may  find,  and  neighbours  know 
 What  glorious  fruit  doth  from  religion  grow; 
 
 How  sweet  an  odour  justice  sends  to  heaven, 
 
 How  rare  example  is  to  princes  given, 
 
 By  virtuous  deeds  to  stop  the  mouths  of  those, 
 Who,  unreform’d,  are  reformation’s  foes. 
 
 THOMAS  JORDAN. 
 
 Died  1686. 
 
 Author  of “  Pictures  of  the  Passions,”  and  many  other  effusions, 
 which  are  now  very  scarce.  The  following  pieces  are  from  Miscel¬ 
 laneous  Poems  published  in  1645.  The  first  is  exceedingly  strik¬ 
 ing.  The  Inscription  on  the  pillar  of  salt,  is  a  bold  and  happy 
 idea,  though  rudely  executed. 
 
 On  Lot's  Wife  looking  back  to  Sodo?n. 
 
 Could  not  the  Angel’s  charge,  weak  woman,  turn 
 Thy  longing  eyes  from  seeing  Sodom  burn  ? 
 
 What  consolations  couldst  thou  think  to  see 
 In  punishments  that  were  as  due  to  thee? 
 
 For  ’tis,  without  dispute,  thy  only  sin 
 
 Had  made  Thee  one,  had  not  thy  husband  been  : 
 
 His  righteousness  preserved  thee,  who  went  on, 
 Without  desire  to  see  confusion 
 Rain  on  the  wretched  citizens;  but  joy’d 
 That  God  decreed  thou  shouldst  not  be  destroy’d, 
 
 Nor  thy  two  daughters,  who  did  likewise  flie 
 The  flaming  plague,  without  casting  an  eye 
 Toward  the  burning  towers. — What  urged  thee,  then, 
 Since  they  went  on,  so  to  look  back  again  ? 
 
JORDAN. 
 
 217 
 
 But  God,  whose  mercy  would  not  let  his  ire 
 Punish  thy  crime,  as  it  did  theirs,  in  fire, 
 With  his  divine  compassion  did  consent 
 At  once  to  give  thee  death  and  monument; 
 Where  I  perceive,  engraven  on  thy  stone, 
 
 Are  lines  that  tend  to  exhortation ; 
 
 Which,  that  by  thy  offence  I  may  take  heed, 
 
 I  shall  with  sacred  application  read. 
 
 THE  INSCRIPTION, 
 
 In  this  pillar  I  do  lie 
 Buried  where  no  mortal  eye 
 Ever  could  my  bones  descry. 
 
 When  I  saw  great  Sodom  burn, 
 
 To  this  pillar  1  did  turn, 
 
 Where  my  body  is  my  urn. 
 
 You  to  whom  my  corpse  I  show, 
 
 Take  true  warning  from  my  woe, 
 
 — Look  not  back  when  God  cries  “  Go.” 
 
 *  They  that  toward  virtue  hie, 
 
 If  but  back  they  cast  an  eye, 
 
 Twice  as  far  do  from  it  flie. 
 
 Counsel  then  I  give  to  those, 
 
 Who  the  path  to  bliss  have  chose, 
 
 Turn  not  back,  ye  cannot  lose. 
 
 That  way  let  your  whole  hearts  lie ; 
 
 If  ye  let  them  backward  flie. 
 
 They’ll  quickly  grow  as  hard  as  I. 
 
 On  a  Good  Man. 
 
 You,  that  did  love  with  filial  fear 
 The  soul  that  shines  in  yonder  sphere, 
 Whose  shadow  is  enshrined  here, 
 
 — Put  on  your  sackcloth  and.  appear. 
 
 K 
 
 32 
 
218 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 You,  that  are  valiant,  great  and  wise, 
 Attend  his  sacred  obsequies, 
 
 For  on  this  holy  herse  there  lies 
 A  theme  for  tears  in  unborn  eyes. 
 
 Although  he  was  not  understood, 
 
 Yet  from  his  spirit  and  his  blood, 
 
 Did  flow  a  fair  and  fertile  flood 
 Of  all  that  men  call  great  and  good. 
 
 Religion  was  his  daily  guest ; 
 
 Within  the  treasure  of  his  breast 
 Was  more  than  language  e’er  express’d ; 
 — Angels  can  only  tell  the  rest. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 These  verses  appear  in  nearly  all  the  Geneva  editions  of  the 
 translation  of  the  Bible,  which  was  made  during  the  reign  of 
 Queen  Mary,  by  the  illustrious  exiles  John  Knox ,  Miles  Cover  dale, 
 Anthony  Gilby,  Christopher  Goodman ,  and  others. 
 
 On  the  incomparable  treasure  of  the  Holy  Scriptures. 
 
 Here  is  the  Spring  where  waters  flowe 
 To  quench  our  heate  of  sinne; 
 
 Here  is  the  tree  where  truth  doth  grow', 
 
 To  leade  our  lives  therein. 
 
 Here  is  the  Judge  that  stints  the  strife, 
 
 Where  men’s  devises  faile  ; 
 
 Here  is  the  bread  that  feedes  the  life, 
 
 That  death  cannot  assaile. 
 
 The  tidings  of  salvation  deare 
 Come  to  our  eares  from  hence; 
 
 The  fortresse  of  our  faith  is  here, 
 
 And  shield  of  our  defence. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 219 
 
 Then  be  not  like  the  Hogge,  that  hath 
 A  pearle  at  his  desire, 
 
 And  takes  more  pleasure  at  the  trough, 
 And  wallowing  in  the  inyre. 
 
 Reade  not  this  book,  in  any  case, 
 
 But  with  a  single  eye  ; 
 
 Reade  not,  but  first  desire  God’s  grace 
 To  understand  thereby. 
 
 Pray  still  in  faith,  with  this  respect. 
 
 To  fructify  therein ; 
 
 That  knowledge  may  bring  this  etfect 
 To  mortify  thy  sinne. 
 
 Then  happie  thou  in  all  thy  life, 
 
 What  so  to  thee  befalles ; 
 
 Yea  double  happy  shalt  thou  be, 
 
 When  God  by  death  thee  calls. 
 
 k  2 
 
220 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 FRANCIS  QUARLES. 
 
 Born  1592.  Died  1644. 
 
 Principal  Works  -.—The  Scripture  Histories  of  Samson,  Job, 
 -Esther  and  Jonah, — the  School  of  the  Heart,  Emblems,  Sion's  Ele¬ 
 gies,  &c.  &c. 
 
 +i  1i,e5CiS  no^  *n  English  Literature  a  name  more  wronged  than 
 that  or  Quarles, — wronged,  too,  by  those  who  ought  best  to  have 
 discerned,  and  most  generously  acknowledged  his  merits  in  con¬ 
 tradistinction  to  his  delects.  “  Quarles  and  Wither,”  for  more  than 
 a  century,  were  the  “  Bavins  and  Mcevius ,”  of  every  poet  and  poe¬ 
 taster  who  imagined  himself  a  Horace.  It  must  be  confessed,  that 
 our  Author  as  well  as  Wither  (of  whom  we  have  already  spoken,) 
 has  injured  his  own  fair  fame  more  than  the  slanders  of  his  brethern, 
 and  the  neglect  of  posterity  could  do,— by  the  quantity  of  crude, 
 indigestible  matter  with  which  he  has  encumbered  his  finer  con¬ 
 ceptions,  as  well  as  the  base  phraseology  with  which  he  has  defiled 
 the  pure  and  felicitous  diction,  that  frequently  clothes  his  loveliest 
 .noughts  in  the  seemliest  words,  apparently  without  any  effort  of 
 his  own.  In  fact  his  faults  are  so  laboured,  that  they  seem  to  have 
 been  committed  on  purpose,  while  his  beauties  are  so  spontaneous, 
 that  they  alone,  amidst  his  anomalous  compositions,  seem  to  be 
 natural  to  him.  From  his  multiform  works,  a  rich  volume  of 
 poetry  might  be  compiled  by  an  Editor  of  good  taste.  The  an¬ 
 nexed  specimens,  with  proper  allowance  for  occasionally  vulgar’ 
 idioms  and  uncouth  ideas,  will  justify  this  favourable  estimate  of 
 his  powers. 
 
 t WW/WVI 
 
 [From  Divine  Emblems.] 
 
 Glorying  in  the  Cross. 
 
 Can  nothing  settle  my  uncertain  breast, 
 
 And  fix  my  rambling  love? 
 
 Can  my  alfections  find  out  nothing  best, 
 
 But  still  and  still  remove? 
 
 Has  earth  no  mercy?  Will  no  aik  of  rest 
 Receive  my  restless  dove  ? 
 
 Is  there  no  good,  than  which  there’s  nothing  higher, 
 To  bless  my  full  desire 
 
 With  joys  that  never  change  ;  with  joys  that  ne’er  ex¬ 
 pire  ? 
 
 I  wanted  wealth;  and,  at  my  dear  request, 
 
 Earth  lent  a  quick  supply; 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 221 
 
 I  wanted  mirth,  to  charm  my  sullen  breast; 
 
 And  who  more  brisk  than  I? 
 
 I  wanted  fame,  to  glorify  the  rest; 
 
 My  fame  flew  eagle-high; 
 
 My  joy  not  fully  ripe,  but  all  decay’d, 
 
 Wealth  vanish’d  like  a. shade  ; 
 
 My  mirth  began  to  flag,  my  fame  began  to  fade. 
 
 My  trust  is  in  the  cross ;  there  lies  my  rest : 
 
 My  fast,  my  sole  delight : 
 
 Let  cold-mouth’d  Boreas,  or  the  hot-mouthed  East, 
 Blow  till  they  hurst  with  spite; 
 
 Let  eartli  and  hell  conspire  their  worst,  their  best, 
 And  join  their  twisted  might ; 
 
 Let  showers  of  thunderbolts  dart  down  and  wound  me, 
 And  troops  of  fiends  surround  me, 
 
 All  this  may  well  confront;  all  this  shall  ne’er  con¬ 
 found  me. 
 
 Fleeing  from  Wrath. 
 
 Ah  !  whither  shall  I  fly?  what  path  untrod 
 Shall  T  seek  out  to  ’scape  the  flaming  rod 
 Of  my  offended,  of  my  angry  God  ? 
 
 Where  shall  I  sojourn?  what  kind  sea  will  hide 
 My  head  from  thunder?  where  shall  I  abide, 
 
 Until  his  flames  be  quench’d  or  laid  aside? 
 
 What,  if  my  feet  should  take  their  hasty  flight, 
 
 And  seek  protection  in  the  shades  of  night? 
 
 Alas!  no  shades  can  blind  the  God  of  light. 
 
 What,  if  my  soul  should  take  the  wings  of  day, 
 
 And  find  some  desert  ?  If  she  springs  away, 
 
 The  wings  of  vengeance  clip  as  fast  as  they. 
 
 What,  if  some  solid  rock  should  entertain 
 My  frighted  soul?  can  solid  rocks  restrain 
 The  stroke  of  Justice,  and  not  cleave  in  twain  ? 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 “> 90 
 
 <W  IW 
 
 Nor  sea,  nor  shade,  nor  shield,  nor  rock,  nor  cave, 
 Nor  silent  deserts,  nor  the  sullen  grave, 
 
 What  flame-ey’d  fury  means  to  smite,  can  save. 
 
 Tis  vain  to  flee,  till  gentle  mercy  show 
 Her  better  eye ;  the  farther  otf  we  go, 
 
 The  swing  of  Justice  deals  the  mightier  blow. 
 
 The’  ingenuous  child,  corrected,  doth  not  fly 
 His  angry  mother’s  hand,  but  clings  more  nigh, 
 
 And  quenches  with  his  tears  her  flaming  eye. 
 
 Great  God  !  there  isy  no  safety  here  below; 
 
 Thou  art  my  fortress,  Thou  that  seem’st  my  foe, 
 
 Tis  Thou,  that  strik’st  the  stroke,  must  guard  the  blow. 
 
 [From  a  Feast  for  Worms.] 
 
 The  sinner  no  where  safe. 
 
 Good  God  !  how  poor  a  thing  is  wretched  man  ? 
 
 So  frail,  that  let  him  strive  the  best  he  can, 
 
 With  every  little  blast  he’s  overdone; 
 
 If  mighty  cedars  of  great  Lebanon 
 Cannot  the  danger  of  the  axe  withstand, 
 
 Lord !  how  shall  we,  that  are  but  bushes,  stand  ? 
 How  fond,  corrupt,  how  senseless  is  mankind? 
 
 How  feigning  deaf  is  he?  how  wilful  blind? 
 
 He  stops  his  ears,  and  sins;  he  shuts  his  eyes, 
 
 And,  blindfold,  in  the  lap  of  danger  flyes: 
 
 He  sins,  despairs;  and  then  to  calm  his  strife 
 He  chuseth  death,  to  baulk  the  God  of  life. 
 
 Poor  wretched  sinner !  travel  where  thou  wilt, 
 
 Thy  travel  shall  be  burthen’d  with  thy  guilt : 
 
 Climb  tops  of  hills,  that  prospects  may  delight  thee, 
 There  will  thy  sins  like  wolves  and  bears  affright  thee  : 
 Ply  to  the  valleys,  that  those  frights  may  shun  thee, 
 And  there,  like  mountains,  they  will  fall  upon  thee : 
 Or  to  the  raging  seas,  with  Jonah,  go; 
 
 There  will  thy  sins  like  stormy  Neptune  flow. 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 223 
 
 Poor  shiftless  man,  what  shall  become  of  thee  ? 
 Where-e’er  thou  fly’st,  thy  griping  sin  will  flee. 
 
 [From  Eleven  Pious  Meditations.] 
 
 Vain  Boasting. 
 
 Can  he  be  fair,  that  withers  at  a  blast  ? 
 
 Or  he  be  strong,  that  airy  breath  can  cast  ? 
 
 Can  he  be  wise,  that  knows  not  how  to  live? 
 
 Or  he  be  rich,  that  nothing  hath  to  give? 
 
 Can  he  be  young,  that’s  feeble,  weak  and  wan? 
 
 — So  fair,  strong,  wise,  so  rich,  so  young  is  man. 
 
 So  fair  is  man,  that  death,  a  parting  blast, 
 
 Blasts  his  fair  flower,  and  makes  him  earth  at  last : 
 So  strong  is  man,  that  with  a  gasping  breath 
 He  totters,  and  bequeaths  his  strength  to  death; 
 
 So  wise  is  man,  that  if  with  death  he  strive, 
 
 His  wisdom  cannot  teach  him  how  to  live; 
 
 So  rich  is  man,  that,  all  his  debts  being  paid, 
 
 His  wealth’s  the  winding-sheet  wherein  he’s  laid ; 
 
 So  young  is  man,  that,  broke  with  care  and  sorrow, 
 He’s  old  enough  to  day,  to  die  to  morrow : 
 
 Why  bragg’st  thou  then,  thou  worm  of  five-foot  long 
 Thou’rt  neither  fair,  nor  strong,  nor  wise,  nor  rich 
 nor  young. 
 
 [From  the  History  of  Queen  Esther.] 
 
 Mans  Stewardship. 
 
 As  in  the  winged  common-wealth  of  bees, 
 
 (Whose  careful  summer-providence  fore-sees 
 The’  approaching  fruitless  winter,  which  denies 
 The  crown  of  labour)  some  with  laden  thighs 
 Take  charge  to  bear  their  waxy  burthens  home ; 
 Others  receive  the  welcome  load ;  and  some 
 Dispose  the  wax,  others  the  plot  contrive; 
 
 Some  build  the  curious  comb,  some  guard  the  hive 
 
224 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 Like  armed  eentinels;  others  distrain 
 The  purer  honey  from  the  wax;  some  train, 
 
 And  discipline  the  young,  while  others  drive 
 I  lie  sluggish  drones  from  their  deserved  hive : 
 
 Thus  in  the,common. wealth,  untaught  by  art,' 
 
 Each  winged  burgher  acts  his  busie  part: 
 
 So  man,  whose  first  creation  did  intend, 
 
 And  chiefly  pointed  at  no  other  end, 
 
 1  ban,  as  a  faithful  steward,  to  receive 
 The  fine  and  quit-rent  of  the  lives  we  live, 
 
 —Must  suit  his  dear  endeavour  to  his  might: 
 
 Each  one  must  lift  to  make  the  burthen  light, 
 
 Proving  the  power  that  his  gifts  afford 
 lo  raise  the  best  advantage  for  his  Lord, 
 
 Whose  substitute  he  is,  and  for  whose  sake 
 
 \\  e  live  and  breathe,  each  his  account  must  make, 
 
 Oi  more  or  less  ;  and  he  whose  power  lacks 
 fhe  means  to  gather  honey,  must  bring  wax; 
 hive  talents  double  five  ;  two  render  four, 
 
 Wheie  s  little,  little  s  craved;  where’s  much,  there’s 
 more. 
 
 [From  the  History  of  Queen  Esther.] 
 
 Confidence  in  Cod. 
 
 Among  the  noble  Greeks  it  was  no  shame 
 To  lose  a  sword ;  it  but  deserved  the  name 
 Of  war’s  disastrous  fortune;  but  to  yield 
 The  right  and  safe  possession  of  the  shield, 
 
 Was  foul  reproach,  and  manless  coward ize, 
 
 Far  worse  than  death  to  him  that  scorn’d  to  prize 
 His  life  before  his  honour;  honour’s  won 
 Most  in  a  just  defence,  defence  is  gone, 
 
 The  shield  once  lost.  The  wounded  Theban  cry’d, 
 How  fares  my  shield  ?  which  safe,  he  smiled,  and  dy’d  : 
 True  honour  bides  at  home,  and  takes  delight 
 In  keeping,  not  in  gaining  of  a  right ; 
 
 Scorns  usurpation,  nor  seeks  she  blood, 
 
 And  thirsts  to  make  her  name  not  great,  as  good ; 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 225 
 
 God  gives  a  right  to  man ;  to  man,  defence 
 To  guard  it  given ;  but  when  a  false  pretence 
 Shall  ground  her  title  on  a  greater  might, 
 
 What  doth  he  else  but  war  with  heaven,  and  fight 
 With  Providence  ?  God  sets  the  princely  crown 
 On  heads  of  kings ;  Who  then  may  take  it  down  ? 
 
 No  juster  quarrel,  or  more  noble  fight, 
 
 Than  to  maintain,  where  God  hath  given  a  right; 
 There’s  no  despair  of  conquest  in  that  war, 
 
 Where  God’s  the  Leader;  Policy’s  no  bar 
 To  his  designs ;  no  power  can  withstand 
 His  high  exploits ;  within  whose  mighty  hand 
 Are  all  the  corners  of  the  earth ;  the  hills 
 His  fensive  bulwarks  are,  which  when  He  wills, 
 
 His  lesser  breath  can  bandy  up  and  down, 
 
 And  crush  the  world,  and  with  a  wink,  can  drown 
 The  spacious  universe  in  suds  of  clay ; 
 
 Where  heaven  is  leader,  heaven  must  win  the  day : 
 God  reaps  his  honour  hence  ;  that  combat’s  safe, 
 Where  He’s  a  combatant,  and  ventures  half : 
 
 Right’s  not  impair’d  with  weakness,  but  prevails 
 In  spight  of  strength,  when  strength  and  power  fails: 
 Frail  is  the  trust  reposed  on  troops  of  horse ; 
 
 Truth  in  a  handful  finds  a  greater  force. 
 
 Lord,  mail  my  heart  with  faith,  and  be  my  shield, 
 And  if  a  world  confront  me,  I’ll  not  yield. 
 
 ///r#  r* ws* 
 
 £From  Jab  Militant.] 
 
 Conquer  thyself. 
 
 The  proudest  pitch  of  that  victorious  spirit, 
 
 Was  but  to  win  the  world,  whereby  to’  inherit 
 The  airy  purchase  of  a  transitory, 
 
 And  glozing  title  of  an  age\glory ; 
 
 Wouldst  thou  by  conquest  win  more  fame  than  he  ? 
 Subdue  thy-self,  thy-self’s  a  world  to  thee: 
 
 Earth’s  but  a  ball  that  heaven  hath  quilted  o’er 
 With  wealth  and  honour,  banded  on  the  floor 
 
 k  3 
 
226 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 Of  fickle  fortune’s  false  and  slippery  court, 
 
 Sent  for  a  toy,  to  make  us  children  sport, 
 
 Man’s  satiate  spirits  with  fresh  delights  supplying. 
 
 To  still  the  fondlings  of  the  world  from  crying- 
 And  he,  whose  merit  amounts  to  such  a  joy, 
 
 Gains  but  the  honour  of  a  mighty  toy. 
 
 But  wouldst  thou  conquer,  have  thy  conquest  crown’d 
 By  hands  of  seraphims,  triumph’d  with  the  sound 
 Of  heaven’s  loud  trumpet,  warbled  by  the  shrill 
 Celestial  quire,  recorded  with  a  quill, 
 
 1  luckt  from  the  pinion  of  an  angel’s  wing, 
 
 Confirmed  with  joy,  by  heaven’s  eternal  king  • 
 Conquer  thy-selt;  thy  rebel  thoughts  repel,  ’ 
 
 And  chase  those  false  affections  that  rebel. 
 
 Hath  heaven  despoil’d  what  his  full  hand  hath  given 
 thee?  ° 
 
 Nipt  thy  succeeding  blossoms  ?  or  bereaven  thee 
 Of  thy  dear  latest  hope,  thy  bosom  friend  ? 
 
 Doth  sad  despair  deny  these  griefs  an  end  ? 
 
 Despair’s  a  whispering  rebel,  that  within  thee 
 Bribes  all  thy  fieid,  and  sets  thy-self  again  thee: 
 
 Make  keen  thy  faith,  and  with  thy  force  let  flee 
 If  thou  not  conquer  him,  he’ll  conquer  thee: 
 
 Advance  thy  shield  of  patience  to  thy  head 
 
 And  when  grief  strikes,  ’twill  strike  the  striker  dead. 
 
 In  adveise  fortunes  be  thou  strong  and  stout 
 And  bravely  win  thy-self,  heaven  holds  not  out 
 His  bow,  for  ever  bent.  The  disposition 
 Of  noblest  spirits  doth,  by  opposition, 
 
 Exasperate  the  more  :  a  gloomy  night 
 Whets  on  the  morning  to  return  more  bright, 
 
 A  blade,  well  try  d,  deserves  a  treble  price, 
 
 And  viitue  s  puiest,  most  opposed  by  vice  5 
 Brave  minds  opprest,  should  in  despigbt  of  fate, 
 
 Look  gieatest,  like  the  sun,  in  lowest  state: 
 
 But  ah  !  shall  God  thus  strive  with  flesh  and  blood  • 
 Receives  He  glory  from,  or  reaps  He  good 
 In  mortal  s  ruine,  that  He  leaves  man  so 
 To  be  o’er  whelm’d  by  his  unequal  foe  ? 
 
 May  not  a  potter,  that  from  out  the  ground 
 Hath  framed  a  vessel,  search  if  it  be  sound? 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 227 
 
 Or,  if  by  furbishing  he  take  more  pain 
 To  make  it  fairer,  shall  the  pot  complain? 
 
 Mortal,  thou  art  but  clay  :  then  shall  not  He 
 That  framed  thee  for  his  service,  season  thee? 
 
 Man,  close  thy  lips,  be  thou  no  undertaker 
 Of  God’s  designs,  dispute  not  with  thy  Maker. 
 
 Lord,  ’tis  against  thy  nature  to  do  ill, 
 
 Then  give  me  power  to  bear,  and  work  thy  will ; 
 Thou  knovv’st  what’s  best,  make  Thou  thine  own  con¬ 
 clusion, 
 
 Be  glorify’d,  although  in  my  confusion. 
 
 Dependence  on  God. 
 
 Even  as  the  needle,  that  directs  the  hour, 
 
 Touch’d  with  the  loadstone,  by  the  secret  power 
 Of  hidden  nature,  points  upon  the  Pole; 
 
 Even  so  the  wavering  powers  of  my  soul, 
 
 Touch’d  by  the  vertue  of  thy  Spirit,  flee 
 From  what  is  earth,  and  point  alone  to  Thee. 
 
 When  I  have  faith  to  hold  Thee  by  the  hand, 
 
 I  walk  securely,  and  methinks  I  stand 
 
 More  firm  than  Atlas;  but  when  I  forsake 
 
 The  safe  protection  of  thine  arm,  I  quake 
 
 Like  wind-shaked  reeds,  and  have  no  strength  at  all, 
 
 But  like  a  vine,  the  prop  cut  down,  I  fall. 
 
 Nothing  perfect  on  Earth. 
 
 Even  as  the  soil  (which  April’s  gentle  showers 
 Have  fill’d  with  sweetness,  and  enricht  with  flowers) 
 Rears  up  her  sucking  plants,  still  shooting  forth 
 The  tender  blossoms  of  her  timely  birth, 
 
 But  if  deny’d  the  beams  of  chearly  May, 
 
 They  hang  their  wither’d  heads,  and  fade  away :  • 
 
 So  man,  assisted  by  the’  Almighty’s  hand, 
 
 His  faith  doth  flourish  and  securely  stand, 
 
228 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 But  left  a  while,  forsook,  as  in  a  shade, 
 
 It  languishes,  and  r.ipt  with  sin,  doth  fade. 
 
 No  gold  is  pure  from  dross,  though  oft  refined ; 
 The  strongest  cedar’s  shaken  with  the  wind ; 
 The  fairest  rose  hath  no  prerogative 
 Against  the  fretting  canker-worm  :  the  hive 
 No  honey  yields  unblended  with  the  wax: 
 
 The  finest  linnen  hath  both  soil  and  bracks : 
 
 I  he  best  of  men  have  sins;  none  lives  secure, 
 In  nature  nothing’s  perfect,  nothing  pure. 
 
 [From  “  Sion’s  Elegies,”  Paraphrases  of  the  Lamentations  of 
 
 Jeremiah.] 
 
 Destruction. 
 
 Turn  where  I  list,  new  cause  of  woe  presents 
 My  poor  distracted  soul  with  new  laments; 
 
 Where  shall  I  turn?  shall  I  implore  my  friends? 
 
 Ah,  summer-friendship,  with  the  summer  ends; 
 
 In  vain  to  them  my  groans,  in  vain  my  tears, 
 l1  or  harvest  friends  can  find  no  winter-ears. 
 
 Or  shall  I  call  my  sacred  priests  for  aid  ? 
 
 Alas  !  my  pined  priests  are  all  betray’d 
 lo  death,  and  famine;  in  the  streets  they  cried 
 Tor  bread,  and  whilst  they  sought  for  bread,  they  died. 
 Vengeance  could  never  strike  so  hard  a  blow, 
 
 As  when  she  sends  an  unlamented  woe. 
 
 The  mockery  of  Enemies. 
 
 People  that  travel  through  thy  wasted  land, 
 
 Gaze  on  thy  mines,  and  amazed  stand, 
 
 I  hey  shake  their  spleenful  heads,  disdain,  deride 
 The  sudden  downfal  of  so  fair  a  pride, 
 
 They  clap  their  joyful  hands,  and  fill  their  tongues 
 With  hisses,  ballads,  and  with  lyrick  songs : 
 
 Her  torments  give  their  empty  lips  new  matter, 
 And  with  their  scornful  fingers  point  they  at  her: 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 229 
 
 “  Is  this”  (say  they)  “  that  place,  whose  wonted  fame 
 Made  troubled  earth  to  tremble  at  her  name  ? 
 
 Is  this  that  state?  Are  these  those  goodly  stations . 
 Is  this  that  mistress,  and  that  Queen  ot  Nations? 
 
 Jerusalem  in  Ruins. 
 
 Wounded,  and  wasted  by  the’  eternal  hand 
 Of  heaven,  I  grovel  on  the  ground;  my  land 
 Is  turn’d  a  Golgotha;  before  mine  eye, 
 
 Unsepulcher’d,  my  murther’d  people  lie: 
 
 My  dead  lie  rudely  scatter’d  on  the  stones ; 
 
 My  causies  all  are  paved  with  dead  men’s  bones; 
 
 The  fierce  destroyer  doth  alike  forbear 
 
 The  maiden’s  trembling,  and  the  matron’s  tear; 
 
 The’  imperial  sword  spares  neither  fool  nor  wise, 
 
 The  old  man’s  pleading,  nor  the  infant  s  cries. 
 Vengeance  is  deaf  and  blind,  and  she  respects 
 Not  young,  nor  old,  nor  wise,  nor  fool,  nor  sex. 
 
 Hopeless  Suffering. 
 
 Years,  heavy  laden  with  their  months,  retire ; 
 
 Months,  gone  their  dates  of  number’d  days,  expire  ; 
 The  days  full  houred,  to  their  period  tend ; 
 
 And  hours,  chaced  with  light-foot  minutes,  end ; 
 
 Yet  my  undated  evils,  will  no  time  diminish, 
 
 Tho’  years  and  months,  tho’  days  and  hours  finish : 
 Fears  flock  about  me,  as  invited  guests 
 Before  the  portals  at  proclaimed  feasts; 
 
 Where  heaven  hath  breathed,  that  man,  that  state 
 
 must  fall ;  , 
 
 Heaven  wants  no  thunderbolts  to  strike  withal : 
 
 I  am  the  subject  of  that  angry  breath, 
 
 My  sons  are  slain,  and  I  am  mark’d  for  death. 
 
230 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 Mercy  tempering  Justice. 
 
 Had  not  the  milder  hand  of  mercy  broke 
 The  furious  violence  of  that  fatal  stroke 
 Offended  Justice  struck,  we  had  been  quite 
 Lost  in  the  shadows  of  eternal  night: 
 
 Thy  mercy,  Lord,  is  like  the  morning  Sun, 
 
 Whose  beams  undo  what  sable  night  hath  done  • 
 Or  like  a  stream,  the  current  of  whose  course, 
 Restrain’d  a  while,  runs  with  a  swifter  force; 
 
 Oh,  let  me  glow  beneath  those  sacred  beams’ 
 
 And  after  bathe  me  in  these  silver  streams ; 
 
 To  Thee  alone  my  sorrows  shall  appeal ; 
 
 Hath  earth  a  wound,  too  hard  for  heaven  to  heal? 
 
 Hope  in  God. 
 
 In  Thee,  dear  Lord,  my  pensive  soul  respires, 
 Ihou  art  the  fulness  of  my  choice  desires; 
 
 Thou  art  that  sacred  spring,  whose  waters’ burst 
 In  streams  to  him,  that  seeks  with  holy  thirst' 
 Thrice  happy  man,  thrice  happy  thirst  to  brino-’ 
 The  fainting  soul  to  so,  so  sweet  a  spring; 
 Thrice  happy  he,  whose  well-resolved  brest 
 Expects  no  other  aid,  no  other  rest; 
 
 Ihrice  happy  he,  whose  downy  age  had  been 
 Reclaim  d  by  scourges  from  the  prime  of  sin, 
 And  early  season'd  with  the  taste  of  truth 
 Remembers  his  Creator  in  his  youth. 
 
 God  estranged. 
 
 1  Hou  great  Creator,  whose  diviner  breath 
 Preserves  thy  creature,  joy’st  not  in  his  death 
 Look  down  from  thy  eternal  throne,  that  art  ’ 
 
 The  only  Rock  of  a  despairing  heart  • 
 
 Look  down  from  heaven,  O  Thou !  whose  tender  ear 
 Once  heard  the  trickling  of  one  single  tear; 
 
QUARLES. 
 
 How  art  Thou  now  estranged  from  his  cry, 
 
 That  sends  forth  rivers  from  his  fruitful  eye ! 
 
 How  often  hast  Thou,  with  a  gentle  arm. 
 
 Raised  me  from  death,  and  bid  me  fear  no  harm  ! 
 What  strange  disaster  caused  this  sudden  change  ? 
 How  wert  Thou  once  so  near,  and  now  so  strange 
 
 Famine. 
 
 Impetuous  Famine,  sister  to  the  sword, 
 
 Left  hand  of  death,  child  of  the’  infernal  lord, 
 Thou  torturer  of  mankind,  that  with  one  stroke, 
 Subject’st  the  world  to  thy  imperious  yoke: 
 What  pleasure  tak’st  thou  in  the  tedious  breath 
 Of  pined  mortals,  or  their  lingering  death  ? 
 
 The  sword,  thy  generous  brother’s  not  so  cruel, 
 He  kills  but  once,  fights  in  a  noble  duel, 
 
 But  thou,  malicious  Fury,  dost  extend 
 
 Thy  spleen  to  all,  whose  death  can  find  no  end; 
 
 Alas !  my  hapless  weal  can  want  no  woe, 
 
 That  feels  the  rage  of  sword,  and  famine  too. 
 
 No  Escape  from  Destruction. 
 
 So  the  quick-scented  beagles  in  a  view, 
 
 O’er  hill  and  dale  the  fleeting  chase  pursue, 
 
 As  swift-foot  death  and  ruine  follow  me, 
 
 That  flees,  afraid,  yet  knows  not  where  to  flee  : 
 Flee  to  the  fields?  There  with  the  sword  I  meet; 
 And,  like  a  watch,  death  stands  in  every  street; 
 
 No  cover  hides  from  death ;  no  shade,  no  cells 
 So  dark  wherein  not  death  and  horror  dwells; 
 
 Our  days  are  number’d,  and  our  number’s  done, 
 The  empty  hour-glass  of  our  glory’s  run, 
 
 Our  sins  are  summ’d,  and  so  extreme’s  the  score. 
 That  heaven  could  not  do  less,  nor  hell  do  more. 
 
232 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 [From  an  Alphabet  of  Elegies  on  Dr.  Ailmer.] 
 
 No.  19.  T. 
 
 Thus  to  the  world,  and  to  the  spacious  ears 
 Of  fame,  I  blazon  my  unboasted  tears: 
 
 Thus  to  thy  sacred  dust,  thy  urn,  thy  herse 
 I  consecrate  my  sighs,  my  tears,  my  verse ; 
 
 Thus  to  thy  soul,  thy  name,  thy  just  desert 
 I  offer  up  my  joy,  my  love,  my  heart : 
 
 That  earth  may  know,  and  every  ear  that  hears, 
 
 True  worth  and  grief  were  parents  to  my  tears : 
 
 That  earth  may  know  thy  dust,  thy  urn,  thy  herse, 
 Brought  forth  and  bred  my  sighs,  my  tears,  my  verse ; 
 And  that  thy  soul,  thy  name,  thy  just  desert, 
 
 Invites,  incites  my  joy,  my  love,  my  heart. 
 
 [From  Hieroglyphics  of  the  Life  of  Man.] 
 
 Man  boi'n  to  Trouble. 
 
 No  sooner  are  we  born,  no  sooner  come 
 To  take  possession  of  this  vast', 
 
 This  soul-afflicting  earth, 
 
 But  danger  meets  us  at  the  very  womb; 
 
 And  sorrow,  with  her  full-mouth’d  blast, 
 
 Salutes  our  painful  birth 
 
 To  put  out  all  our  joys,  and  puff  out  all  our  mirth. 
 
 Nor  infant-innocence,  nor  childish  tears, 
 
 Nor  youthful  wit,  nor  manly  power, 
 
 Nor  politic  old-age, 
 
 Nor  virgin’s  pleading,  nor  the  widow’s  prayers, 
 
 Nor  lowly  cell,  nor  lofty  tower, 
 
 Nor  prince,  nor  peer,  nor  page, 
 
 Can  ’scape  this  common  blast,  nor  curb  her  stormy 
 rage. 
 
 Tost  to  and  fro,  our  frighted  thoughts  are  driven 
 With  every  wind,  with  every  tide 
 
DEVEREUX 
 
 233 
 
 Of  life-consuming  care, 
 
 Our  peaceful  flame,  that  would  point  up  to  heaven, 
 
 Is  still  disturb’d  and  turn’d  aside ; 
 
 And  every  blast  of  air 
 
 Commits  such  waste  in  man,  as  man  cannot  repair. 
 
 What  may  this  sorrow-shaken  earth  present 
 To  the  false  relish  of  our  taste 
 That’s  worth  the  name  of  sweet? 
 
 Her  minute’s  pleasure’s  choked  with  discontent, 
 
 Her  glory  soil’d  with  every  blast : 
 
 How  many  dangers  meet 
 
 Poor  man,  between  the  biggen  and  the  winding-sheet! 
 
 ROBERT  DEVEREUX,  Earl  of  Essex. 
 Born  1567.  Beheaded  1601. 
 
 A  quiet  Life. 
 
 [[The  following  lines  were  enclosed  in  a  letter  from  this  celebrated 
 favourite  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  addressed  to  her  Majesty,  when  he 
 was  in  Ireland,  which  he  considered  his  place  of  banishment.  It 
 is  both  curious  and  affecting  to  observe  how  the  most  ambitious 
 and  courtly  spirits,  when  crossed  in  their  schemes  of  worldly  ag¬ 
 grandizement,  fondly  turn  (in  imagination  at  least,)  to  Nature  and 
 Solitude  for  repose.  This  little  piece  acquires  an  interest  far  be¬ 
 yond  its  poetical  merit,  from  having  been  adopted,  if  not  actually 
 composed,  by  this  unfortunate  nobleman  as  the  expression  of  his 
 disappointed  feelings,  at  a  very  critical  juncture  in  his  turbulent 
 life.  It  is  lamentable  to  think,  how  men  deceive  themselves  when 
 they  indulge  in  such  delightful  reveries.] 
 
 Happy  if  he  could  furnish  forth  his  fate 
 In  some  unhaunted  desert;  most  obscure 
 From  all  society,  from  love  and  hate 
 Of  worldly  folk ;  then  he  should  sleep  secure ; 
 
 Then  wake  again,  and  yield  God  every  praise; 
 
 Content  with  hips  and  haws  and  bramble  berry ; 
 
234 
 
 BRETON. 
 
 In  contemplation  passing  out  his  days, 
 
 And  change  of  holy  thoughts  to  make  him  merry; 
 Who,  when  he  dies,  his  tomb  may  he  a  bush, 
 Where  harmless  robin  dwells  with  gentle  thrush. 
 
 NICHOLAS  BRETON. 
 
 [From  “  I  would  and  would  not,”  1614.] 
 
 What  I  would  be. 
 
 To  tell  you  truly  what  I  wish  to  be, 
 
 And  never  would  be  other  if  I  could, 
 
 But  in  the  comfort  of  the  heaven’s  decree, 
 
 In  soule  and  bodie  that  I  ever  should:  — 
 
 Though  in  the  world,  not  to  the  world  to  live, 
 
 But  to  my  God  my  service  wholly  give. 
 
 This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other  be, 
 
 But  a  religious  servant  of  my  God ; 
 
 And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  He ; 
 
 And  willingly  to  suffer  mercy’s  rod, 
 
 Joy  in  his  grace,  and  live  but  in  his  love, 
 
 And  seeke  my  blisse  but  in  the  heaven  above. 
 
 And  I  would  frame  a  kind  of  faithfull  praier 
 For  all  estates  within  the  state  of  grace, 
 
 That  carefull  love  might  never  know  despaire, 
 
 Nor  servile  feare  might  faithfull  love  deface  : 
 
 And  this  I  would  both  day  and  night  devise 
 To  be  my  humble  spirit’s  exercise. 
 
 Thus  would  I  spend  in  service  of  my  God 
 The  lingering  hours  of  these  few  days  of  mine, 
 
 To  show  how  sin  and  death  are  overtrod 
 But  by  the  virtue  of  the  power  divine ; 
 
 Our  thoughts  but  vaine,  our  substance  slime  and  dust 
 And  only  Christ  for  our  eternal  trust. 
 
LODGE. 
 
 235 
 
 THOMAS  LODGE. 
 
 Born  about  1556.  Died  1625. 
 
 Author  of  Promos  and  Cassandra,  Glaucus  and  Scilla,  &c. 
 
 Retirement. 
 
 Sweet,  solitary  life,  thou  true  repose, 
 
 Wherein  the  wise  contemplate  heaven  aright ; 
 
 In  thee  no  dread  of  war  or  worldly  foes, 
 
 In  thee  no  pomp  seduceth  mortal  sight; 
 
 In  thee  no  wanton  ears  to  win  with  words, 
 
 Nor  lurking  toys  which  city-life  affords. 
 
 At  peep  of  day,  when,  in  her  crimson  pride, 
 
 The  morn  bespreads  with  roses  all  the  way, 
 
 When  Phoebus’  coach,  with  radiant  course,  must  glide, 
 The  Hermit  bends  his  humble  knees  to  pray; 
 Blessing  that  God,  whose  bounty  doth  bestow 
 Such  beauties  on  the  earthly  things  below. 
 
 Whether,  with  solace  tripping  on  the  trees, 
 
 He  sees  the  citizens  of  forests  sport; 
 
 Or,  midst  the  wither’d  oak  beholds  the  bees 
 Intend  their  labours  with  a  kind  consort; 
 
 Down  drop  his  tears,  to  think  how  they  agree 
 While  men  alone  with  hate  inflamed  be. 
 
 Taste  he  the  fruits  that  spring  from  Tellus’  womb, 
 
 Or  drink  he  of  the  crystal  rill  that  flows, 
 
 He  thanks  his  God ;  and  sighs  their  cursed  doom, 
 That  fondly  wealth  in  surfeiting  bestows  ; 
 
 And  with  St.  Jerome  saith — “  The  desert  is 
 A  paradise  of  solace,  joy  and  bliss.” 
 
 Father  of  Light !  Thou  maker  of  the  heaven  ! 
 
 From  whom  my  being,  and  well-being,  springs, 
 
 Bring  to  effect  this  my  desired  steaven,  (a) 
 
 That  I  may  leave  the  thought  of  worldly  things ; 
 Then  in  my  troubles  will  I  bless  the  time, 
 
 My  Muse  vouchsafed  me  such  a  lucky  rhyme. 
 
 (a)  Time  or  Season. 
 
236 
 
 ,  DAVISON. 
 
 FRANCIS  DAVISON. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  a  rare  Infant,  six  years  old . 
 
 [From  Person’s  Varieties,  1635.] 
 
 Wit’s  perfection,  Beauty’s  wonder, 
 
 Nature’s  pride,  the  Graces’  treasure, 
 
 Virtue’s  life,  his  friends’  sole  pleasure, 
 
 This  cold  marble-stone  lies  under, 
 
 Which  is  often  moist  with  teares 
 For  such  losse  in  such  young  yeares. 
 
 Lovely  Boy,  thou  art  not  dead, 
 
 But  from  earth  to  heaven  fled ; 
 
 For  base  earth  was  far  unfit 
 For  such  beauty,  grace  and  wit. 
 
 Thou,  alive  on  earth,  sweet  Boy, 
 
 Fladst  an  angel’s  wit  and  face; 
 
 And  now  dead,  thou  dost  enjoy 
 In  high  heaven  an  angel’s  place. 
 
 God  my  ref  uge. — Psalm  13. 
 
 Hear,  O  Lord  and  God !  my  cries  ; 
 Mark  my  foes’  unjust  abusing; 
 
 And  illuminate  mine  eies, 
 
 Heavenly  beams  in  their  infusing. 
 
 Lest  my  woes,  too  great  to  bear, 
 
 And  too  infinite  in  number, 
 
 llocke  me  soone,  ’twixt  hope  and  fear, 
 
 Into  death’s  eternal  slumber. 
 
 Lest  my  foes  their  boasting  make, 
 
 “  Spight  of  right  on  him  we  trample;” 
 And  a  pride  in  mischief  take 
 Hearten’d  by  my  sad  example. 
 
DAVISON. 
 
 237 
 
 As  for  me  I’ll  ride  secure 
 At  thy  mercy’s  sacred  anchor, 
 
 And  undaunted  will  endure 
 Fiercest  storms  of  wrong  and  rancour. 
 
 These  black  clouds  will  overblowe, 
 Sunshine  shall  have  his  returning, 
 
 And  my  grief-wrung  heart  I  know, 
 Into  mirth  shall  change  his  mourning. 
 
 Therefore  I’ll  rejoice,  and  sing 
 Hymnes  to  God,  in  sacred  measure, 
 Who  to  happy  passe  will  bring 
 My  just  hopes,  at  his  good  pleasure. 
 
 The  Lord  my  Shepherd , — Psalm  23. 
 
 God,  who  doth  all  nature  hold 
 In  his  fold, 
 
 Is  my  Shepherd  kind  and  heedful; 
 
 Is  my  Shepherd,  and  doth  keep 
 Me  his  sheep, 
 
 Still  supplied  witji  all  things  needful. 
 
 He  feeds  me  in  fields,  which  been 
 Fresh  and  green, 
 
 Mottled  with  spring’s  flowery  painting; 
 
 Through  which  creep,  with  murmuring  crooks, 
 Chrystal  brooks, 
 
 To  refresh  my  spirit  fainting. 
 
 When  my  soul,  from  heaven’s  way. 
 
 Went  astray, 
 
 With  earth’s  vanities  seduced, 
 
 For  his  uame’s  sake  kindly  He, 
 
 Whindering  me 
 
 To  his  holy  fold  reduced. 
 
 Though  I  stray  thro’  death’s  dark  vale, 
 
 Where  his  pale 
 
238 
 
 HARRINGTON. 
 
 Shades  on  every  side  enfold  me, 
 Dreadless,  having  Thee  for  guide, 
 Should  I  ’bide, 
 
 For  thy  rod  and  staffe  uphold  me. 
 
 Thou,  my  board  with  messes  large, 
 Dost  surcharge; 
 
 My  bowles  full  of  wine  Thou  pourest, 
 And  before  mine  enemies’ 
 
 Envious  eyes, 
 
 Balm  upon  mine  head  Thou  showerest. 
 
 Neither  ’dures  thy  bounteous  grace 
 For  a  space, 
 
 But  it  knows  nor  bound,  nor  measure : 
 So  my  days,  to  my  life’s  end, 
 
 Shall  1  spend 
 
 In  thy  courts  with  heavenly  pleasure. 
 
 LORD  HARRINGTON, 
 
 Baron  of  Exeter. 
 
 [From  “  Verses  to  the  living  Memory  of  the  late  and  last  Sir 
 Thomas  Rowe.”  16**.} 
 
 To  his  Mother  and  Sisters. 
 
 Rather  than  tell  how  good  he  was,  I  will 
 Persuade  you  to  forget; — yet  weep  your  fill; 
 
 For  such  a  sonne,  O  Death!  and  such  a  Brother, 
 Is  rare  as  heaven’s  great  eye,  which  hath  no  other. 
 
 To  Religion. 
 
 What  hast  thou  lost,  O  sacred  mysterie ! 
 
 Thy  nurse  and  yet  thy  childe, — he  did  not  die 
 
WARWICK. 
 
 239 
 
 To  thee ;  of  all  the  rest  he  was,  alive, 
 
 Thy  martyr ;  and,  now  dead,  he  doth  more  thrive 
 In  thee : — Oh  !  no ;  his  state  takes  no  increase, 
 Full  of  the  joyes  of  God,  he  lives  in  peace. 
 
 To  Death. 
 
 Poor,  uncreated  nothing  !  to  contend 
 To  make  all  things  like  thee,  yet  misse  thy  end; 
 Canst  thou  hold  him  one  hour,  O  envious  Death ! 
 Or  touch  his  last,  yet  everlasting  breath  ? 
 
 Oh  !  no  ;  that  fled  where  Thou  shalt  never  come, 
 Though  here  a  while  thou  triumph  on  his  tomb. 
 
 ARTHUR  WARWICK. 
 
 “  This  mortal  shall  jmt  on  immortality ,” — written  a  few 
 days  before  the  Author  s  decease. 
 
 [From  “  Spare  Minutes,  or  resolved  Meditations,”  &c.  1636.] 
 
 The  world  is  but  a  walk  of  pain, 
 
 That  has  only  end  with  death ; 
 
 Life  is  war,  in  which  we  gain 
 Conquest  by  the  loss  of  breath; 
 
 Who  would  not  warfare  end,  and  travels  cease, 
 
 To  live  at  home  in  rest,  and  rest  at  home  in  peace. 
 
 What’s  the  earth  when  trimmest  drest 
 To  that  crystal-spangled  dwelling? 
 
 Yet  the  Saint,  in  glory  least, 
 
 Is  in  glory  far  excelling : 
 
 Glorious  Redeemer,  let  this  earth  of  mine 
 Thy  glorious  body  see,  and  in  thy  glory  shine. 
 
240 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 Oft  I  see  the  darksome  night 
 To  a  beauteous  day  returning; 
 
 Oft  doth  sleep  entomb  my  sight, 
 
 Yet  I  wake  again  at  morning : 
 
 Bright  Sun,  return,  when  sleep  hath  spent  death’s  night, 
 That  these  dim  eyes  of  mine  may  in  thy  light  see  light. 
 
 ANNE  COLLINS. 
 
 Happiness  not  to  be  found  in  the  Creature. 
 
 [From  “  Divine  Songs  and  Meditations,”  1653.] 
 
 Such  is  the  force  of  each  created  thing 
 That  it  no  solid  happiness  can  bring, 
 
 Which  to  our  minds  may  give  contentment  sound; 
 For,  like  as  Noah’s  dove  no  succour  found, 
 
 Till  she  return’d  to  him  that  sent  her  out, 
 
 Just  so,  the  soul  in  vain  may  seek  about 
 For  rest  or  satisfaction  any  where, 
 
 Save  in  his  presence  who  hath  sent  her  here; 
 
 Yea  though  all  earthly  glories  should  unite 
 Their  pomp  and  splendour  to  give  such  delight, 
 
 Yet  could  they  no  more  sound  contentment  bring 
 Than  star-light  can  make  grass  or  flowers  spring. 
 
HARVEY. 
 
 241 
 
 THOMAS  HARVEY. 
 
 The  Desire  of  the  Heart. 
 
 £From  “  Scfiola  Cordis in  forty-seven  Emblems:  1G17.] 
 
 The  merchant  sends  his  heart  to  sea, 
 
 And  there,  together  with  his  ship,  ’tis  tost; 
 
 If  this  by  chanee  miscarry,  that  is  lost ; 
 
 His  confidence  is  cast  away ; 
 
 He  hangs  the  head, 
 
 As  he  were  dead. 
 
 The  plowman  furrows  up  his  land, 
 
 And  sowes  his  heart  together  with  his  seed, 
 
 Which  both,  alike  earth-born,  on  earth  do  feed, 
 And  prosper  or  are  at  a  stand  ; 
 
 He  and  his  field 
 Like  fruit  do  yield. 
 
 The  broker  and  the  scrivener  have 
 
 The  usurer’s  heart  in  keeping,  with  his  bands; 
 
 His  soule’s  dear  sustenance  lies  in  their  hands, 
 And  if  they  break,  their  shop’s  his  grave ; 
 
 His  interest  is 
 His  only  bliss. 
 
 The  money-hoarder,  in  his  bags, 
 
 Binds  up  his  heart,  and  locks  it  in  his  chest; 
 
 The  same  key  serves  to  that  and  to  his  breast. 
 Which  of  no  other  heaven  brags, 
 
 Nor  can  conceit 
 A  joy  so  great. 
 
 Poor  wretched  muek-wormes,  wipe  your  eyes, 
 Uncase  those  trifles  that  beset  you  so; 
 
 Your  rich-appearing  wealth  is  reall  woe, 
 
 Your  death  in  your  desires  lies; 
 
 Your  hearts  are  where 
 You  love  and  feare. 
 
 L 
 
 32 
 
242 
 
 HARVEY. 
 
 Oh  !  think  not,  then,  the  world  deserves 
 Either  to  be  beloved  or  fear’d  by  you  ; 
 Give  heaven  these  affections  as  its  due, 
 Whiqh  always  what  it  hath  preserves 
 In  perfect  blisse, 
 
 That  endlesse  is. 
 
 The  Heart  enlarged. 
 
 What  a  blessed  change  I  find, 
 
 Since  I  entertain’d  this  guest ! 
 
 Now,  methinks,  another  mind 
 Moves  and  rules  within  my  breast; 
 Surely  I  am  not  the  same 
 That  I  was  before  He  came ; 
 
 But  I  then  was  much  to  blame. 
 
 All  the  ways  of  righteousnesse 
 I  did  think  were  full  of  trouble  ; 
 
 I  complain’d  of  tediousnesse, 
 
 And  each  duty  seemed  double  ; 
 While  I  served  Him  but  from  feare, 
 Every  minute  did  appeare 
 Longer  far  than  a  whole  yeare. 
 
 But  the  case  is  alter’d  now; 
 
 He  no  sooner  turnes  his  eye, 
 
 But  I  quickly  bend  and  bow, 
 
 Ready  at  his  feet  to  lie ; 
 
 Love  hath  taught  me  to  obey 
 All  his  precepts,  and  to  say 
 Not  “  to-morrow ”  but  “  to-day." 
 
HOLYDAY. 
 
 243 
 
 BARTON  HOLYDAY. 
 
 Dislichs. 
 
 [From  “  A  Survey  of  the  World 1661.] 
 
 The  Oake  beares  fruite,  though  blossome  it  beares 
 none ; 
 
 The  Just  beares  fruite,  though  oft  it  is  not  known. 
 
 The  Margarite’s  (a)  composed  of  heavenly  dew, 
 Heaven  is  the  Pearle  that  is  prepared  for  few. 
 
 The  Worme  lives  in  his  grave; — do  what  he  can 
 He’s  but  a  worme ; — No  muck- worme  is  a  man. 
 
 I 
 
 Pride  cannot  see  itself  by  noon-day  light; 
 
 The  Peacock’s  tail  is  farthest  from  his  sight. 
 
 The  Swallow’s  a  quick  arrowe,  that  may  shew 
 With  what  an  instant  swiftnesse  life  doth  flow. 
 
 Let  devout  prayer  cast  me  to  the  ground, 
 
 So  shall  I  yet  to  heaven  be  nearer  found. 
 
 Religion,  thou  on  Sinai’s  top  dost  sit, 
 
 Higher  than  Horeb, — empresse  of  all  wit. 
 
 The  Moralist,  with  skill  scarce  more  profound, 
 Dresses  the  mind  than  others  dress  the  ground. 
 
 What’s  true  is  therefore  good  ;  and  thus  we  know 
 All  goodnesse  else  doth  from  this  goodnesse  flow. 
 
 (a)  The  Pearl. 
 L  2 
 
2U 
 
 TEATE. 
 
 On  Saints. 
 
 Ambrose!  upon  thine  infant-lips  bees  sate, 
 
 Still  on  the  honey  of  thy  lips  all  waite. 
 
 Great  Austin  !  to  be  good  thou  didst  not  faint; 
 Thy  youth  was  Austin,  but  thine  age  was  Saint. 
 
 Bernard  so  happily  employ’d  his  thought, 
 
 He  scarce  had  time  to  think  of  what  was  nought. 
 
 FAITHFUL  TEATE. 
 
 Hope. 
 
 [From  “  Ter  Tria,"  or  the  Doctrine  of  Father,  Son  and  Spirit, 
 Faith,  Hope  and  Love,— Prayer,  Hearing,  Meditation  :  1669.] 
 
 True  Hope  is  Jacob’s  staffe  indeed. 
 
 True  Hope  is  no  Egyptian  reed, 
 
 That  springs  from  mire,  or  else  can  feed 
 On  dirt  or  mud  : 
 
 By  Hope  just  men  are  sanctified, 
 
 In  the  same  ocean  safe  at  anchor  ride, 
 
 Fearlesse  of  wrack  by  wind  or  tide, 
 
 By  ebb  or  flood. 
 
 Hope’s  the  top-window  of  that  ark, 
 
 Where  all  God’s  Noahs  do  embark; 
 
 Hope  lets  in  sky-light,  else  how  dark 
 Were  such  a  season  ! 
 
 WouJdst  thou  not  be  engulph’d  or  drown’d, 
 
 When  storms  and  tempests  gather  round, 
 
 Ere  thou  cast  anchor,  try  the  ground ; 
 
 Hope  must  have  reason. 
 
DELAUNE. 
 
 245 
 
 Hope  hath  a  harvest  in  the  spring, 
 
 In  winter  doth  of  summer  sing, 
 
 Feeds  on  the  fruits  while  blossoming, 
 
 Yet  nips  no  bloom  : 
 
 Hope  brings  me  home  when  I’m  abroad ; 
 Soon  as  the  first  step  homeward’s  trod. 
 
 In  Hope,  to  Thee,  my  God!  my  God! 
 
 I  come,  I  come. 
 
 HENRY  DELAUNE. 
 
 The  removal  of  the  Righteous  a  warning  to  the  Wicked. 
 
 [From  Tla.TQiY.cn)  A oqov,  or  a  Legacy  to  his  Son :  1657.] 
 
 Ere  God  on  Sodom  stretch’d  his  flaming  hand, 
 
 He  had  a  care  to  send  just  Lot  away; 
 
 So  mostly  still,  when  He  will  scourge  a  land, 
 
 Whom  He  best  loves  He  puts  out  of  the  way. 
 
 Early  set  forth  on  your  eternal  race ; 
 
 The’  ascent  is  steep  and  craggy ;  you  must  climb ; 
 God,  at  all  times,  has  promised  sinners  grace, 
 
 If  they  repent; — but  He  ne’er  promised  Time. 
 
 Cheat  not  yourselves,  as  most,  who  then  prepare 
 For  Death,  when  life  is  almost  turn’d  to  fume; 
 
 One  thief  was  saved,  that  no  man  need  despair, 
 
 And  but  one  thief,  that  no  one  might  presume. 
 
246 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 [From  “  Fuller’s  Abel  Redivivus 16* *.3 
 
 These  characters  were  probably  written  by  Francis  Quarles,  who 
 furnished  various  Inscriptions  for  eminent  Reformers,  celebrated 
 in  that  work.  It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out,  in  the  Italian 
 language  itself,  a  Sonnet,  that  comprehends  and  condenses,  while 
 it  clearly  expresses,  more  of  noble  sentiment  and  thought,  than 
 may  be  found  in  the  first  of  the  following  pieces 
 
 On  Bishop  Ridley. 
 
 Rp:ad,  in  the  progress  of  this  blessed  story, 
 
 Rome’s  cursed  cruelty,  and  Ridley’s  glory; 
 
 Rome’s  Syren  sung,  but  Ridley’s  careless  eare 
 Mas  deaf;  she  charm’d,  but  Ridley  would  not  heare : 
 Rome  sang  preferment,  but  brave  Ridley’s  tongue 
 Condemn’d  that  false  preferment  which  Rome  sung: 
 Rome  whisper’d  wealth,  but  Ridley  (whose  great  game 
 Was  godliness)  he  waived  it  with  disdaine ; 
 
 Rome  threaten’d  durance,  but  great  Ridley’s  mind 
 Was  too  too  strong  for  threats  or  chaines  to  bind: 
 Rome  thunder’d  Death,  but  Ridley’s  dauntless  eye 
 Stared  in  Death’s  face,  and  scorn’d  Death  standing  by; 
 In  spite  of  Rome,  for  England’s  faith  he  stood; 
 
 And  in  the  flames  he  seal’d  it  with  his  blood. 
 
 On  Bishop  Jewell. 
 
 Holy  learning,  sacred  arts; 
 
 Gifts  of  nature,  strength  of  parts ; 
 Fluent  grace,  an  humble  minde; 
 Worth  reformed,  and  wit  refined; 
 Sweetnesse,  both  in  tongue  and  pen; 
 Insight,  both  in  bookes  and  men ; 
 Hopes  in  woe,  and  feares  in  weale; 
 Humble  knowledge,  sprightly  zeale; 
 A  liberal  heart,  and  free  from  gall; 
 Close  to  friends,  and  true  to  all ; 
 
FLAVEL. 
 
 247 
 
 Weight  of  courage  in  truth’s  duel, 
 
 _ Are  the  stones  that  make  this  Jewell; 
 
 Let  him  that  would  be  truly  blest 
 Weare  this  Jewell  in  his  breast. 
 
 JOHN  FLAVEL. 
 
 Died  1691. 
 
 Principal  Works,  Husbandry  and  Navigation  Spiritualized. 
 Happiness  for  all. 
 
 O  what  a  dull  desponding  heart  is  mine. 
 
 That  takes  no  more  delight  in  things  divine, 
 
 When  all  the  creatures,  both  in  heaven  and  earth, 
 Enjoy  their  pleasures  and  are  big  with  mirth : 
 Angels  and  Saints,  that  stand  before  the  throne 
 Are  ever  held  in  exstacies  unknown  ; 
 
 Made  perfect  after  death,  each  blessed  spirit 
 The  purest,  highest  bliss  doth  there  inherit; 
 
 The  Saints  on  earth,  in  their  imperfect  state, 
 
 By  faith  those  peerless  raptures  antidate. 
 
 To  carnal  men,  who  savour  not  such  pleasure, 
 
 Yet  bounteous  Nature  doth  unlock  her  treasure 
 Of  sensitive  delights ;— yea,  strange  to  tell, 
 
 Bold  sinners  rant  it  all  the  way  to  hell ; 
 
 Like  fish  that  play  in  Jordan’s  silver  stream, 
 
 They  bathe  in  sensual  lusts,  and  never  dream 
 Of  that  Head  Sea  to  which  the  stream  doth  tend, 
 And  to  their  pleasure  puts  a  fatal  end. 
 
 God's  Husbandry. 
 
 Thou  art  the  Husbandman,  and  I 
 A  worthless  plot  of  husbandry, 
 
248 
 
 FLAVEL. 
 
 Whom  special  love  did,  ne’ertheless, 
 Divide  from  nature’s  wilderness. 
 
 Then  did  the  sunshine  of  thy  face, 
 
 And  sweet  illapses  of  thy  grace, 
 
 Like  April  showers  and  warming  gleams, 
 Distill  their  dew,  reflect  their  beams. 
 
 My  dead  affections  then  were  green,. 
 
 And  hopeful  buds  on  all  were  seen ; 
 
 These  into  duties  soon  were  turn’d^ 
 
 In  which  my  heart  within  me  burned. 
 
 O  halcyon-days,  thrice  happy  state  t 
 Each  place  was  Bethel-,  Heaven’s  gate  ; 
 What  sweet  discourse,  what  heavenly  talk. 
 While  daily  I  did  with  Thee  walk  : 
 
 Mine  eyes  o’erflow,  my  heart  doth  sink. 
 
 As  oft  as  on  those  days  I  think, 
 lor  strangeness  now  is  come  between 
 My  God  and  me,  and  may  be  seen 
 By  what  is  now,  and  what  was  then  : 
 
 — ’Tis  just  as  if  I  were  two  men  1 
 My  fragrant  branches  blasted  be, 
 
 \o  fruits  like  those  that  I  can  see; 
 
 Some  canker-worm  lies  at  my  root* 
 
 Which  fades  ray  leaves,  destroys  my  fruit  » 
 My  soul  is  banish’d  from  thy  sight, 
 
 For  this  it  mourneth  day  and  night. 
 
 Yet  why  dost  thou  desponding  lie? 
 
 Like  Jonah,  cast  a  backward  eye; 
 
 That  God  who  made  me  spring  at  first, 
 When  I  was  barren  and  accurst, 
 
 Can  much  more  easily  restore 
 My  state  to  what  it  was  before : 
 
 A  word,  a  smile  on  my  poor  soul 
 ould  make  it  perfect,  sound  and  whole. 
 
 “  Afield  which  the  Lord  hath  blessed .” 
 
 s  "  ficn  the  sun  draws  near  us  in  the  spring, 
 AH  creatures  welcome  him  ; — birds  chirp  and 
 
FLAVEL. 
 
 249 
 
 The  face  of  nature  smiles;  the  fields  adorn 
 Themselves  with  rich  embroideries ;  the  corn 
 Revives  and  shooteth  up  ;  the  warm,  sweet  rain 
 Makes  trees  and  herbs  sprout  forth,  and  spring  amain. 
 Walk  but  the  fields  in  such  a  fragrant  morn, 
 
 What  music  sounds,  what  hues  the  heavens  adorn  ! 
 
 So,  when  the  Gospel  sheds  its  cheering  beams 
 On  gracious  souls,  like  those  sweet  warming  gleams, 
 Which  God  ordains  in  nature,  to  bring  forth 
 The  virtue  seminal  that’s  in  the  earth ; 
 
 It  warms  their  hearts,  their  languid  graces  cheers; 
 And  on  such  souls  a  spring-like  face  appears. 
 
 The  genial  showers  these  spiritual  clouds  do  yield 
 Enrich  them  with  new  beauty,  like  a  field, 
 
 Which  God  hath  bless’d. — Oh !  ’tis  exceeding  sweet, 
 When  humble  hearts  and  heavenly  truths  do  meet. 
 How  should  the  souls  of  saints  within  them  spring, 
 When  they  behold  the  messengers,  that  bring 
 These  gladsome  tidings  ; — yea,  their  very  feet 
 Are  beautiful,  because  their  words  arb  sweet. 
 
 Thrice  happy  land !  which,  in  this  pleasant  spring, 
 Can  hear  these  turtles  in  her  hedges  sing; 
 
 Oh !  prize  such  mercies  ! 
 
 //WWW 
 
 The  foolish  Love  of  the  World. 
 
 Judge  in  thyself,  O  Christian !  is  it  meet 
 To  set  thine  heart  on  what  beasts  set  their  feet? 
 ’Tis  no  hyperbole,  if  you  be  told, 
 
 — You  delve  for  dross,  with  mattocks  made  of  gold. 
 Affections  are  too  costly  to  bestow 
 Upon  the  fair-faced  notliings  here  below : 
 
 The  Eagle  scorns  to  fall  down  from  on  high 
 (The  proverb  saith)  to  pounce  a  silly  fly; 
 
 And  can  a  Christian  leave  the  face  of  God 
 To’  embrace  the  earth,  and  doat  upon  a  clod  ? 
 
 L  3 
 
250 
 
 WOTTON. 
 
 A  guilty  Conscience. 
 
 Oh  !  Conscience,  who  can  stand  before  thy  power, 
 Endure  thy  gripes  and  agonies  one  hour? 
 
 Stone,  gout,  strappado,  racks,  whatever  is 
 Dreadful  to  sense,  are  only  toys  to  this. 
 
 No  pleasures,  riches,  honours,  friends  can  tell 
 How  to  give  ease  in  this  : — ’tis  like  to  hell. 
 
 Call  for  the  pleasant  timbrel,  lute  and  harp; 
 
 Alas!  the  music  howls,  the  pain’s  too  sharp 
 For  these  to  charm,  divert,  or  lull  asleep; 
 
 These  cannot  reach  it;  no,  the  wound’s  too  deep. 
 Let  all  the  promises  before  it  stand, 
 
 And  set  a  Barnabas  at  its  right  hand; 
 
 These  in  themselves  no  comfort  can  afford, 
 
 ’Tis  Christ,  and  none  but  Christ,  can  speak  the  word 
 There  goes  a  power  with  his  Majestic  voice 
 To  hush  the  raging  storm,  and  charm  its  noise ; 
 
 Who  would  but  fear  and  love  and  do  his  will, 
 
 Who  bids  such  tempests  of  the  soul  be  still? 
 
 SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 
 
 Born  1568.  Died  1640. 
 
 Author  of  various  small  treatises  in  prose,  and  a  few  pieces  in 
 verse,  of  considerable  merit. 
 
 Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World. 
 
 Farewell,  ye  gilded  follies,  pleasing  troubles ; 
 Farewell,  ye  honour’d  rags,  ye  glorious  bubbles  ; 
 Fame’s  but  a  hollow  echo,  gold  pure  clay; 
 Honour  the  darling  but  of  one  short  day. 
 
WOTTON. 
 
 251 
 
 Beauty,  the’  eye’s  idol  but  a  damask’d  skin; 
 
 State  but  a  golden  prison  to  live  in, 
 
 And  torture  free-born  minds:  embroider’d  trains 
 Merely  but  pageants  for  proud  swelling  veins ; 
 
 And  blood  ally’d  to  greatness,  is  alone 
 Inherited,  not  purchased  nor  our  own : 
 
 Fame,  honour,  beauty,  state,  train,  blood  and  birth, 
 Are  but  the  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth. 
 
 I  would  be  great,  but  that  the  sun  doth  still 
 Level  his  rays  against  the  rising  hill: 
 
 I  would  be  high,  but  see  the  proudest  oak 
 Most  subject  to  the  rending  thunder-stroke: 
 
 I  would  be  rich,  but  see  men  too  unkind, 
 
 Dig  in  the  bowels  of  the  richest  mind  : 
 
 I  would  be  wise,  but  that  T  olten  see 
 The  fox  suspected,  whilst  the  ass  goes  free : 
 
 I  would  be  fair,  but  see  the  fair  and  proud 
 Like  the  bright  sun,  oft  setting  in  a  cloud: 
 
 I  would  be  poor,  but  know  the  humble  grass 
 Still  trampled  on  by  each  unworthy  ass: 
 
 Rich  hated:  wise  suspected:  scorn’d  if  poor : 
 
 Great  fear’d  :  fair  tempted  :  high  still  envy’d  more  : 
 
 I  have  wish’d  all;  but  now  1  wish  for  neither; 
 Great,  high,  rich,  wise  nor  fair  ;  poor  I’ll  be  rather. 
 
 Would  the  world  now  adopt  me  for  her  heir,  ^ 
 Would  Beauty’s  Queen  entitle  me  “  Ihe  Pair, 
 
 Fame  speak  me  Fortune’s  minion,  could  I  vie 
 Angels  (u)  with  India  ;  with  a  speaking  eye 
 Command  bare  heads,  bow’d  knees,  strike  Justice 
 
 dumb. 
 
 As  well  as  blind  and  lame,  or  give  a  tongue 
 To  stones  by  epitaphs :  be  called  Great  Master 
 In  the  loose  rhimes  of  every  poetaster? 
 
 Could  I  be  more  than  any  man  that  lives, 
 
 Great,  fair,  rich,  wise,  all  in  supeilatives . 
 
 (a)  By  Angels  here  is  signified  the  old  English  coin,  value  10s, 
 to  vie  Angels,”  means,  to  rival  in  riches. 
 
252 
 
 WOTTO  N-. 
 
 ^  et  I  more  freely  would  these  gifts  resign, 
 
 <  han  ever  fortune  would  have  made  them  mine, 
 
 And  hold  one  minute  of  this  holy  leisure, 
 
 Beyond  the  riches  of  this  empty  pleasure. 
 
 ,\v  eIcome  pure  thoughts,  welcome  ye  silent  groves, 
 these  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly  loves 
 Now  the  wing’d  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
 iVIy  chearful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring: 
 
 A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  looking-glass, 
 
 In  which  I  will  adore  sweet  Virtue’s  face, 
 llere  dwell  no  hateful  looks,  no  palace-cares, 
 
 No  broken  vows  dwell  here,  nor  pale-faced  fears  : 
 Then  here  I’ll  sit,  and  sigh  my  hot  love’s  folly, 
 
 And  learn  to’  affect  an  holy  melancholy; 
 
 And  if  Contentment  be  a  stranger  then, 
 
 I  11  ne  er  look  for  it,  but  in  heaven  again. 
 
 A  hymn  to  my  God ,  in  a  night  of  my  late  sicknesse. 
 
 O  Ihou  great  Power!  in  whom  I  move, 
 
 For  whom  I  live,  to  whom  I  die, 
 
 Behold  me  through  thy  beams  of  love, 
 
 While  on  this  couch  of  tears  I  lie; 
 
 And  cleanse  my  sordid  soul  within 
 By  thy  Christ’s  blood,  the  bath  of  sin. 
 
 No  hallow’d  oyls,  no  grains  I  need, 
 
 No  rags  of  saints,  no  purging  fire, 
 
 One  rosie  drop  from  David’s  seed 
 Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  thine  ire : 
 
 O  pretious  ransome  !  which  once  paid, 
 
 That  “  consummatum  est ”  was  said: _ 
 
 And  said  by  Him,  that  said  no  more, 
 
 But  seal’d  it  with  his  sacred  breath  :  — 
 
 Fhou,  then,  that  hast  dispunged  my  score, 
 
 And  dying  wast  the  death  of  death, 
 
 Be  to  me  now  (on  Thee  I  call,) 
 
 Bly  life,  my  strength,  my  joy,  my  all. 
 
WOTTON. 
 
 The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life . 
 
 How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 
 
 That  serveth  not  another’s  will ; 
 
 Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
 
 And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 
 
 Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
 
 Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
 
 Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
 Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath. 
 
 Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
 
 Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood, 
 
 How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
 
 Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good. 
 
 Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
 
 Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
 
 Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
 
 Nor  ruine  make  oppressors  great. 
 
 Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
 
 More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 
 
 And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
 With  a  religious  Book  or  Friend. 
 
 This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
 Of  hope  to  rise,  or  feare  to  fall ; 
 
 Lord  of  hirnselfe,  though  not  of  lands; 
 
 And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 
 
 The  Crosse  of  Christ. 
 
 Rise,  O  my  soul,  with  thy  desires  to  heaven, 
 
 And  with  divinest  contemplation  use 
 Thy  time,  where  time’s  eternity  is  given, 
 
 And  let  vain  thoughts  no  more  thy  thoughts  abuse, 
 But  down  in  midnight  darkness  let  them  lie; 
 
 So  live  thy  better,  let  thy  worse  thoughts  die. 
 
254 
 
 GREVILLE. 
 
 And  thou,  my  soul,  inspired  with  holy  flame, 
 
 View  and  review,  with  most  regardful  eie, 
 
 Tiiat  holy  Crosse  whence  thy  salvation  came, 
 
 On  which  thy  Saviour  and  thy  Sin  did  die : 
 
 For  in  that  sacred  object  is  much  pleasure, 
 
 And  in  that  Saviour  is  my  life,  my  treasure. 
 
 To  Thee,  O  Jesu !  I  direct  mine  eies, 
 
 To  Thee  my  hands,  to  Thee  my  humble  knees, 
 
 To  Thee  my  heart  shall  offer  sacrifice, 
 
 To  Thee  my  thoughts,  who  my  thoughts  only  sees  j 
 To  Thee  myself — myself  and  all,  I  give  ; 
 
 To  Thee  I  die,  to  Thee  I  only  live. 
 
 FULKE  GREVILLE,  LORD  BROOKE. 
 
 Born  1554.  Murdered  by  his  servant  1628. 
 
 [From  his  “  learned  and  elegant  Works,  written  in  his  youth  and 
 familiar  exercise  with  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
 
 The  Corruptions  of  the  Church. 
 
 Zion  lies  waste,  and  thy  Jerusalem, 
 
 O  Lord,  is  faH’ri  to  utter  desolation ; 
 
 Against  thy  prophets  and  thy  holy  men, 
 
 The  Sin  hath  wrought  a  fatal  combination, 
 Prophaned  thy  name,  thy  worship  overthrown, 
 And  made  Thee,  living  Lord,  a  God  unknown. 
 
 Thy  powerful  laws,  thy  wonders  of  creation, 
 
 Thy  Word  Incarnate,  glorious  heaven,  dark  hell, 
 Lie  shadow’d  under  man’s  degeneration, 
 
 Thy  Christ  still  crucified  for  doing  well: 
 
 Impiety,  O  Lord,  sits  on  thy  throne, 
 
 Which  makes  Thee,  living  Light,  a  God  unknown. 
 
HEYWOOD. 
 
 255 
 
 Man’s  superstition  doth  thy  truth  entomb, 
 
 His  atheism  again  her  pomp  defaceth; 
 
 Sin  earthly,  sensual,  devilish,  doth  consume 
 Thy  seen  Church,  and  thy  unseen  Church  disgraceth : 
 There  lives  no  truth  with  them  that  seem  thine  own, 
 Which  makes  Thee,  living  Lord,  a  God  unknown. 
 
 Yet  unto  Thee,  Lord,  mirror  of  transgression, 
 
 We,  who  for  earthly  idols  have  forsaken 
 Thy  heavenly  image,  sinless  pure  impression, 
 
 And  so  in  nets  of  vanity  lie  taken, 
 
 — All  desolate  implore  that  to  thine  own, 
 
 Lord,  thou  no  longer  live  a  God  unknown. 
 
 Yet,  Lord,  let  Israel’s  plagues  not  be  eternal, 
 
 Nor  sin  for  ever  cloud  thy  sacred  mountains ; 
 
 Nor,  with  false  flames,  spiritual,  but  infernal, 
 
 Dry  up  thy  mercy’s  ever  springing  fountains  ; 
 
 Rather,  sweet  Jesus,  fill  up  time,  and  come 
 To  yield  the  sin  her  everlasting  doom. 
 
 THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 
 
 Searching  after  God. 
 
 [From  “  The  Hierarchie  of  the  blessed  Angels 1635.  Though 
 rude  in  metre,  the  style  and  sentiment  of  the  following  stanzas 
 are  strikingly  sublime  in  many  passages.] 
 
 I  sought  Thee  round  about,  O  Thou  my  God  ! 
 
 In  thine  abode. 
 
 I  said  unto  the  Earth  “  Speake,  art  thou  He?” 
 
 She  answer’d  me, 
 
 “  I  am  not.” — I  enquired  of  creatures  all, 
 
 In  generall, 
 
 Contain’d  therein  ; — they  with  one  voice  proclaime, 
 That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a  name. 
 
256 
 
 HEYWOOD. 
 
 I  askt  the  seas,  and  all  the  deeps  below, 
 
 My  God  to  know. 
 
 I  askt  the  reptiles,  and  whatever  is 
 In  the  abysse ; 
 
 Even  from  the  shrimpe  to  the  leviathan 
 Entpiiry  ran ; 
 
 But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can  sound, 
 
 The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 
 
 I  askt  the  aire,  if  that  were  He?  but,  lo  ! 
 
 It  told  me  No. 
 
 I  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren, 
 
 Demanded  then, 
 
 If  any  feather’d  fowle  ’mongst  them  were  such? 
 
 But  they  all,  much 
 
 Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  quire, 
 
 Answered, — “to  finde  thy  God  thou  must  look  higher.” 
 
 I  askt  the  heavens,  sun,  moon  and  stars,  but  they 
 Said  “  We  obey 
 
 The  God  thou  seek’st.” — I  askt,  what  eye  or  eare 
 Could  see  or  lieare; 
 
 What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or  know 
 Above,  below : 
 
 — With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things  said, 
 
 “  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  Him  were  made.” 
 
 I  askt  the  world’s  great  universal  masse, 
 
 If  that  God  was? 
 
 Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice  reply’d, 
 
 As  stupify’d, 
 
 “  I  am  not  He,  O  man !  for  know  that  I, 
 
 By  Him  on  High, 
 
 Was  fashion’d  first  of  nothing,  thus  instated, 
 
 And  sway’d  by  Him,  by  whom  I  was  created.” 
 
 A  scrutiny  within  myself  I,  than, 
 
 Even  thus  began:  — 
 
 “  O  man,  what  art  thou?” — What  more  could  I  say, 
 Than  dust  and  clay? 
 
HEYWOOD. 
 
 257 
 
 Fraile,  mortal,  fading,  a  meere  pulfe,  a  blast, 
 
 That  cannot  last ; 
 
 Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urne; 
 
 Form’d  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must  returne. 
 
 I  askt  myself,  what  this  great  God  might  be 
 That  fashion’d  me  ? 
 
 I  answer’d — the  all-potent,  solely’  immense, 
 Surpassing  sense  ; 
 
 Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternall, 
 
 Lord  over  all ; 
 
 The  only  terrible,  strong,  just  and  true, 
 
 Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 
 
 He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  Fie  doth  give 
 To  all  that  live, 
 
 Both  breath  and  being :  He  is  the  Creator 
 Both  of  the  water, 
 
 Earth,  aire,  and  fire.  Of  all  things  that  subsist, 
 
 He  hath  the  list; 
 
 Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claimes, 
 
 He  keeps  the  scrole,  and  calls  them  by  their  names.. 
 
 And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining  grace. 
 
 Thy  glorious  face, 
 
 (So  far  forth  a"s  it  may  discover’d  be,) 
 
 Methinks  I  see ; 
 
 And  though  invisible  and  infinite, — 
 
 To  human  sight, 
 
 Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appearest; 
 
 In  which  to  our  weake  senses  Thou  comest  nearest. 
 
 O  make  us  apt  to  seeke,  and  quicke  to  finde, 
 
 Thou  God,  most  kinde  ! 
 
 Give  us  love,  hope  and  faith  in  Thee  to  trust, 
 
 Thou  God,  most  just ! 
 
 Remit  all  our  offences,  we  intreat; 
 
 Most  Good,  most  Great ! 
 
 Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy  guest 
 
 May,  through  thy  grace,  admit  us  ’mongst  the  blest. 
 
258 
 
 HERBERT 
 
 GEORGE  HERBERT. 
 
 Born  1593.  Died  1632. 
 
 This  Author  cannot  have  been  of  an  ordinary  standard,  having 
 had  many  admirers  and  many  detractors,  both  among  his  contem¬ 
 poraries  and  his  successors.  His  collected  Poems  are  entitled 
 “  The  Temple and,  amidst  innumerable  conceits  and  quaint¬ 
 nesses,  have  a  sufficient  proportion  of  natural  and  beautiful 
 thoughts,  simply  or  elegantly  expressed,  to  redeem  them  from 
 oblivion.  His  piety  is  unquestionable,  but  his  taste  so  perverted, 
 that  devotion  itself  is  turned  into  masquerade  throughout  his 
 writings. 
 
 Public  Worship. 
 
 Restore  to  God  his  due  in  tithe  and  time; 
 
 A  tithe  purloin’d,  cankers  the  whole  estate. 
 
 Sundays  observe:  Think  when  the  bells  do  chime, 
 ’Tis  angels’  music;  therefore  come  not  late. 
 
 God  then  deals  blessings;  if  a  king  did  so, 
 
 Who  would  not  haste,  nay  give  to  see  the  show  ? 
 
 Though  private  prayer  he  a  brave  design, 
 
 Yet  public  hath  more  promises,  more  love ; 
 
 And  love’s  a  weight  to  hearts,  to.  eyes  a  sign. 
 
 We  all  are  but  cold  suitors  ;  let  us  move 
 
 Where  it  is  warmest.  Leave  thy  six  and  seven; 
 Pray  with  the  most;  for  where  most  pray,  is  heaven. 
 
 Self- Exa  mination. 
 
 Sum  up  at  night  what  thou  hast  done  by  day; 
 
 And  in  the  morning  what  thou  hast  to  do. 
 
 Dress  and  undress  thy  soul :  Mark  the  decay 
 And  growth  of  it:  If  with  thy  watch,  that  too 
 Be  down,  then  wind  up  both :  Since  we  shall  be 
 More  surely  judged,  make  thy  accounts  agree. 
 
HERBERT. 
 
 259 
 
 The  Temper. 
 
 How  should  I  praise  Thee,  Lord !  how  should  my 
 rhymes 
 
 Gladly  engrave  thy  love  in  steel, 
 
 If  what  my  soul  doth  feel  sometimes 
 My  soul  might  ever  feel ! 
 
 Although  there  were  some  forty  heavens,  or  more, 
 Sometimes  I  peer  above  them  all; 
 
 Sometimes  I  hardly  reach  a  score ; 
 
 Sometimes  to  hell  I  fall. 
 
 O  rack  me  not  to  such  a  vast  extent  ; 
 
 Those  distances  belong  to  Thee  : 
 
 The  world’s  too  little  for  thy  tent, 
 
 A  grave  too  big  for  me. 
 
 Yet  take  thy  way :  for  sure  thy  way  is  best : 
 
 Stretch  or  contract  me  thy  poor  debtor : 
 
 This  is  but  tuning  of  my  breast, 
 
 To  make  the  music  better. 
 
 Whether  I  fly  with  angels,  fall  with  dust, 
 
 Thy  hands  made  both,  and  I  am  there. 
 
 Thy  power  and  love,  my  love  and  trust 
 Make  one  place  every  where. 
 
 Vanity. 
 
 The  fleet  Astronomer  can  bore, 
 
 And  thrid  the  spheres  with  his  quick-piercing  mind: 
 He  views  their  stations,  walks  from  door  to  door, 
 Surveys,  as  if  he  had  design’d 
 To  make  a  purchase  there :  He  sees  their  dances  ; 
 
 And  knoweth  long  before 
 Both  their  full-eyed  aspects  and  secret  glances. 
 
260 
 
 HERBERT 
 
 The  nimble  diver  with  his  side 
 Cuts  thro’  the  working  waves,  that  he  may  fetch 
 His  dearly-earned  *pearl,  which  God  did  hide 
 
 On  purpose  from  the  venturous  wretch. 
 That  he  might  save  his  life,  and  also  her’s, 
 
 Who,  with  excessive  pride, 
 
 Her  own  destruction  and  his  danger  wears. 
 
 The  subtle  chymic  can  divest 
 And  strip  the  creature  naked,  till  he  find 
 The  callow  principles  within  their  nest : 
 
 There  he  imparts  to  them  his  mind, 
 Admitted  to  their  bed-chamber,  before 
 They  appear  trim  and  drest 
 To  ordinary  suitors  at  the  door. 
 
 What  hath  not  man  sought  out  and  found, 
 But  his  dear  God?  Who  yet  his  glorious  law 
 Embosoms  in  us,  mellowing  the  ground 
 
 With  showers  and  frost,  with  love  and  awe 
 So  that  we  need  not  say,  Where’s  this  command  ? 
 
 Poor  man  !  thou  searchest  round 
 To  find  out  Death ,  but  missest  Life  at  hand. 
 
 Virtue. 
 
 Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
 
 The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
 
 The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
 
 For  thou  must  die. 
 
 Sweet  Rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 
 Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
 
 Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
 
 And  thou  must  die. 
 
 Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
 A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
 
 My  music  shews  ye  have  your  closes, 
 
 And  all  must  die. 
 
HERBERT. 
 
 261 
 
 Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
 
 Like  season’d  timber,  never  gives; 
 
 But  tho’  the  whole  world  turn  to  a  coal, 
 Then  chiefly  lives. 
 
 Life. 
 
 I  made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by : 
 
 Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 
 My  life  within  this  band. 
 
 But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
 By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 
 
 And  wither’d  in  my  hand. 
 
 Farewell,  dear  flowers  !  sweetly  your  time  ye  spent, 
 Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 
 
 And  after  death  for  cures. 
 
 I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or  grief, 
 
 Since,  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 
 It  be  as  short  as  yours. 
 
 The  Quip. 
 
 The  merry  world  did  on  a  day 
 With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 
 To  meet  together,  where  I  lay, 
 
 And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 
 
 First,  Beauty  crept  into  a  Rose; 
 
 Which  when  I  pluckt  not,  Sir,  said  she, 
 Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those  ? 
 But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 
 
 Then  Money  came,  and  chinking  still, 
 What  tune  is  this,  poor  man  ?  said  he  : 
 
 I  heard  in  music  you  had  skill. 
 
 But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 
 
262 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by, 
 
 In  silks  that  whistled,  who  but  he? 
 
 He  scarce  allow’d  me  halt'  an  eye. 
 
 But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 
 
 Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversation, 
 
 And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 
 
 And,  to  be,  short,  make  an  oration. 
 
 But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 
 
 Yet  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 
 To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come ; 
 
 Speak  not  at  large,  say,  I  am  thine, 
 
 And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 
 
 Peace. 
 
 Sweet  Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell?  I  humbly  crave, 
 Let  me  once  know. 
 
 I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave, 
 
 And  ask’d  if  peace  were  there, 
 
 A  hollow  wind  did  seem  to  answer,  No; 
 
 Go,  seek  elsewhere. 
 
 I  did ;  and  going,  did  a  rainbow  note : 
 
 Surely,  thought  I, 
 
 This  is  the  lace  of  Peace’s  coat: 
 
 I  will  search  out  the  matter; 
 
 But  while  I  look’d,  the  clouds  immediately 
 Did  break  and  scatter. 
 
 Then  went  I  to  a  garden,  and  did  spy 
 A  gallant  flower, 
 
 The  Crown  Imperial :  Sure  said  I, 
 
 Peace  at  the  root  must  dwell ; 
 
 But  when  I  digg’d,  I  saw  a  worm  devour 
 What  shew’d  so  well. 
 
 At  length  I  met  a  reverend  good  old  man : 
 
 Whom,  when  for  Peace 
 I  did  demand,  he  thus  began: 
 
HERBERT. 
 
 263 
 
 There  was  a  Prince  of  old 
 
 At  Salem  dwelt,  who  lived  with  good  increase 
 Of  flock  and  fold. 
 
 He  sweetly  lived ;  yet  sweetness  did  not  save 
 His  life  from  foes, 
 
 But  after  death  out  of  his  grave 
 
 There  sprang  twelve  stalks  of  wheat; 
 
 Which  many  wondering  at,  got  some  of  those 
 To  plant  and  set. 
 
 It  prosper’d  strangely,  and  did  soon  disperse 
 Through  all  the  earth  : 
 
 For  they  that  taste  it  do  rehearse. 
 
 That  virtues  lie  therein  ; 
 
 A  secret  virtue,  bringing  Peace  and  Mirth 
 By  flight  of  sin. 
 
 Take  of  this  grain,  which  in  my  garden  grows, 
 And  grows  for  you  : 
 
 Make  bread  of  it;  and  that  repose 
 And  Peace,  which  every  where 
 
 With  so  much  earnestness  you  do  pursue, 
 
 Is  only  there. 
 
 The  Pilgrimage. 
 
 I  travel  on,  seeing  the  hill,  where  lay 
 My  expectation : 
 
 A  long  it  was  and  weary  way. 
 
 The  gloomy  cave  of  desperation 
 I  left  on  the’  one,  and  on  the  other  side 
 The  rock  of  pride. 
 
 And  so  I  came  to  Fancy’s  meadows,  strow’d 
 With  many  a  flower: 
 
 Fain  would  I  here  have  made  abode, 
 
 But  I  was  quicken’d  by  my  hour. 
 
 So  to  Care’s  copse  I  came,  and  there  got  through 
 With  much  ado. 
 
284 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 That  led  me  to  the  wild  of  Passion ;  which 
 Some  call  the  world; 
 
 A  wasted  place,  but  sometimes  rich : 
 
 PI  ere  I  was  robb’d  of  all  my  gold, 
 
 Save  one  good  angel,  which  a  friend  had  ty’d 
 Close  to  my  side. 
 
 At  length  I  got  into  the  gladsome  hill, 
 
 Where  lay  my  hope ; 
 
 Where  lay  my  heart;  and  climbing  still, 
 
 When  I  had  gain’d  the  brow  and  top, 
 
 A  lake  of  brackish  waters  on  the  ground 
 Was  all  I  found. 
 
 With  that  abash’d,  and  struck  with  many  a  sting, 
 Of  swarming  fears, 
 
 I  fell,  and  cry’d,  Alas  my  King! 
 
 Can  both  the  way  and  end  be  tears? 
 
 Yet  taking  heart,  I  rose,  and  then  perceived 
 I  was  deceived. 
 
 My  hill  was  further:  so  I  slung  away, 
 
 Yet  heard  a  cry, 
 
 Just  as  I  went,  None  goes  that  way 
 And  lives;  if  that  be  all,  said  I, 
 
 After  so  foul  a  journey  death  is  fair, 
 
 And  but  a  chair. 
 
 The  Floiver. 
 
 How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean 
 Are  thy  returns !  even  as  the  flowers  in  spring ; 
 
 To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
 
 The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure  bring. 
 Grief  melts  away 
 Like  snow  in  May, 
 
 As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 
 
 Who  would  have  thought  my  shrivell’d  heart 
 Could  have  recover’d  greenness?  It  was  gone 
 Quite  under  ground,  as  flowers  depart 
 To  see  their  mother-root,  when  they  have  blown ; 
 
 % 
 
SANDYS 
 
 265 
 
 Where  they  together, 
 
 All  the  hard  weather, 
 
 Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  unknown. 
 
 These  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power, 
 Killing  and  quickening,  bringing  down  to  hell 
 And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour; 
 
 Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing-bell. 
 
 We  say  amiss, 
 
 This  or  that  is : 
 
 Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 
 
 GEORGE  SANDYS. 
 
 Born  1577.  Died  1643. 
 
 Principal  Works: — Travels,  Translation  of  Ovid’s  Metamor¬ 
 phoses,  Paraphrases  of  Psalms,  Ecclesiastes,  &c.  His  Psalms  are 
 incomparably  the  most  poetical  in  the  English  language,  and  yet 
 they  are  scarcely  known. 
 
 [Extracts  from  the  Psalms.] 
 Psalm  XXVII. 
 
 God  is  my  Saviour,  my  cleare  light : 
 
 Who  then  can  my  repose  affright? 
 
 Or  what  appeare 
 Worth  such  a  feare? 
 
 My  life  protected  by  his  might : 
 
 Vaine  hatred,  vaine  their  powre, 
 That  would  my  life  devoure. 
 
 These  fell,  when  they  against  me  fought : 
 The  wicked  suffer’d  what  they  sought. 
 Though  troops  of  foes 
 At  once  inclose, 
 
 Of  feare  I  would  not  lodge  a  thought, 
 Should  armies  compasse  me; 
 
 So  confident  in  Thee. 
 
 M 
 
 32 
 
266 
 
 SANDYS. 
 
 One  thing  I  have,  and  shall  request ; 
 
 That  I  may  in  thy  mansion  rest, 
 
 Till  death  surprise 
 My  closing  eyes : 
 
 That  they  may  on  thy  beauty  feast ; 
 
 That  in  thy  temple  still 
 I  may  enquire  thy  will. 
 
 When  stormes  arise  on  every  side, 
 
 He  will  in  his  pavilion  hide: 
 
 How  ever  great, 
 
 In  that  retreat 
 
 I  shall  conceal’d  and  safe  abide. 
 
 He  (to  resist  their  shocke) 
 
 Hath  fixt  me  on  a  rocke. 
 
 Now  is  my  head  advanced,  renown’d 
 Above  my  foes,  who  girt  me  round ; 
 
 That  in  thy  tent 
 I  may  present 
 
 My  sacrifice  with  trumpets’  sound: 
 
 There  I  thy  praise  will  sing, 
 
 Set  to  a  well-tuned  string. 
 
 O  heare  Thou  my  afflicted  cry ; 
 
 Extend  thy  pitty,  and  reply. 
 
 When  thus  the  Lord, 
 
 In  sweet  accord ; 
 
 “  Seeke  thou  my  face  with  searching  eye. 
 Directed  by  thy  grace, 
 
 Lord,  I  will  seeke  thy  face. 
 
 ♦  Psalm  XXXV. 
 
 Lord,  plead  my  cause  against  my  foes; 
 
 With  such  as  fight  against  me,  fight: 
 Arise,  thy  ample  shield  oppose, 
 
 And  with  thy  sword  defend  my  right. 
 
 Addresse  thy  speare ;  those  in  their  way 
 Encounter,  who  my  soul  invade  : 
 
SANDYS. 
 
 267 
 
 To  her,  O  let  thy  Spirit  say, 
 
 I  am  thy  God,  and  saving  aide. 
 
 Let  those,  who  my  disgrace  contrive, 
 
 Hang  dovvne  their  heads,  for  flight  design’d : 
 Who  seeke  my  fall,  let  angels  drive 
 Like  chaffe  before  the  blustring  wind. 
 
 Obscure  and  slippery  be  their  path; 
 
 Let  winged  troups  pursue  their  foile ; 
 
 Since  they  for  me  with  causelesse  wrath 
 Have  digg’d  a  pit,  and  pich’t  a  toile ; — 
 
 Let  sodaine  ruine  them  destroy; 
 
 Mesht  in  the  nets  themselves  had  laid  : 
 
 Then  in  the  Lord  my  soule  shall  joy, 
 
 And  glory  in  his  timely  aide. 
 
 My  bones  shall  say,  O  who  like  Thee, 
 
 'That  arm’st  the  weake  against  the  strong; 
 That  dost  the  poore  and  needy  free 
 
 From  outrage,  and  too  powerfull  wrong? 
 
 False  witnesses  against  me  stood, 
 
 Who  unknown  accusations  brought : 
 
 That  evill  rendered  for  good, 
 
 And  closely  my  confusion  sought. 
 
 I  in  their  sicknes  did  condole; 
 
 Unfainedly  in  sack-cloth  mourn’d  : 
 
 With  fasting  humbled  my  sad  soule, 
 
 And  often  to  my  praires  return’d:  — 
 
 Him  visited  both  night  and  day, 
 
 As  if  an  ancient  friend  or  brother: 
 
 In  blacke  upon  the  earth  I  lay, 
 
 And  wept  as  for  my  dying  mother. 
 
 Yet  these  rejoyced  in  my  woe ; 
 
 False  comforters  about  me  crowd; 
 
 And  lest  I  should  their  cunning  know, 
 
 They  rent  their  cloths,  and  cried  aloud. 
 
 m  2 
 
SANBYS. 
 
 268 
 
 Like  hypocrites  at  feasts,  they  jeere; 
 
 Whose  gnashing  teeth  their  hate  professe  r 
 O  Lord,  how  long  wilt  Thou  forbeare, 
 
 And  onely  looke  on  my  distresse? 
 
 O  save  from  those,  who  smile,  and  kill, 
 
 My  dearling  from  the  lion’s  jawes; 
 
 I  in  the  great  assembly  will 
 Then  praise  thy  name  with  full  applause. 
 
 Psalm  XLY. 
 
 With  heat  divine-inspired,  I  sing 
 A  panegyrick  to  the  King; 
 
 High  raptures  in  a  numerous  stile, 
 i  with  a  ready  pen  compile. 
 
 Much  fairer  than  our  human  race; 
 
 Whose  lips  like  fountaines  flow  with  grace 
 For  this  the  Lord  thy  soule  shall  blesse 
 With  everlasting  happinesse. 
 
 Gird,  O  most  Mightie,  on  thy  thigh 
 Thy  sword  of  awe  and  majestie  : 
 
 In  triumph,  arm’d  with  truth  ride  on ; 
 
 By  clemencie  and  justice  dravvne: 
 
 No  mortall  vigour  shall  withstand 
 The  fury  of  thy  dreadful]  hand  ; 
 
 Thy  piercing  arrowes  in  the  King’s 
 Opposers’  hearts  shall  dye  their  wings. 
 Thy  throne  no  waste  of  time  decayes ; 
 Thy  scepter  sacred  iustice  swaies : 
 
 Thou  virtue  lov’st;  but  hast  abhorr’d 
 Deformed  vice;  for  this,  the  Lord 
 Hath  thee  alone  preferr’d,  and  shed 
 The  oile  of  ioy  upon  thy  head. 
 
 Thy  garments,  which  in  grace  excell. 
 
 Of  aloes,  myrrhe,  and  cassia  smell; 
 Brought  from  the  ivorie  palaces; 
 
 Which  more  than  other  odors  please. 
 
 Kings’  daughters,  to  augment  thy  state. 
 Among  the  noble  damsels  wait; 
 
S  ANDYS. 
 
 269 
 
 The  queen  inthroned  on  thy  right  hand, 
 Adorn’d  with  Ophyr’s  golden  sand. 
 
 Hark,  daughter,  and  by  me  be  taught ; 
 
 Thy  countrey  banish  from  thy  thought. 
 
 Thy  house  and  family  forget, 
 
 His  ioy  upon  thy  beauty  set. 
 
 He  is  thy  Lord ;  O  bow  before. 
 
 And  Him  eternally  adore ! 
 
 The  daughters  of  sea-circled  Tyre 
 Shall  bring  their  purple,  and  desire 
 (Even  they  whom  wealth  and  honour  .grace) 
 To  see  the  sweetnesse  of  thy  face. 
 
 Her  mind  all  beauties  doth  infold ; 
 
 Her  faire  limbs  clad  in  purfled  gold; 
 
 She  shall  unto  the  King  be  brought, 
 
 In  robes  with  Phrygian  needle  wrought  : 
 While  virgins  on  her  train  attend, 
 
 Whose  faith  and  friendship  know  no  end.; 
 Whom  they  with  ioy  shall  leade  along; 
 Eternized  in  a  nuptiall  song ; 
 
 And  with  renewed  applauses  bring 
 Unto  the  palace  of  the  King. 
 
 Thou  in  thy  royal  1  Father’s  place, 
 
 -Of  sonnes  shalt  see  a  numerous  race; 
 
 Who  over  all  the  earth  shall  sway. 
 
 While  the  cleere  sunne  directs  the  day. 
 
 My  song  shall  celebrate  thy  name, 
 
 And  to  the  world  divulge  thy  fame. 
 
 Psalm  XCIJ. 
 
 Thou,  who  art -inthroned  above; 
 Thou,  by  whom  we  live,  and  move  ; 
 
 O  how  sweet,  how  excellent, 
 
 Is’t  with  tongue  and  heart’s  consent, 
 Thankefull  hearts,  and  ioyfull  tongues. 
 To  renowne  thy  name  in  songs ! 
 
 When  the  morning  paints  the  skies. 
 When  the  sparkling  staixes  arisen 
 
270 
 
 SANDYS. 
 
 Thy  high  favours  to  rehearse, 
 
 Thy  firme  faith,  in  gratefull  verse. 
 
 Take  the  lute,  and  violin ; 
 
 Let  the  solemne  harpe  begin  ; 
 Instruments  strung  with  ten  strings; 
 While  the  silver  cimbal  rings. 
 
 From  thy  works  my  ioy  proceeds : 
 Flow  I  triumph  in  thy  deeds ! 
 
 Who  thy  wonders  can  expresse  1 
 All  thy  thoughts  are  fathomlesse; 
 
 Hid  from  men  in  knowledge  blind; 
 
 Hid  from  fooles  to  vice  inclined. 
 
 Who  that  tyrant  sin  obey  ; 
 
 Though  they  spring  like  flowers  in  May  ;• 
 Farclit  with  heat,  and  nipt  with  frost, 
 Soane  shall  fade,  for  ever  lost. 
 
 Lord,  Thou  art  most  great,  most  high  ; 
 Sueh  from  all  eternitie. 
 
 Perish  shall  thy  enemies, 
 
 Rebells  that  against  Thee  rise. 
 
 All,  who  in  their  sinnes  delight. 
 
 Shall  be  scatter’d  by  thy  might. 
 
 But  Ihou  shalt  exalt  my  home. 
 
 Like  a  youthfull  unicorn; 
 
 Fresh  and  fragrant  odors  shed 
 On  thy  crowned  Prophet’s  head. 
 
 I  shall  see  my  foes’  defeat, 
 
 Shortly  beare  of  their  retreat: 
 
 But  the  iust  like  palmes  shall  flourish, 
 Which  the  plains  of  Judah  nourish: 
 
 Like  tall  cedars  mounted  on 
 Cloud-ascending  Lebanon  : 
 
 Plants,  set  in  thy  court,  below 
 Spread  their  roots,  and  upwards  grow; 
 Fruit  in  their  old-age  shall  bring; 
 
 Ever  fat  and  flourishing. 
 
 1  his  God’s  iustice  celebrates; 
 
 He,  my  Rock,  iniustice  hates. 
 
SANDYS. 
 
 271 
 
 Adoration. 
 
 [Written  on  returning  from  his  travels,  and  reviewing  God’s 
 mercies  to  him.J 
 
 DEO  OPT.  MAX. 
 
 O  Thou,  who  all  things  hast  of  nothing  made, 
 
 Whose  hand  the  radiant  firmament  display’d, 
 
 With  such  an  undiscerned  swiftnes  hurl’d 
 About  the  stedfast  centre  of  the  world  ; 
 
 Against  whose  rapid  course  the  restlesse  sun, 
 
 And  wandring  flames  in  varied  motions  run; 
 
 Which  heat,  light,  life  infuse ;  time,  night,  and  day 
 Distinguish;  in  our  humane  bodies  sway  : — 
 
 That  hung’st  the  solid  earth  in  fleeting  aire, 
 
 Vein’d  with  cleare  springs,  which  ambient  seas  repaire 
 In  clouds  the  mountaines  wrap  their  hoary  heads ; 
 Luxurious  vallies  clothed  with  flowry  meads  : 
 
 Her  trees  yield  fruit  and  shade;  with  liberall  brests 
 All  creatures  she  (their  common  mother)  leasts : — 
 Then  man  thy  image  mad’st ;  in  dignity, 
 
 In  knowledge,  and  in  beauty  like  to  Thee : 
 
 Placed  in  a  heaven  on  earth ;  without  his  toile 
 The  ever-flourishing  and  fruitfull  soile 
 Unpurchased  food  produced;  all  creatures  were 
 His  subjects,  serving  more  for  love  than  feare. 
 
 He  knew  no  Lord,  but  Thee.  But  when  he  fell 
 From  his  obedience,  all  at  once  rebell, 
 
 And  in  his  ruine  exercise  their  might: 
 
 Concurring  elements  against  him  fight; 
 
 Troups  of  unknowne  diseases ;  sorrow,  age, 
 
 And  death  assaile  him  with  successive  rage. 
 
 Hell  let  forth  all  her  furies ;  none  so  great, 
 
 As  man  to  man ;  ambition,  pride,  deceit, 
 
 Wrong  arm’d  with  power,  lust,  rapine,  slaughter 
 
 reign’d:  . 
 
 And  flatter’d  vice  the  name  of  vertue  gain  d. 
 
 Then  hills  beneath  the  swelling  waters  stood, 
 
 And  all  the  globe  of  earth  was  but  one  floud; 
 
272 
 
 SANDYS. 
 
 Yet  could  not  cleanse  their  guilt :  the  following  race 
 \Y  orse  than  their  fathers,  and  their  sons  more  base. 
 Their  God-like  beauty  lost;  sin’s  wretched  thrawle; 
 No  sparke  of  their  divine  originall 
 Left  unextinguisht ;  all  inveloped 
 W  ith  darknesse  ;  in  their  bold  transgressions  dead. 
 
 Then  Thou  didst  from  the  East  a  light  display, 
 Which  rendred  to  the  world  a  clearer  day : 
 
 Whose  precepts  from  hell’s  jawes  our  steps  withdraw; 
 And  whose  example  was  a  living  law: 
 
 Who  purged  us  with  his  bloud;  the  way  prepared 
 To  heaven,  and  those  long-chain’d-up  doores  unbarr’d. 
 
 How  infinite  thy  mercy  !  which  exceeds 
 The  world  Thou  mad’st,  as  well  as  our  misdeeds ! 
 Which  greater  reverence  than  thy  iustice  wins, 
 
 And  still  augments  thy  honour  by  our  sins. 
 
 O  who  hath  tasted  of  thy  clemency 
 In  greater  measure  or  more  oft,  than  I! 
 
 My  grateful  1  verse  thy  goodnes  shall  display, 
 
 O  I hou,  who  went’st  along  in  all  my  way! 
 
 To  where  the  morning  with  perfumed  wings 
 From  the  high  mountaines  of  Panchsea  springs, 
 
 To  that  new-found-out  world,  where  sober  night 
 Takes  from  the’  Antipodes  her  silent  flight; 
 lo  those  darke  seas,  where  horrid  winter  reignes, 
 
 And  binds  the  stubborne  floods  in  icie  chaines: 
 
 I  o  Libyan  wastes,  whose  thirst  no  showres  asswage, 
 And  where  swolne  Nilus  cooles  the  lion’s  rage. 
 
 Thy  wonders  in  the  deepe  have  I  beheld ; 
 
 Yet  all  by  those  on  Judah’s  hills  excell’d: 
 
 There  where  the  virgin’s  Son  his  doctrine  taught, 
 
 His  miracles,  and  our  redemption  wrought: 
 
 Where  I  by  Thee  inspired  his  praises  sung; 
 
 And  on  his  sepulchre  my  offering  hung. 
 
 Which  way  soe’re  I  turne  my  face,  or  feet ; 
 
 I  see  thy  glory,  and  thy  mercy  meet. 
 
 Met  on  the  Thracian  shores;  when  in  the  strife 
 Offrantick  Sitnoans  Thou  preserv’dst  my  life. 
 
 So  when  Arabian  thieves  belaid  us  round, 
 
 And  when  by  all  abandon’d,  Thee  I  found. 
 
SANDYS. 
 
 *273 
 
 That  false  Sidoman  wolfe,  whose  craft  put  oh 
 A  sheepe’s  soft  fleece,  and  me,  Bellerephon, 
 
 To  ruine  by  his  cruell  letter  sent, 
 
 Thou  didst  by  thy  protecting  hand  prevent. 
 
 Thou  sav’dst  me  from  the  bloudy  massacres 
 Of  faithless  Indians;  from  their  treacherous  wars; 
 From  raging  leavers,  from  the  sultry  breath 
 Of  tainted  aire,  which  cloy’d  the  jawes  of  death  ; 
 Preserved  from  swallowing  seas;  when  towering  waves 
 Mixt  with  the  clouds,  and  open’d  their  deepe  graves. 
 From  barbarous  pirates  ransom’d :  by  those  taught 
 Succesfully  with  Salian  Moores  we  fought. 
 
 Thou  brought’st  me  home  in  safety;  that  this  earth 
 Might  bury  me,  which  fed  me  from  my  birth : 
 
 Blest  with  a  healtbfull  age;  a  quiet  mind, 
 
 Content  with  little;  to  this  worke  design’d: 
 
 Which  I  at  length  have  finisht  by  thy  aid; 
 
 And  now  my  vowes  have  at  thy  altar  paid. 
 
 In  the  foregoing  sublime  and  fervent  thanksgiving  of  a  heart 
 «  poured  out  before  God,”  the  Author  alludes  to  an  offering  which 
 he  made  at  “  the  Holy  Sepulchre,”  when  he  was  at  Jerusalem. 
 The  following  are  the  lines,  with  his  own  simple  and  affecting  in¬ 
 troduction  ;  in  which  the  candid  reader,  whatever  his  private  ideas 
 may  be  respecting  such  places  and  ceremonies,  will  only  consider 
 the  Poet’s  personal  views  and  feelings  on  the  occasion. — “  Thou¬ 
 sands  of  Christians  perform  their  vows  and  offer  their  tears  yearly, 
 with  all  the  expressions  of  sorrow,  humility,  affection  and  penitence. 
 It  is  a  frozen  zeal  that  will  not  be  warmed  at  the  sight  thereof ;  and 
 Oh !  that  I  could  retain  the  effects  that  it  wrought,  with  an  un- 
 fainting  perseverance,  who  then  did  dedicate  this  Hymn 
 
 To  my  Redeemer. 
 
 Saviour  of  mankind,  Man,  Emmanuel ! 
 
 Who  sinless  died  for  sin ;  who  vanquish’d  hell ; 
 
 The  first-fruits  of  the  grave;  whose  life  did  give 
 Light  to  our  darkness;  in  whose  death  we  live : — 
 Oh!  strengthen  Thou  my  faith,  convert  my  will. 
 
 That  mine  may  thine  obey;  protect  me  still, 
 
 So  that  the  latter  Death  may  not  devour 
 My  soul,  seal’d  with  thy  seal. — So,  in  the  hour. 
 
274 
 
 DICKSON. 
 
 When  Thou  (whose  body  sanctified  this  tomb, 
 Unjustly  judged,)  a  glorious  Judge  shalt  come 
 To  judge  the  world  with  justice;  by  that  sign, 
 I  may  be  known,  and  entertain’d  for  thine.” 
 
 DAVID  DICKSON. 
 
 Born  about  1583.  Died  1662. 
 
 Sometime  Minister  of  Irvine,  Ayrshire,  and  successively  Theo¬ 
 logical  Professor  in  the  Universities  of  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh 
 On  his  death-bed  he  said  to  a  friend,  “  I  have  taken  all  mv  good 
 deeds,  and  all  my  bad  deeds,  and  have  cast  them  together  in  a 
 heap  before  the  Lord,  and  have  fled  from  both  to  Jesus  Christ  in 
 whom  1  have  peace.”— The  following  stanzas  are  extracted  from  a 
 much  larger  number,  some  of  which  are  very  indifferent  in  versi 
 fication,  though  all  are  delightfully  devout.  The  perfect  simplicity 
 ot  these  will  be  acceptable  to  every  pious  reader,  and  will  offend  no 
 good  taste.  They  are  particularly  curious  and  valuable  as  having 
 oeen  the  original,  though  with  various  transmutations,  bv  different 
 hands,  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  Hymns  in  the  language  The 
 reader  will  find  the  latter  in  the  “  Christian  Psalmist  "  No  129 
 Jerusalem,  my  happy  home,”  &c. 
 
 Hymn. 
 
 O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem  ! 
 
 When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
 
 When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end ; 
 Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
 
 O  happy  harbour  of  God’s  saints! 
 
 O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 
 
 In  thee  no  sorrows  can  be  found; 
 
 No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 
 
 No  dimly  cloud  o’ershadows  thee, 
 
 No  gloom,  nor  darksome  night, 
 
 But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 
 
 For  God  himself  gives  light. 
 
DICKSON. 
 
 275 
 
 Jerusalem,  Jerusalem, 
 
 Would  God  I  were  with  thee ! 
 
 O  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end; 
 
 Thy  joys  that  I  might  see! 
 
 Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 
 
 Thy  bulwarks  diamond  square; 
 
 Thy  gates  are  made  of  orient  pearl ; 
 
 O  God,  if  I  were  there ! 
 
 O  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem! 
 
 Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
 
 The  King  that  sitteth  on  the  throne, 
 
 And  thy  felicity? 
 
 Thy  gardens,  and  thy  goodly  walks 
 Continually  are  green, 
 
 Where  grow  such  sweet  and  lovely  flowers, 
 
 As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 
 
 Quite  through  the  street,  with  pleasant  sound. 
 The  flood  of  life  doth  flow ; 
 
 And  on  the  banks,  on  every  side, 
 
 The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 
 
 Those  trees  each  month  yield  ripen’d  fruit ; 
 For  evermore  they  spring; 
 
 And  all  the  nations  of  the  world 
 To  thee  their  honours  bring. 
 
 Jerusalem!  Jerusalem! 
 
 Thy  joys  fain  would  I  see ; 
 
 Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  griefs, 
 
 And  take  me  home  to  Thee. 
 
 O,  in  my  forehead,  plant  thy  name, 
 
 And  take  me  hence  away, 
 
 That  I  may  dwell  with  Thee  in  bliss, 
 
 And  sing  thy  praise  for  aye. 
 
 O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem ! 
 
 When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
 
 When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end? 
 
 Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 
 
276 
 
 HALE, 
 
 SIR  MATTHEW  HALE, 
 
 Born  1600.  Died  1675. 
 
 Author  of  many  learned,  judicial,  and  religious  work*. 
 
 On  my  Saviour  s  Birth. 
 
 When  the  great  lamp  of  heaven,  the  glorious  sun, 
 Had  touch’d  this  southern  period,  and  begun 
 To  leave  the  winter  tropic,  and  to  climb 
 The  zodiac’s  ascending  signs;  that  time 
 The  brighter  Sun  of  righteousness  did  choose 
 His  beams  of  light  and  glory  to  diffuse 
 O’er  our  dark  lower  world,  and  by  that  ray 
 To  chase  the  darkness,  and  to  make  it  day. 
 
 And  lest  the  glorious  and  resplendent  light 
 Of  his  eternal  beam  might  be  too  bright 
 For  mortal  eyes  to  gaze  upon,  he  shrouds, 
 
 And  clothes  his  fiery  pillar,  with  the  clouds 
 Of  human  flesh ;  that  in  that  dress  He  may 
 Converse  with  men,  acquaint  them  with  the  way 
 To  life  and  glory,  show  his  Father’s  mind 
 Concerning  them,  how  bountiful  and  kind 
 His  thoughts  were  to  them ;  what  they  might  expect 
 From  Him,  in  the  observance  or  neglect 
 Of  what  Fie  did  require; — and  then  He  seal’d, 
 
 With  his  dear  blood,  the  Truth  He  had  reveal’d. 
 
WALTON. 
 
 277 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 The  Penitential  Tear. 
 
 [Attributed  to  Doctour  B.  in  Wot  ton’s  Remains :  1651.] 
 
 Who  would  have  thought,  there  could  have  bin 
 Such  joy  in  tears  wept  for  our  sin? 
 
 Mine  eyes  have  seen,  my  heart  hath  proved 
 The  most  and  best  of  earthly  joyes ; 
 
 The  sweets  of  love,  and  being  loved, 
 
 Maskes,  feasts  and  plaies,  and  such  like  toyes; 
 Yet  this  one  tear,  which  now  doth  fall, 
 
 In  true  delight  exceeds  them  all. 
 
 IZAAK  WALTON. 
 
 Born  1593.  Died  1683. 
 
 Principal  Works  -.—The  Complete  Angler ,  and  some  Biographical 
 Tracts  The  most  fastidious  critic  would  find  it  difficult  to  give 
 a  good’ reason  for  being  displeased  with  the  following  very  hum¬ 
 ble  stanzas. 
 
 The  Angler  s  Song. 
 
 As  inward  love  breeds  outward  talk, 
 
 The  hound  some  praise,  and  some  the  hawk; 
 Some,  better  pleased  with  private  sport, 
 Love  tennis;  some  a  mistress  court 
 But  these  delights  I  neither  wish, 
 
 Nor  envy,  while  I  freely  fish. 
 
 Who  hunts  doth  oft  in  danger  ride  ; 
 
 Who  hawks  lures  oft  both  far  and  wide ; 
 
278 
 
 WALTON. 
 
 Who  uses  games  shall  often  prove 
 A  loser;  but  who  falls  in  love 
 Is  fetter’d  in  fond  Cupid’s  snare : 
 
 — My  angle  breeds  me  no  such  care. 
 
 Of  recreation,  there  is  none 
 So  free  as  fishing  is  alone; 
 
 All  other  pastimes  do  no  less 
 Than  mind  and  body  both  possess ; 
 
 My  hand  alone  my  work  can  do, 
 
 So  I  can  fish  and  study  too. 
 
 I  care  not,  I,  to  fish  in  seas, 
 
 Fresh  rivers  best  my  mind  do  please ; 
 Whose  sweet  calm  course  I  contemplate, 
 And  seek  in  life  to  imitate ; 
 
 In  civil  bonds  I  fain  would  keep, 
 
 And  for  my  past  offences  weep. 
 
 And  when  the  timorous  trout  I  wait 
 To  take,  and  he  devours  my  bait, 
 
 How  poor  a  thing,  sometimes,  I  find 
 Will  captivate  a  greedy  mind  : 
 
 And  when  none  bite,  I  praise  the  wise. 
 Whom  vain  allurements  ne’er  surprize. 
 
 But  yet  though  while  I  fish  I  fast, 
 
 I  make  good  fortune  my  repast, 
 
 And  thereunto  my  friend  invite, 
 
 In  whom  I  more  than  that  delight  ; 
 
 Who  is  more  welcome  to  my  dish, 
 
 Than  to  my  angle  was  my  fish. 
 
 As  well  content  no  prize  to  take, 
 
 As  use  of  taken  prize  to  make; 
 
 For  so  our  Lord  was  pleased,  when 
 He  fishers  made  fishers  of  men  ; 
 
 Where  (which  is  in  no  other  game,) 
 
 A  man  can  fish  and  praise  his  name. 
 
 The  first  men,  that  our  Saviour  dear 
 Did  choose  to  wait  upon  him  here, 
 
NETHERSOLE. 
 
 x 
 
 279 
 
 Blest  fishers  were,— and  fish  the  last 
 Food  was,  that  He  on  earth  did  taste ; 
 I  therefore  strive  to  follow  those 
 Whom  He  to  follow  Him  hath  chose. 
 
 FRANCIS  NETHERSOLE. 
 
 Saints  have  their  Conversation  in  Heaven: — addressed 
 to  Dr.  Thomas  Nevyle ,  Dean  of  Canterbury. 
 
 [Written  about  the  year  1620.] 
 
 As  when  the  Captain  of  the  heavenly  host, 
 
 Or  else  that  glorious  armie,  doth  appeare 
 In  ocean  drown’d,  with  surging  billows  tost, 
 
 We  know  they  are  not  where  we  see  they  are ; 
 
 We  see  them  in  the  deep,  we  see  them  move, 
 
 We  know  they  fixed  are  in  heaven  above. 
 
 So  did  the  Sunne  of  Righteousness  come  down, 
 Clouded  in  flesh,  and  seem’d  be  in  the  deep; 
 
 So  do  the  many  waters  seem  to  drown 
 
 The  starres,  his  Saints,  and  they  on  earth  to  keep ; 
 
 And  yet  this  Sunne  from  heaven  never  fell, 
 
 And  yet  these  earthly  starres  in  heaven  dwell. 
 
 What  if  their  souls  be  into  prison  cast 
 In  earthly  bodies!  yet  they  long  for  heaven; 
 
 What  if  this  worldly  sea  they  have  not  past! 
 
 Yet  fain  they  would  be  brought  into  their  haven : 
 They  are  not  here,  and  yet  we  here  them  see, 
 
 For  every  man  is  there  where  he  would  be. 
 
 Long  may  you  wish,  and  yet  long  wish  in  vain, 
 
 Hence  to  depart,  and  yet  that  wish  obtain ; 
 
280 
 
 COWLEY 
 
 Long  may  you  here  in  heaven  on  earth  remain, 
 And  yet  a  heaven  in  heaven  hereafter  gain; 
 
 Go  you  to  heaven,  but  yet  O  make  no  haste ! 
 Go  slowly,  slowly,  but  yet  go  at  last. 
 
 ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 
 
 Born  1618.  Died  1667. 
 
 The  most  miscellaneous  of  all  our  Poets,  having  attempted  every 
 species  of  composition  except  that  of  Tragedy,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
 having  distinguished  himself  in  each  above  all  his  contemporaries 
 except  Milton,  who,  however,  in  his  range  of  writing,  was  far  less 
 various  than  he.  Cowley  was  such  a  prodigal  of  his  genius,  that 
 he  seems  to  have  spent  nearly  his  whole  patrimony  of  fame  during 
 his  lifetime,  by  expending  all  the  riches  of  a  most  accomplished 
 mind  on  the  fashions  of  his  age  in  literature,  which,  like  other 
 fashions,  necessarily  passed  away  with  the  generation  that  bred 
 them.  The  very  artifices  of  style,  which  once  were  the  glory  of 
 his  verse,  are  now  the  eclipsing  shadows  that  obscure  it,  and  the 
 fine  gold  of  his  poetry  is  but  dimly  discernible  amidst  the  rusted 
 ornaments,  of  baser  metal,  that  formerly  outshone  it ;  so  that  it 
 has  been  the  fate  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  intellects  that  ever 
 arose  in  this  country,  never  to  be  estimated  by  its  real  excellence. 
 Yet  the  first  line  of  his  Odes,  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  an¬ 
 nounces  the  entrance  of  no  ordinary  actor  on  the  most  magnificent 
 scene  of  human  ambition — 
 
 “  What  shall  I  do  to  be  for  ever  known  ?” 
 
 Reason  and  Religion. 
 
 Some  blind  themselves,  ’cause  possibly  they  may 
 Be  led  by  others  a  right  way; 
 
 They  build  on  sands,  which  if  unmoved  they  find, 
 ’Tis  but  because  there  was  no  wind. 
 
 Less  hard  ’tis,  not  to  err  ourselves,  than  know 
 If  our  forefathers  err’d  or  no. 
 
 When  we  trust  men  concerning  God,  we  then 
 Trust  not  God  concerning  men. 
 
COWLEY. 
 
 281 
 
 Visions  and  inspirations  some  expect 
 Their  course  here  to  direct; 
 
 Like  senseless  chymists  their  own  wealth  destroy, 
 Imaginary  gold  to’  enjoy : 
 
 So  stars  appear  to  drop  to  us  from  sky, 
 
 And  gild  the  passage  as  they  fly; 
 
 But  when  they  fall,  and  meet  the’  opposing  ground, 
 What  but  a  sordid  slime  is  found? 
 
 In  vain  alas!  these  outward  hopes  are  try’d; 
 
 Reason  within’s  our  only  guide; 
 
 Reason,  which  (God  be  praised!)  still  walks,  for  all 
 Its  old  original  fall ; 
 
 And,  since  Itself  the  boundless  Godhead  join’d 
 With  a  reasonable  mind, 
 
 It  plainly  shows  that  mysteries  divine 
 May  with  our  reason  join. 
 
 The  holy  book,  like  the  eighth  sphere,  does  shine 
 With  thousand  lights  of  truth  divine  : 
 
 So  numberless  the  stars,  that  to  the  eye 
 It  makes  but  all  one  galaxy. 
 
 Yet  Reason  must  assist  too ;  for,  in  seas 
 So  vast  and  dangerous  as  these, 
 
 Our  course  by  stars  above  we  cannot  know, 
 
 Without  the  compass  too  below. 
 
 Though  Reason  cannot  through  Faith’s  mysteries  see, 
 It  sees  that  there  and  such  they  be ; 
 
 Leads  to  Heaven’s  door,  and  there  does  humbly  keep, 
 And  there  through  chinks  and  key-holes  peep ; 
 
 Though  it,  like  Moses,  by  a  sad  command, 
 
 Must  not  come  into  the’  Holy  land. 
 
 Yet  thither  it  infallibly  does  guide, 
 
 And  from  afar  ’tis  all  descry’d. 
 
 The  Extasy. 
 
 I  leave  mortality,  and  things  below; 
 
 I  have  no  time  in  compliments  to  waste ; 
 
282 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 Farewell  to  ye  all  in  haste, 
 
 For  I  am  call’d  to  go. 
 
 A  whirlwind  bears  up  my  dull  feet, 
 
 The’  officious  clouds  beneath  them  meet ; 
 
 And  lo  !  I  mount,  and  lo  ! 
 
 How  small  the  biggest  parts  of  Earth’s  proud  title  show 
 
 Where  shall  I  find  the  noble  British  land? 
 
 Lo !  I  at  last  a  northern  speck  espy, 
 
 Which  in  the  sea  does  lie, 
 
 And  seems  a  grain  o’  th’  sand  ! 
 
 For  this  will  any  sin,  or  bleed? 
 
 Of  civil  wars  is  this  the  meed  ? 
 
 And  is  it  this,  alas !  which  we 
 (Oh  irony  of  words  !)  do  call  Great  Britanie  ? 
 
 I  pass  by  the’  arched  magazines  which  hold 
 The’  eternal  stores  of  frost,  and  rain,  and  snow ; 
 
 Dry  and  secure  I  go, 
 
 Nor  shake  with  fear  or  cold  : 
 
 Without  affright  or  wonder 
 I  meet  clouds  charged  with  thunder, 
 
 And  lightnings,  in  my  way, 
 
 Like  harmless  lambent  fires,  about  my  temples  play. 
 
 Now  into  a  gentle  sea  of  rolling  flame 
 I’m  plunged,  and  still  mount  higher  there, 
 
 As  flames  mount  up  through  air : 
 
 So  perfect,  yet  so  tame, 
 
 So  great,  so  pure,  so  bright  a  fire, 
 
 Was  that  unfortunate  desire, 
 
 My  faithful  breast  did  cover, 
 
 When,  when  I  was  of  late  a  wretched  mortal  lover. 
 
 Through  several  orbs  which  one  fair  planet  bear, 
 Where  I  behold  distinctly,  as  I  pass, 
 
 The  hints  of  Galileo’s  glass, 
 
 I  touch  at  last  the  spangled  sphere : 
 
 Here  all  the’  extended  sky 
 Is  but  one  galaxy, 
 
 ’Tis  all  so  bright  and  gay. 
 
 And  the  joint  eyes  of  night  make  up  a  perfect  day. 
 
COWLEY. 
 
 283 
 
 Where  am  I  now?  Angels,  and  God  is  here; 
 
 An  unexhausted  ocean  of  delight 
 Swallows  my  senses  quite, 
 
 And  drowns  all  what,  or  how,  or  where  ! 
 
 Not  Paul,  who  first  did  thither  pass, 
 
 And  this  great  world’s  Columbus  was, 
 
 The  tyrannous  pleasure  could  express. 
 
 Oh,  ’tis  too  much  for  man  !  but  let  it  ne’er  be  less  ! 
 
 The  mighty  Elijah  mounted  so  on  high, 
 
 That  second  man  who  leap’d  the  ditch  where  all 
 The  rest  of  mankind  fall, 
 
 And  went  not  downvrards  to  the  sky ! 
 
 With  much  of  pomp  and  show 
 (As  conquering  kings  in  triumph  go) 
 
 Did  he  to  Heaven  approach, 
 
 And  wondrous  was  his  way,  and  wondrous  was  his  coach. 
 
 ’Twas  gaudy  all;  and  rich  in  every  part 
 Of  essences,  of  gems  ;  and  spirit  of  gold 
 Was  its  substantial  mould, 
 
 Drawn  forth  by  chymic  angels’  art. 
 
 Here  with  moon -beams  ’twas  silver’d  bright. 
 
 There  double-gilt  with  the  Sun’s  light; 
 
 And  mystic  shapes  cut  round  in  it, 
 
 Figures  that  did  transcend  a  vulgar  angel’s  wit. 
 
 The  horses  were  of  temper’d  lightning  made, 
 
 Of  all  that  in  Heaven’s  beauteous  pastures  feed 
 The  noblest,  sprightful’st  breed  ; 
 
 And  flaming  manes  their  necks  array’d ; 
 
 They  all  were  shod  with  diamond, 
 
 Not  such  as  here  are  found, 
 
 But  such  light  solid  ones  as  shine 
 On  the  transparent  rocks  o’  the’  Heaven  crystalline. 
 
 Thus  mounted  the  great  prophet  to  the  skies ; 
 Astonish’d  men,  who  oft  had  seen  stars  fall, 
 
 Or  that  which  so  they  call, 
 
 Wonder’d  from  hence  to  see  one  rise. 
 
 The  soft  clouds  melted  him  away; 
 
 The  snow  and  frost  which  in  it  lay 
 
284 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 Awhile  the  sacred  footsteps  bore; 
 
 The  wheels  and  horses’  hoofs  hizz’d  as  they  past  them 
 o’er ! 
 
 He  past  by  the’  Moon  and  planets,  and  did  fright 
 All  the  worlds  there  which  at  this  meteor  gazed, 
 
 And  their  astrologers  amazed 
 With  the’  unexampled  sight. 
 
 But  where  he  stopp’d  will  ne’er  be  known, 
 
 Till  phenix  Nature,  aged  grown, 
 
 To  a  better  thing  do  aspire, 
 
 And  mount  herself,  like  him,  to  eternity  in  fire. 
 
 The  Delights  of  a  Garden. 
 
 Happy  art  thou,  whom  God  does  bless 
 With  the  full  choice  of  thine  own  happiness  ; 
 
 And  happier  yet,  because  thou’rt  blest 
 With  prudence,  how  to  choose  the  best : 
 
 In  books  and  gardens  thou  hast  placed  aright 
 (Things,  which  thou  well  dost  understand, 
 
 And  both  dost  make  with  thy  laborious  hand,) 
 
 Thy  noble,  innocent  delight ; 
 
 And  in  thy  virtuous  wife,  where  thou  again  dost  meet 
 Both  pleasures  more  refined  and  sweet ; 
 
 The  fairest  garden  in  her  looks, 
 
 And  in  her  mind  the  wisest  books. 
 
 Oh,  who  would  change  these  soft,  yet  solid  joys, 
 
 For  empty  shows  and  senseless  noise; 
 
 And  all  which  rank  ambition  breeds, 
 
 Which  seem  such  beauteous  flowers,  and  are  such 
 poisonous  weeds? 
 
 When  God  did  man  to  his  own  likeness  make, 
 
 As  much  as  clay,  though  of  the  purest  kind, 
 
 By  the  great  potter’s  art  refined, 
 
 Could  the  divine  impression  take, 
 
 He  thought  it  fit  to  place  him,  where 
 
COWLEY. 
 
 285 
 
 As  far  as  earth  could  such  a  likeness  bear: 
 
 That  man  no  happiness  might  want, 
 
 Which  earth  to  her  first  master  could  afford. 
 
 He  did  a  garden  for  him  plant 
 By  the  quick  hand  of  his  omnipotent  word; 
 
 As  the  chief  help  and  joy  of  human  life, 
 
 He  gave  him  the  first  gift;  first,  even  before  a  wife. 
 
 O  blessed  shades  !  O  gentle,  cool  retreat 
 From  all  the’  immoderate  heat, 
 
 In  which  the  frantic  world  does  burn  and  sweat* 
 This  does  the  Lion-star,  ambition’s  rage ; 
 
 This  avarice,  the  Dog-star’s  thirst,  assuage; 
 
 Every  where  else  their  fatal  power  we  see, 
 
 They  make  and  rule  man’s  wretched  destiny: 
 
 They  neither  set,  nor  disappear, 
 
 But  tyrannize  o’er  all  the  year; 
 
 Whilst  we  ne’er  feel  their  flame  or  influence  here. 
 The  birds  that  dance  from  bough  to  bough, 
 
 And  sing  above  in  every  tree. 
 
 Are  not  from  fears  and  cares  more  free 
 Than  we,  who  lie,  or  sit,  or  walk,  below, 
 
 And  should  by  right  he  singers  too. 
 
 What  prince’s  choir  of  music  can  excel 
 That  which  within  this  shade  does  dwell? 
 
 To  which  we  nothing  pay  or  give ; 
 
 They,  like  all  other  poets,  live 
 Without  reward,  or  thanks  for  their  obliging  pains: 
 
 ’Tis  well  if  they  become  not  prey: 
 
 The  whistling  winds  add  their  less  artful  strains, 
 And  a  grave  bass  the  murmuring  fountains  play; 
 Nature  does  all  this  harmony  bestow, 
 
 But  to  our  plants,  art’s  music  too, 
 
 The  pipe,  theorbo,  and  guittar,  we  owe; 
 
 Ihe  lute  itself,  which  once  was  green  and  mute 
 When  Orpheus  strook  the’  inspired  lute, 
 
 The  trees  danced  round,  and  understood 
 By  sympathy  the  voice  of  wood. 
 
 Where  does  the  wisdon  and  the  power  divine 
 In  a  more  bright  and  sweet  reflection  shine? 
 
286 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 Where  do  we  finer  strokes  and  colours  see 
 Of  the  Creator’s  real  poetry, 
 
 Than  when  we  with  attention  look 
 Upon  the  third  day’s  volume  of  the  book? 
 
 If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  eye, 
 
 We  all,  like  Moses,  should  espy 
 Even  in  a  bush  the  radiant  Deity. 
 
 But  we  despise  these  his  inferior  ways 
 (Though  no  less  full  of  miracle  and  praise,) 
 Upon  the  flowers  of  heaven  we  gaze ; 
 
 The  stars  of  earth  no  wonder  in  us  raise. 
 Though  these  perhaps  do,  more  than  they, 
 The  life  of  mankind  sway. 
 
 Although  no  part  of  mighty  Nature  be 
 More  stored  with  beauty,  power  and  mystery; 
 Yet,  to  encourage  human  industry, 
 
 God  has  so  order’d,  that  no  other  part 
 Such  space  and  such  dominion  leaves  for  Art. 
 
 JOHN  MILTON. 
 
 Born  1608.  Died  1674. 
 
 [Extracts  from  Paradise  Lost.] 
 
 The  Son  of  God  offering  himself  to  become  the  Saviour 
 
 of  Man . 
 
 The  Father,  having  foretold  the  fall  of  Man,  and  the  only  mean* 
 of  his  restoration  being  an  expiatory  sacrifice,  inquires 
 
 “  Say,  heavenly  powers,  where  shall  we  find  such  love  ? 
 Which  of  ye  will  be  mortal,  to  redeem 
 Man’s  mortal  crime,  and  just  the  unjust  to  save? 
 Dwells  in  all  heaven  charity  so  dear?” 
 
 He  ask’d,  but  all  the  heavenly  quire  stood  mute, 
 And  silence  was  in  heaven :  on  man  s  behalt 
 
MILTON. 
 
 287 
 
 Patron  or  intercessor  none  appear’d, 
 
 Much  less  that  durst  upon  his  own  head  draw 
 The  deadly  forfeiture,  and  ransom  set. 
 
 And  now  without  redemption  all  mankind 
 Must  have  been  lost,  adjudged  to  death  and  hell 
 By  doom  severe,  had  not  the  Son  of  God, 
 
 In  whom  the  fulness  dwells  of  love  divine, 
 
 His  dearest  mediation  thus  renew’d. 
 
 “  Father,  thy  word  is  past,  man  shall  find  grace ; 
 And  shall  grace  not  find  means,  that  finds  her  way, 
 The  speediest  of  thy  winged  messengers, 
 
 To  visit  all  thy  creatures,  and  to  all 
 Comes  unprevented,  unimplored,  unsought? 
 
 Happy  for  man,  so  coming;  he  her  aid 
 Can  never  seek,  once  dead  in  sins,  and  lost ; 
 Atonement  for  himself,  or  offering  meet, 
 
 Indebted  and  undone,  hath  none  to  bring  : 
 
 Behold  me  then ;  me  for  him,  life  for  life 
 I  offer;  on  me  let  thine  anger  fall ; 
 
 Account  me  man  ;  I  for  his  sake  will  leave 
 
 Thy  bosom,  and  this  glory  next  to  Thee 
 
 Freely  put  off,  and  for  him  lastly  die 
 
 Well  pleased;  on  me  let  death  wreak  all  his  rage; 
 
 Under  his  gloomy  power  I  shall  not  long 
 
 Lie  vanquish’d;  Thou  hast  given  me  to  possess 
 
 Life  in  myself  for  ever  ;  by  Thee  I  live, 
 
 Though  now  to  death  I  yield,  and  am  his  due 
 All  that  of  me  can  die ;  yet  that  debt  paid, 
 
 Thou  wilt  not  leave  me  in  the  loathsome  grave 
 His  prey,  nor  suffer  my  unspotted  soul 
 For  ever  with  corruption  there  to  dwell ; 
 
 But  I  shall  rise  victorious,  and  subdue 
 My  vanquisher,  spoil’d  of  his  vaunted  spoil ; 
 
 Death  his  death’s  wound  shall  then  receive,  and  stoop 
 Inglorious,  of  his  mortal  sting  disarm’d. 
 
 I  through  the  ample  air  in  triumph  high 
 Shall  lead  hell  captive,  maugre  hell,  and  show 
 The  powers  of  darkness  bound.  Thou,  at  the  sight 
 Pleased,  out  of  heaven  shalt  look  down  and  smile, 
 
 V*  bile,  by  Thee  raised,  I  ruin  all  my  foes, 
 
288 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 Death  last,  and  with  his  carcass  glut  the  graven 
 Then,  with  the  multitude  of  my  redeem’d, 
 
 Shall  enter  heaven,  long  absent,  and  return, 
 
 Father,  to  see  thy  face,  wherein  no  cloud 
 Of  anger  shall  remain,  but  peace  assured 
 And  reconcilement;  wrath  shall  be  no  more 
 Thenceforth,  but  in  thy  presence  joy  entire.” 
 
 His  words  here  ended,  but  his  meek  aspect 
 Silent  yet  spake,  and  breathed  immortal  love 
 To  mortal  men,  above  which  only  shone 
 Filial  obedience  :  as  a  sacrifice 
 Glad  to  be  offer’d,  He  attends  the  will 
 Of  his  great  Father.  Admiration  seized 
 All  heaven,  what  this  might  mean,  and  whither  tend. 
 Wondering ;  but  soon  the  Almighty  thus  replied. 
 
 “  O  Thou  in  Heaven  and  Earth  the  only  peace 
 Found  out  for  mankind  under  wrath !  O  Thou 
 My  sole  complacence !  well  Thou  know’st  how  dear 
 To  me  are  all  my  works,  nor  Man  the  least, 
 
 Though  last  created;  that  for  him  I  spare 
 Thee  from  my  bosom  and  right  hand,  to  save, 
 
 By  losing  Thee  awhile,  the  whole  race  lost. 
 
 Thou,  therefore,  whom  Thou  only  canst  redeem, 
 Their  nature  also  to  thy  nature  join; 
 
 And  be  thyself  man  among  men  on  Earth, 
 
 Made  flesh,  when  time  shall  be,  of  virgin  seed, 
 
 By  wondrous  birth:  be  Thou  in  Adam’s  room 
 The  Head  of  all  mankind,  though  Adam’s  son. 
 
 As  in  Him  perish  all  men,  so  in  Thee, 
 
 As  from  a  second  root,  shall  be  restored 
 As  many  as  are  restored,  without  Thee  none. 
 
 His  crime  makes  guilty  all  his  sons;  thy  merit. 
 Imputed,  shall  absolve  them  who  renounce 
 Their  own  both  righteous  and  unrighteous  deeds 
 And  live  in  Thee  transplanted,  and  from  Thee 
 Receive  new  life.  So  man,  as  is  most  just, 
 
 Shall  satisfy  for  man,  be  judged  and  die, 
 
 And  dying  rise,  and  rising  with  him  raise 
 His  brethren,  ransom’d  with  his  own  dear  life. 
 
 So  heavenly  love  shall  outdo  hellish  hate, 
 
MILTON-. 
 
 289 
 
 Giving  to  death,  and  dying  to  redeem, 
 
 So  dearly  to  redeem  what  hellish  hate 
 
 So  easily  destroyed,  and  still  destroys 
 
 In  those  who,  when  they  may,  accept  not  grace, 
 
 Nor  slialt  Thou,  by  descending  to  assume 
 Man’s  nature,  lessen  or  degrade  thine  own. 
 
 Because  Thou  hast,  though  throned  in  highest  bliss 
 Equal  to  God,  and  equally  enjoying 
 God-like  fruition,  quitted  all,  to  save 
 A  world  from  utter  loss,  and  hast  been  found 
 By  merit  more  than  birthright  Son  of  God, 
 
 Found  worthiest  to  be  so  by  being  good. 
 
 Far  more  than  great  or  high;  because  in  Thee 
 Love  hath  abounded  more  than  glory  abounds, 
 Therefore  thy  humiliation  shall  exalt 
 With  Thee  thy  manhood  also  to  this  throne ; 
 
 Flere  shalt  thou  sit  incarnate,  here  shalt  reign 
 Both  God  and  Man,  Son  both  of  God  and  Man, 
 Anointed  universal  King  ;  all  power 
 I  give  Thee  ;  reign  for  ever,  and  assume 
 Thy  merits ;  under  Thee,  as  Head  supreme, 
 Thrones,  princedoms,  powers,  dominions,  I  reduce  : 
 All  knees  to  Thee  shall  bow,  of  them  that  bide 
 In  Heaven,  or  Earth,  or  under  Earth  in  Hell. 
 
 When  Thou,  attended  gloriously  from  Heaven, 
 
 Shalt  in  the  sky  appear,  and  from  Thee  send 
 The  summoning  arch-angels  to  proclaim 
 Thy  dread  tribunal :  forthwith  from  all  winds 
 The  living,  and  forthwith  the  cited  dead 
 Of  all  past  ages,  to  the  general  doom 
 Shall  hasten  ;  such  a  peal  shall  rouse  their  sleep. 
 Then,  all  thy  saints  assembled,  Thou  shalt  judge 
 Bad  men  and  angels ;  they,  arraign’d,  shall  sink 
 Beneath  thy  sentence;  Hell,  her  numbers  full, 
 Thenceforth  shall  be  for  ever  shut.  Mean  while 
 The  world  shall  burn,  and  from  her  ashes  spring 
 New  heaven  and  earth,  wherein  the  just  shall  dwell, 
 And,  after  all  their  tribulations  long, 
 
 See  golden  days,  fruitful  of  golden  deeds, 
 
 With  joy  and  love  triumphing,  and  fair  truth. 
 
 Then  Thou  thy  regal  sceptre  shalt  lay  by, 
 
 N 
 
 32 
 
290 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 For  regal  sceptre  then  no  more  shalt  need, 
 
 God  shall  be  all  in  all.  But,  all  ye  gods, 
 
 Adore  Him,  who  to  compass  all  this  dies ; 
 
 Adore  the  Son,  and  honour  him  as  me.” 
 
 No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceased,  but  all 
 The  multitude  of  angels,  with  a  shout 
 Loud  as  from  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
 As  from  blest  voices,  uttering  joy,  Heaven  rung 
 With  jubilee,  and  loud  Hosannas  fill’d 
 The  eternal  regions :  lowly  reverent 
 Towards  either  throne  they  bow,  and  to  the  ground 
 With  solemn  adoration  down  they  cast 
 Their  crowns  inwove  with  amarant  and  gold; 
 Immortal  amarant,  a  flower  which  once 
 In  Paradise,  fast  by  the  tree  of  life, 
 
 Began  to  bloom ;  but  soon  for  man’s  offence 
 To  Heaven  removed  where  first  it  grew,  there  grows, 
 And  flowers  aloft  shading  the  fount  of  life, 
 
 And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of  Heaven 
 Rolls  o’er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream : 
 
 With  these  that  never  fade  the  spirits  elect 
 Bind  their  resplendent  locks  inwreath’d  with  beams ; 
 Now  in  loose  garlands  thick  thrown  off,  the  bright 
 Pavement,  that  like  a  sea  of  jasper  shone, 
 
 Impurpled  with  celestial  roses  smiled. 
 
 Then,  crown’d  again,  their  golden  harps  they  took ; 
 Harps  ever  tuned,  that  glittering  by  their  side 
 Like  quivers  hung,  and  with  preamble  sweet 
 Of  charming  symphony  they  introduce 
 Their  sacred  song,  and  waken  raptures  high ; 
 
 No  voice  exempt,  no  voice  but  well  could  join 
 Melodious  part,  such  concord  is  in  Heaven. 
 
 Thee,  Father,  first  they  sung  Omnipotent, 
 Immutable,  Immortal,  Infinite, 
 
 Eternal  King  ;  Thee  Author  of  all  being, 
 
 Fountain  of  light,  thyself  invisible 
 Amidst  the  glorious  brightness  where  Thou  sitst 
 Throned  inaccessible,  but  when  thou  shad’st 
 The  full  blaze  of  thy  beams,  and,  through  a  cloud 
 Drawn  round  about  Thee  like  a  radiant  shrine, 
 
 Dark  with  excessive  bright  thy  skirts  appear. 
 
MILTON* 
 
 291 
 
 Yet  dazzle  Heaven,  that  brightest  seraphim 
 Approach  not,  but  with  both  wings  veil  their  eyes. 
 Thee  next  they  sang  of  all  creation  first, 
 
 Begotten  Son,  Divine  Similitude, 
 
 In  whose  conspicuous  countenance,  without  cloud 
 Made  visible,  the  Almighty  Father  shines, 
 
 Whom  else  no  creature  can  behold;  on  Thee 
 Impress’d  the  effulgence  of  his  glory  abides, 
 Transfused  on  Thee  his  ample  Spirit  rests. 
 
 He  Heaven  of  Heavens  and  all  the  powers  therein 
 By  Thee  created ;  and  by  Thee  threw  down 
 The  aspiring  dominations:  Thou  that  day 
 Thy  Father’s  dreadful  thunder  didst  not  spare, 
 
 Nor  stop  thy  flaming  chariot-wheels,  that  shook 
 Heaven’s  everlasting  frame,  while  o’er  the  necks, 
 Thou  drov’st  of  warring  angels  disarray’d. 
 
 Back  from  pursuit  thy  powers  with  loud  acclaim 
 Thee  only  extoll’d,  Son  of  thy  Father’s  might, 
 
 To  execute  fierce  vengeance  on  his  foes, 
 
 Not  so  on  Man :  him,  through  their  malice  fall’n, 
 Father  of  mercy  and  grace,  Thou  didst  not  doom 
 So  strictly,  but  much  more  to  pity  incline: 
 
 No  sooner  did  thy  dear  and  only  Son 
 Perceive  Thee  purpos’d  not  to  doom  frail  Man 
 So  strictly,  but  much  more  to  pity  inclined, 
 
 He  to  appease  thy  wrath,  and  end  the  strife 
 Of  mercy  and  justice,  in  thy  face  discern’d, 
 Regardless  of  the  bliss  wherein  lie  sat. 
 
 Second  to  Thee,  offer’d  himself  to  die 
 For  Man’s  offence.  O  unexampled  love, 
 
 Love  no  where  to  be  found  less  than  Divine ! 
 
 Hail,  Son  of  God,  Saviour  of  Men  !  Thy  name 
 Shall  be  the  copious  matter  of  my  song 
 Henceforth,  and  never  shall  my  harp  thy  praise 
 Forget,  rior  from  thy  Father’s  praise  disjoin. 
 
 Adam  and  Eve  s  Morning  Hymn. 
 
 —  To  the  field  they  haste. 
 But  first,  from  under  shady  arborous  roof, 
 
 n2 
 
292 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 Soon  as  they  forth  were  come  to  open  sight 
 Of  day-spring,  and  the  Sun,  who,  scarce  up-risen, 
 With  wheels  yet  hovering  o’er  the  ocean  brim, 
 
 Shot  parallel  to  the  Earth  his  dewy  ray, 
 
 Discovering  in  wide  landscape  all  the  east 
 Of  Paradise  and  Eden’s  happy  plains, — 
 
 Lowly  they  bow’d  adoring,  and  began 
 
 Their  orisons,  each  morning  duly  paid 
 
 In  various  style;  for  neither  various  style 
 
 Nor  holy  rapture  wanted  they  to  praise 
 
 Their  Maker,  in  fit  strains  pronounced,  or  sung 
 
 Unmeditated ;  such  prompt  eloquence 
 
 Plow’d  from  their  lips,  in  prose  or  numerous  verse, 
 
 More  tuneable  than  needed  lute  or  harp 
 
 To  add  more  sweetness;  and  they  thus  began. 
 
 “  These  are  thy  glorious  works, — Parent  of  good, 
 Almighty !  Thine  this  universal  frame, 
 
 Thus  wondrous  fair;  Thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 
 Unspeakable,  who  sitst  above  these  heavens 
 To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
 In  these  thy  lowest  works;  yet  these  declare 
 Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
 Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
 
 Angels ;  for  ye  behold  Him,  and  with  songs 
 And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
 
 Circle  his  throne  rejoicing;  ye  in  Pleaven. 
 
 On  Earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 
 
 Him  first,  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without  end. 
 
 Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
 
 If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 
 
 Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown’st  the  smiling  morn 
 With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  Plim  in  thy  sphere, 
 While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
 
 Thou  Sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 
 Acknowledge  Him  thy  greater;  sound  his  praise 
 In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb’st, 
 
 And  when  high  noon  hast  gain’d,  and  when  thou  fall’st. 
 Moon,  that  now  meet’st  the  orient  Sun,  now  fly’st, 
 With  the  fix’d  stars,  fix’d  in  their  orb  that  flies; 
 
 And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 
 In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 
 
MILTON. 
 
 293 
 
 His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  call’d  up  light. 
 
 Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 
 Of  Nature’s  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
 Perpetual  circle,  multiform  ;  and  mix 
 And  nourish  all  things ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 
 Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 
 
 Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
 From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky,  or  gray,, 
 
 Till  the  Sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
 
 In  honour  to  the  World’s  great  Author  rise; 
 Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncoloured  sky, 
 Or  wet  the  thirsty  Earth  with  falling  showers, 
 Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 
 
 His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
 Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 
 With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
 Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow, 
 Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
 
 Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls:  ye  birds, 
 
 That  singing  up  to  Heaven-gate  ascend, 
 
 Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 
 
 Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
 The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep  ; 
 Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 
 
 To  hill  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade, 
 
 Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
 Hail,  universal  Lord,  be  bounteous  still 
 To  give  us  only  good ;  and  if  the  night 
 Have  gather’d  aught  of  evil  or  conceal'd, 
 
 Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark  !” 
 
 God's  Omnipresence. 
 
 Adam,  unwilling  to  leave  Paradise,  thus  addresses  Michael,  the 
 Archangel  sent  to  drive  him  thence. 
 
 “  Celestial,  whether  among  the  thrones,  or  named 
 Of  them  the  highest ;  for  such  of  shape  may  seem 
 Prince  above  princes !  gently  hast  thou  told 
 Thy  message,  which  might  else  in  telling  wound, 
 
294 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 And  in  performing  end  us;  what  besides 
 Of  sorrow,  and  dejection,  and  despair, 
 
 Our  frailty  can  sustain,  thy  tidings  bring, 
 
 Departure  from  this  happy  place,  our  sweet 
 Recess,  and  only  consolation  left 
 Familiar  to  our  eyes !  all  places  else 
 Inhospitable  appear,  and  desolate; 
 
 Nor  knowing  us,  nor  known ;  and,  if  by  prayer 
 Incessant  I  could  hope  to  change  the  will 
 Of  Him  who  all  things  can,  I  would  not  cease 
 To  weary  Him  with  my  assiduous  cries; 
 
 But  prayer  against  his  absolute  decree 
 No  more  avails  than  breath  against  the  wind, 
 
 Blown  stifling  back  on  him  that  breathes  it  forth: 
 Therefore  to  his  great  bidding  I  submit. 
 
 This  most  afflicts  me,  that  departing  hence, 
 
 As  from  his  face  I  shall  be  hid,  deprived 
 His  blessed  countenance :  here  I  could  frequent 
 With  worship  place  by  place  where  He  vouchsafed 
 Presence  Divine;  and  to  my  sons  relate, 
 
 ‘  On  this  mount  He  appear’d  ;  under  this  tree 
 Stood  visible ;  among  these  pines  his  voice 
 I  heard;  here  with  Him  at  this  fountain  talk’d:’ 
 
 So  many  grateful  altars  I  would  rear 
 
 Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  stone 
 
 Of  lustre  from  the  brook,  in  memory 
 
 Or  monument  to  ages;  and  thereon 
 
 Offer  sweet-smelling  gums,  and  fruits,  and  flowers : 
 
 In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
 
 His  bright  appearances,  or  foot-step  trace? 
 
 For  though  I  fled  Him  angry,  yet,  recall’d 
 To  life  prolong’d  and  promised  race,  I  now 
 Gladly  behold  though  but  his  utmost  skirts 
 Of  glory;  and  far  off  his  steps  adore.” 
 
 To  whom  thus  Michael  with  regard  benign. 
 
 “  Adam,  thou  know’st  Heaven  his,  and  all  the  Earth 
 Not  this  rock  only;  his  Omnipresence  fills 
 Land,  sea,  and  air,  and  every  kind  that  lives, 
 Fomented  by  his  virtual  power  and  warm’d : 
 
 All  the  Earth  He  gave  thee  to  possess  and  rule, 
 
 No  despicable  gift;  surmise  not  then 
 
MILTON. 
 
 295 
 
 His  presence  to  these  narrow  bounds  confined 
 Of  Paradise,  or  Eden ;  this  had  been 
 Perhaps  thy  capital  seat,  from  whence  had  spread 
 All  generations  ;  and  had  hither  come 
 From  all  the  ends  of  the  Earth,  to  celebrate 
 And  reverence  thee,  their  great  progenitor. 
 
 But  this  pre-eminence  thou  hast  lost,  brought  down 
 To  dwell  on  even  ground  now  with  thy  sons : 
 
 Yet  doubt  not  but  in  valley,  and  in  plain, 
 
 God  is,  as  here  ;  and  will  be  found  alike 
 Present;  and  of  his  presence  many  a  sign 
 Still  following  thee,  still  compassing  thee  round 
 With  goodness  and  paternal  love,  liis  face 
 Express,  and  of  his  steps  the  track  divine.  ? 
 Which  that  thou  may’st  believe,  and  be  confirm  d 
 Ere  thou  from  hence  depart ;  know,  I  am  sent 
 To  show  thee  what  shall  come  in  future  days 
 To  thee,  and  to  thy  offspring :  good  with  bad 
 Expect  to  hear ;  supernal  grace  contending 
 With  sinfulness  of  men;  thereby  to  learn 
 True  patience,  and  to  temper  joy  with  fear 
 And  pious  sorrow ;  equally  inured 
 *  By  moderation  either  state  to  bear, 
 
 Prosperous  or  adverse  :  so  shalt  thou  lead 
 Safest  thy  life,  and  best  prepared  endure 
 Thy  mortal  passage  when  it  comes. 
 
 The  Sum  of  Wisdom . 
 
 The  Archangel  Michael  having  foreshown,  or  foretold,  all  the 
 events  of  Providence  and  Grace,  for  the  redemption  ot  man,  t 
 the  end  of  time,  Adam  exclaims : — 
 
 “  How  soon  hath  thy  prediction,  seer  blest. 
 Measured  this  transient  world,  the  race  of  Time, 
 Till  time  stand  fix’d?  Beyond  is  all  abyss, 
 Eternity,  whose  end  no  eye  can  reach. 
 
 Greatly  instructed  I  shall  hence  depart ; 
 
 Greatly  in  peace  of  thought;  and  have  my  fill 
 Of  knowledge  what  this  vessel  can  contain  ; 
 
296 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 Beyond  which  was  my  folly  to  aspire. 
 
 Henceforth  I  learn,  that  to  obey  is  best, 
 
 And  love  with  fear  the  only  God;  to  walk 
 As  in  his  presence;  ever  to  observe 
 His  providence;  and  on  Him  sole  depend, 
 
 Merciful  over  all  his  works,  with  good 
 Still  overcoming  evil,  and  by  small 
 Accomplishing  great  things,  by  things  deem’d  weak 
 Subverting  worldly  strong,  and  worldly  wise 
 By  simply  meek:  that  suffering  for  truth’s  sake 
 Is  fortitude  to  highest  victory, 
 
 And,  to  the  faithful,  death,  the  gate  of  life; 
 
 Taught  this  by  his  example,  whom  I  now  * 
 Acknowledge  my  Redeemer  ever  blest.” 
 
 I o  whom  thus  also  the  angel  last  replied. 
 
 “  This  having  learn’d,  thou  hast  attain’d  the  sum 
 (>f  wisdom:  hope  no  higher,  though  all  the  stars 
 Thou  knew’st  by  name,  and  all  the  ethereal  powers, 
 All  secrets  ot  the  deep,  all  Nature’s  works, 
 
 Or  works  of  God  in  Heaven,  air,  earth,  or  sea, 
 
 And  all  the  riches  of  this  world  enjoy’dst, 
 
 And  all  the  rule,  one  empire;  only  add 
 Deeds  to  thy  knowledge  answerable;  add  faith, 
 
 Add  virtue,  patience,  temperance;  add  love, 
 
 By  name  to  come  call’d  charity,  the  soul 
 Of  all  the  rest :  then  wilt  thou  not  be  loth 
 I  o  leave  this  Paradise,  but  shalt  possess 
 A  paradise  within  thee,  happier  far.” 
 
 [From  his  Sonnets.] 
 
 On  Mrs.  Catharine  Thomson. 
 
 W  hen  Faith  and  Love,  which  parted  from  thee  never, 
 Had  ripen’d  thy  just  soul  to  dwell  with  God, 
 Meekly  thou  didst  resign  this  earthly  load 
 Of  death,  call’d  life ;  which  us  from  life  doth  sever. 
 Iby  woiks,  and  alms,  and  all  thy  good  endeavour, 
 Staid  not  behind,  nor  in  the  grave  were  trod ; 
 
 But,  as  Faith  pointed  with  her  golden  rod, 
 follow'd  thee  up  to  joy  and  bliss  for  ever. 
 
MILTON. 
 
 297 
 
 Love  led  them  on,  and  Faith,  who  knew  them  best 
 Thy  hand-maids,  clad  them  o’er  with  purple  beams 
 And  azure  wings,  that  up  they  flew  so  drest, 
 
 And  spake  the  truth  of  thee  on  glorious  themes 
 Before  the  Judge;  who  thenceforth  bid  thee  rest, 
 And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal  streams. 
 
 On  the  Massacre  of  Protestants  in  Piedmont. 
 
 Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughter’d  saints,  whose  bones 
 Lie  scatter’d  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
 
 Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
 When  all  our  fathers  worshipt  stocks  and  stones, 
 Forget  not :  in  thy  hook  record  their  groans 
 Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
 Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  roll’d 
 Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.  The  moans 
 The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
 
 To  Heaven.  Their  martyr’d  blood  and  ashes  sow 
 O’er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
 The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
 A  hundred  fold,  who,  having  learn’d  thy  way, 
 
 Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 
 
 On  the  Author  s  Blindness. 
 
 fThis  Sonnet,  though  severely  simple  in  style,  and  remarkably  ab- 
 rupt  in  rhythm,  is,  nevertheless,  in  quiet  grandeur  ot  sentiment, 
 one  of  the  noblest  records  of  human  feeling,  at  once  subdued  and 
 sublimed  by  resignation  to  the  divine  will.  Milton  is  never  more 
 himself  than  when  he  speaks  of  himself.  Here  we  are  let  into 
 the  inmost  sanctuary  of  his  mind,  and  hearken  (as  it  were)  to  the 
 invisible  Spirit  communing  with  itself,  amidst  the  darkness  ot 
 external  nature,  till  light  from  heaven,  suddenly  breaking  m,  re¬ 
 veals  God  in  his  “  Kingly  state,”  served  equally  by  those  who 
 do,  and  those  who  suffer  his  will.] 
 
 When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
 
 Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide ; 
 And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 
 
 Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
 
 n  3 
 
298 
 
 MARVELL. 
 
 To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
 My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide; — 
 
 “  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?” 
 
 I  fondly  ask :  but  Patience,  to  prevent 
 That  murmur,  soon  replies,  “  God  doth  not  need 
 Either  man’s  work,  or  his  own  gifts;  who  best 
 Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best:  liis  state 
 Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
 
 And  post  o’er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
 
 They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.” 
 
 ANDREW  MARVELL. 
 
 Born  1620.  Died  1678. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Political  Tracts,  and  some  pieces  of  fugitive 
 poetry.  Marvell’s  name,  as  a  poet,  will  go  down  to  posterity  with 
 Milton’s,  in  the  spirited  lines  that  precede  “  Paradise  Lost."  As 
 a  statesman,  his  name  will  go  down  singly  to  posterity,  for  the 
 character  of  incorruptible  integrity  attached  to  it,  though,  like  his 
 great  contemporary  friend,  “fallen  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues." 
 
 The  Emigrants. 
 
 [These  stanzas  are  supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  party  of  those  volun¬ 
 tary  exiles  for  conscience’  sake,  who,  in  a  profligate  age,  left  their 
 country  to  enjoy  religious  freedom  in  regions  beyond  the  Atlan¬ 
 tic.  The  scene  is  laid  near  the  Bermudas,  or  Summer  Islands, 
 as  they  were  then  called.] 
 
 Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
 In  ocean’s  bosom  unespy’d, 
 
 From  a  small  boat  that  row’d  along, 
 
 The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 
 
 “  What  should  we  do  but  sing  his  praise, 
 
 That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
 
 Unto  an  Isle  so  long  unknown, 
 
 And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own. 
 
MARVELL. 
 
 299 
 
 «  Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  racks, 
 That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs ; 
 
 He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
 
 Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelates’  rage. 
 
 “  He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring, 
 
 Which  here  enamels  every  thing  j 
 And  sends  the  fowls  to  us,  in  care. 
 
 On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
 
 “  He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
 Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
 
 And  does  in  the  pomegranate  close 
 Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 
 
 “  He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
 And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
 
 With  cedars,  chosen  by  his  hand, 
 
 From  Lebanon,  He  stores  the  land. 
 
 «  He  cast — of  which  we  rather  boast — 
 The  Gospel’s  pearl  upon  our  coast, 
 
 And,  in  these  rocks,  for  us  did  frame 
 A  temple,  where  to  sound  his  name. 
 
 “  Oh  !  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt, 
 
 Till  it  arrive  at  heaven’s  vault, 
 
 Which,  thence  perhaps  rebounding,  may 
 Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  Bay.” 
 
 Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat, 
 
 An  holy  and  a  cheerful  note ; 
 
 And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
 With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 
 
 Eyes  and  Tears. 
 
 How  wisely  Nature  did  decree 
 With  the  same  eyes  to  weep  and  see . 
 That,  having  view’d  the  object  vain, 
 They  might  be  ready  to  complain. 
 
300 
 
 MARVELL. 
 
 And  since  the  seif-deluding  sight, 
 
 In  a  false  angle,  takes  each  height, 
 
 1  hese  tears,  which  better  measure  all. 
 Like  watry  lines  and  plummets  fall. 
 r  What  in  the  world  most  fair  appears, 
 Yea  even  our  laughter,  turns  to  tears, 
 
 And  all  the  jewels  which  we  prize 
 Melt  in  the  pendants  of  the  eyes. 
 
 I  have  through  many  gardens  been, 
 Among  the  red,  the  white,  the  green, 
 
 And  yet  from  all  those  flowers  r  saw 
 No  honey  but  my  tears  might  draw. 
 
 Yet  happy  they,  whom  grief  doth  bless, 
 'lhat  weep  the  more,  and  see  the  less ; 
 And,  to  preserve  their  sight  more  true, 
 Lathe  still  their  eyes  in  their  own  dew  : 
 tto  Magdalen,  in  tears  more  wise, 
 
 Dissolved  those  captivating  eyes, 
 
 })  hose  liquid  chains  could  flowing  meet 
 To  fetter  her  Redeemer’s  feet. 
 r  the  moon-beaming  shews  more  fair 
 Than  two  eyes  swoln  with  weeping  are : 
 The  sparkling  glance  that  shoots  desire, 
 Drench’d  in  these  waves,  doth  lose  its  fire; 
 Yea  of  the  Thunderer  pity  takes, 
 
 And  here  the  hissing  lightning  slakes. 
 
 The  incense  was  to  heaven  dear, 
 
 Not  as  a  perfume,  but  a  tear;  ( a ) 
 
 And  stars  shew  lovely  in  the  night 
 But  as  they  seem  the  tears  of  light. 
 
 Ope,  then,  mine  eyes,  your  double  sluice, 
 And  practise  so  your  noblest  use; 
 
 For  others  too  can  see  and  sleep,’ 
 
 But  only  human  eyes  can  weep. 
 
 plots' from wMcb" 'itajdtaa"®"”*  ca“  “ th0 *<*"'•  <■*' 
 
yaughan. 
 
 301 
 
 HENRY  VAUGHAN. 
 
 Born  1614.  Died  1695. 
 
 Principal  Works  : —Olor  Iscanus,  Silex  Scintillans,  &c.  Amidst 
 much  harshness  and  obscurity,  there  are  gleams  of  rare  excellence 
 in  his  poems. 
 
 The  Rainbow , 
 
 Still  young  and  fine !  but  what  is  still  in  view 
 We  slight  as  old  and  soil’d,  though  fresh  and  new; 
 How  bright  wert  thou,  when  Shem’s  admiring  eye 
 Thy  burning,  flaming  arch  did  first  descry; 
 
 When  Zerah,  Nahor,  Haram,  Abram,  Lot, 
 
 The  youthful  world’s  gray  fathers,  in  one  knot. 
 
 Did,  with  intentive  looks,  watch  every  hour 
 For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower. 
 
 When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and  lair 
 Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air; 
 
 Rain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and  pours 
 Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  milk  on  grass  and  flowers. 
 
 Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine  !  the  sure  tie 
 Of  thy  Lord’s  hand,  the  object  of  his  eye! 
 
 When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 
 Distant  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  Him, 
 
 Who  looks  upon  thee  from  his  glorious  throne, 
 
 And  minds  the  covenant  betwixt  all  and  one. 
 
 Heaven  in  Prospect. 
 
 They  all  are  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 
 
 And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ; 
 
 Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
 
 And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 
 
 It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
 
 Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove ; 
 
 Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  drest 
 After  the  sun’s  remove. 
 
302 
 
 VAUGHAN. 
 
 I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
 
 Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days ; 
 
 My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
 
 Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 
 
 O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 
 
 High  as  the  heavens  above! 
 
 These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shew’d  them  me 
 To  kindle  my  cold  love. 
 
 Dear,  beauteous  Death,  the  jewel  of  the  just, 
 
 Shining  no  where  but  in  the  dark, 
 
 What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust; 
 
 Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 
 
 Tie  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird’s  nest,  may  know 
 At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown, 
 
 But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
 
 That  is  to  him  unknown. 
 
 And  yet  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 
 
 Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
 
 So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
 And  into  glory  peep. 
 
 If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 
 
 Her  captive  flame  must  needs  burn  there; 
 
 But  when  the  hand  that  lock’d  her  up  gave  room 
 She’d  shine  thro’  all  the  sphere. 
 
 O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 
 Created  glories  under  Thee  ! 
 
 Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
 Into  true  liberty. 
 
 Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 
 My  perspective,  still,  as  they  pass, 
 
 Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill, 
 
 Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 
 
PHILIPS. 
 
 303 
 
 MRS.  KATHERINE  PHILIPS. 
 Born  1633.  Died  1664. 
 
 The  poems  of  this  Lady,  under  the  name  of  Orinda,  gained  her 
 great  reputation.  She  was  celebrated  in  verse  by  the  Earls  of  Or¬ 
 rery  and  Rosscommon,  Cowley,  Flatman,  and  others. 
 
 Against  Pleasure . 
 
 There’s  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  here, 
 ’Tis  all  a  perfect  cheat, 
 
 Which  does  but  shine  and  disappear, 
 Whose  charm  is  but  deceit : 
 
 The  empty  bribe  of  yielding  souls, 
 
 Which  first  betrays,  and  then  controuls. 
 
 ’Tis  true,  it  looks  at  distance  fair; 
 
 But  if  we  do  approach, 
 
 The  fruit  of  Sodom  will  impair, 
 
 And  perish  at  a  touch : 
 
 In  being  than  in  fancy  less, 
 
 And  we  expect  more  than  possess. 
 
 For  by  our  Pleasures  we  are  cloy’d, 
 
 And  so  desire  is  done ; 
 
 Or  else,  like  rivers,  they  make  wide 
 The  channel  where  they  run  : 
 
 And  either  way  true  bliss  destroys, 
 
 Making  us  narrow,  or  our  joys. 
 
 We  covet  Pleasure  easily, 
 
 But  it  not  so  possess; 
 
 For  many  things  must  make  it  be, 
 
 But  one  may  make  it  less : 
 
 Nay,  were  our  state  as  we  could  chus^it, 
 
 ’T would  be  consumed  by  fear  to  lose  it. 
 
 What  art  thou  then,  thou  winged  air, 
 More  weak  and  swift  than  fame  ? 
 
304 
 
 PHILIPS, 
 
 Whose  next  successor  is  despair, 
 
 And  its  attendant  shame. 
 
 The’  experience-prince  then  reason  had, 
 
 "Who  said  of  Pleasure,  “  It  is  mad.” 
 
 A  Prayer. 
 
 -■  - -  O  God,  enlarge  my  heart 
 
 To  entertain  what  Thou  wouldst  fain  impart. 
 
 Nor  let  that  soul,  by  several  titles  thine, 
 
 And  most  capacious  form’d  for  things  divine, 
 
 (So  nobly  meant,  that  when  it  most  doth  miss, 
 
 :,Tis  in  mistaken  pantings  after  bliss,) 
 
 Degrade  it  self,  in  sordid  things  delight, 
 
 Or  by  prophaner  mixtures  lose  its  right. 
 
 Oh  !  that,  with  fixt  unbroken  thoughts,  it  may 
 Admire  the  light  which  does  obscure  the  day. 
 
 And  since  ’tis  angels’  work  it  hath  to  do, 
 
 May  its  composure  be  like  angels’  too. 
 
 When  shall  these  clogs  of  sense  and  fancy  break. 
 That  I  may  hear  the  God  within  me  speak  ? 
 
 When,  with  a  silent  and  retired  art, 
 
 Shall  I  with  all  this  empty  hurry  part? 
 
 To  the  still  voice  above,  my  soul  advance; 
 
 My  light  and  joy  placed  in  his  countenance? 
 
 By  whose  dispence  my  soul  to  such  frame  brought, 
 May  tame  each  trecherous,  fix  each  scattering  thought 
 With  such  distinctions  all  things  here  behold, 
 
 And  so  to  separate  each  dross  from  gold, 
 
 That  nought  may  satisfy  my  soul,  set  free 
 From  earth,  but  to  enjoy  and  study  Thee. 
 
 The  Soul. 
 
 How  vain  a  thing  is  man,  whose  noblest  part, 
 
 That  syul  which  through  the  world  doth  rome, 
 Traverses  heaven,  finds  out  the  depth  of  art, 
 
 Yet  is  so  ignorant  at  home  ? 
 
 In  every  brook  or  mirrour  we  can  find 
 Ileflections  of  our  face  to  be ; 
 
PHILIPS. 
 
 305 
 
 But  a  true  optick  to  present  our  mind 
 We  hardly  get,  and  darkly  see. 
 
 But  somewhat  sure  doth  here  obscurely  lie, 
 
 That  above  dross  would  fain  advance, 
 
 And  pants  and  catches  at  eternity, 
 
 As  ’twere  its  own  inheritance. 
 
 A  soul  self-moved  which  can  dilate,  contract, 
 Pierces  and  judges  things  unseen  : 
 
 But  this  gross  heap  of  matter  cannot  act, 
 
 Unless  impulsed  from  within. 
 
 The  soul  her  own  felicity  hath  laid, 
 
 And  independent  on  the  sense, 
 
 Sees  the  weak  terrours  which  the  world  invade 
 With  pity  or  with  negligence. 
 
 So  unconcern’d  she  lives,  so  much  above 
 The  rubbish  of  a  sordid  jail, 
 
 That  nothing  doth  her  energy  improve 
 So  much  as  when  those  structures  fail. 
 
 Religion  for  reward  in  vain  would  look, 
 
 Vertue  were  doom’d  to  misery, 
 
 All  actions  were  like  bubbles  in  a  brook, 
 
 Were  there  no  immortality. 
 
 But  as  that  conquerour,  who  millions  spent. 
 Thought  it  too  mean  to  give  a  mite ; 
 
 So  the  world’s  Judge  can  never  be  content 
 To  bestow  less  than  infinite. 
 
 Treason  against  Eternal  Majesty 
 Must  have  eternal  justice  too  ; 
 
 And  since  unbounded  love  did  satisfie, 
 
 He  will  unbounded  mercy  shew. 
 
 We  stifle  our  own  sun,  and  live  in  shade; 
 
 But  where  its  beams  do  once  appear, 
 
 They  make  that  person  of  himself  afraid, 
 
 And  to  his  own  acts  most  severe. 
 
 For  ways,  to  sin  close,  and  our  breasts  disguise 
 From  outward  search,  we  soon  may  find ; 
 
306 
 
 PHILIPS. 
 
 But  who  can  his  own  soul  bribe  or  surprise, 
 
 Or  sin  without  a  sting  behind? 
 
 He  that  commands  himself  is  more  a  prince 
 Than  he  who  nations  keeps  in  awe; 
 
 Who  yield  to  all  that  does  their  souls  convince, 
 Shall  never  need  another  law. 
 
 Orinda  upon  little  Hector  Philips. 
 
 Twice  forty  months  of  wedlock  I  did  stay, 
 
 Then  had  my  vows  crown’d  with  a  lovely  boy ; 
 
 And  yet  in  forty  days  he  dropt  away, 
 
 O  swift  vicissitude  of  humane  joy  ! 
 
 I  did  but  see  him,  and  he  dis-appear’d, 
 
 I  did  but  pluck  the  rose-bud,  and  it  fell, 
 
 A  sorrow  unforeseen  and  scarcely  fear’d, 
 
 For  ill  can  mortals  their  afflictions  spell. 
 
 And  now,  sweet  babe,  what  can  my  trembling  heart 
 Suggest  to  right  my  doleful  fate  or  thee  ? 
 
 Tears  are  my  muse,  and  sorrow  all  my  art, 
 
 So  piercing  groans  must  be  thy  elegy. 
 
 Thus  while  no  eye  is  witness  of  my  mone, 
 
 I  grieve  thy  loss  (ah,  boy  too  dear  to  live !) 
 
 And  let  the  unconcerned  world  alone, 
 
 Who  neither  will,  nor  can  refreshment  give. 
 
 An  offering  too  for  thy  sad  tomb  I  have, 
 
 Too  just  a  tribute  to  thy  early  herse, 
 
 Receive  these  gasping  numbers  to  thy  grave, 
 
 The  last  of  thy  unhappy  mother’s  verse. 
 
 Little  Hector  Philips  in  answer  to  Orinda. 
 [By  another  Hand.] 
 
 Weep  not,  my  mother,  weep  not,  I  am  blest; 
 But  must  leave  Heaven,  if  I  return  to  thee  ; 
 
 For  I  am  where  the  weary  are  at  rest, 
 
 The  wicked  cease  from  troubling. — Come  to  me. 
 
FLECKNOE — TAYLOR 
 
 307 
 
 RICHARD  FLECKNOE. 
 
 [From  his  Epigrams,  1669.] 
 
 O  God  !  and  wouldst  Thou  die  for  me. 
 And  shall  I  nothing  do  for  Thee  ? 
 
 But  still  continue  to  offend 
 So  good  a  Lord,  so  dear  a  Friend. 
 
 — Had  any  prince  done  this  for  thee, 
 
 My  soul,  what  wondering  would  there  be  ! 
 But  since  ’tis  God  that  does  it,  thou 
 Dost  never  wonder  at  it  now. 
 
 Strange,  that  one  should  more  esteem 
 A  grace  or  gift  that’s  given  to  him 
 By  earthly  kings,  than  what  is  given 
 Unto  him  by  the  King  of  heaven  ! 
 
 JEREMY  TAYLOR. 
 
 Died  1667. 
 
 Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor ;  the  most  eloquent  of  English 
 Preachers,  and  Author  of  various  well  known  works  in  Divinity. 
 The  following  specimens  of  his  verse  are  extracted  from  “  Festival 
 Hymns,”  at  the  close  of  his  “  Golden  Grove,”  a  manual  for  pri¬ 
 vate  devotion.  It  will  surprise  many  of  his  admirers  to  meet  him 
 in  the  avowed  character  of  a  Poet,  though  his  prose  may  be  said  to 
 be  covered  with  laurels, — abounding  with  the  embellishments  and 
 graces  of  the  most  imaginative  poetry.  His  verse,  as  might  be  ex¬ 
 pected,  is  crude,  but  rich  in  noble  thoughts. 
 
 On  Christ's  coming  to  Jerusalem. 
 
 Lord,  come  away : 
 
 Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 
 
 Thy  road  is  ready :  and  thy  paths,  made  straight, 
 With  longing  expectation  wait 
 The  consecration  of  thy  beauteous  feet. 
 
308 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Hide  on  triumphantly ;  behold  we  lay 
 Our  lusts  and  proud  wills  in  the  way. 
 
 Hosannah!  Welcome  to  our  hearts.  Lord  here 
 Thou  hast  a  temple  too,  and  full  as  dear 
 As  that  of  Sion,  and  as  full  of  sin : 
 
 Nothing  but  thieves  and  robbers  dwell  therein. 
 Enter,  and  chase  them  forth,  and  cleanse  the  floor: 
 Crucify  them,  that  they  may  never  more 
 Profane  thy  holy  place, 
 
 Where  thou  hast  chose  to  set  thy  face, 
 
 And  then  if  our  stiff  tongues  shall  be 
 Mute  in  the  praises  of  thy  Deity, 
 
 The  stones  out  of  thy  temple- wall 
 Shall  cry  aloud,  and  call, 
 
 “  Hosannah !”  And  thy  glorious  foot-steps  greet. 
 
 A  Meditation  on  Death. 
 
 Death,  the  old  serpent’s  son, 
 
 Thou  hadst  a  sting  once,  like  thy  sire, 
 
 That  carry’d  hell  and  ever-burning  fire  : 
 
 But  those  black  days  are  done; 
 
 Thy  foolish  spite  bury’d  thy  sting 
 In  the  profound  and  wide 
 Wound  of  our  Saviour’s  side. 
 
 And  now  thou  art  become  a  tame  and  harmless  thing ; 
 A  thing  we  dare  not  fear. 
 
 Since  we  hear 
 
 That  our  triumphant  God,  to  punish  thee 
 For  the  affront  thou  didst  him  on  the  tree, 
 
 Hath  snatch’d  the  keys  of  hell  out  of  thy  hand, 
 
 And  made  thee  stand 
 
 A  porter  at  the  gate  of  life,  thy  mortal  enemy. 
 
 O  Thou,  who  art  that  gate,  command  that  he 
 May,  when  we  die. 
 
 And  thither  flie, 
 
 Let  us  into  the  courts  of  heaven  thro’  Thee. 
 
 Hallelujah. 
 
TAYLOR. 
 
 309 
 
 On  Heaven . 
 
 O  beauteous  God !  tincircumscribed  treasure 
 Of  an  eternal  pleasure ! 
 
 Tliy  throne  is  seated  far 
 Above  the  highest  star; 
 
 Where  Thou  prepar’st  a  glorious  place 
 Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face, 
 
 For  every  spirit 
 To  inherit, 
 
 That  builds  his  hopes  upon  thy  merit; 
 
 And  loves  Thee  with  an  holy  charity, 
 
 What  ravish’d  heart,  seraphick  tongues,  or  eyes 
 Clear  as  the  morning’s  rise, 
 
 Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 
 That  bright  eternity, 
 
 Where  the  great  King’s  transparent  throne 
 Is  of  an  entire  jasper-stone. 
 
 When  Thou  dost  bind  thy  jewels  up,  that  day 
 Remember  us,  we  pray  ; 
 
 That  where  the  beryl  lies, 
 
 And  the  crystal  ’bove  the  skies, 
 
 There  Thou  may’st  appoint  us  place, 
 
 Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face  ; 
 
 And  our  soul 
 In  the  scroul 
 
 Of  life  and  blisfulness  enroul, 
 
 That  we  may  praise  Thee  to  eternity. 
 
 Immanuel. 
 
 How  good  a  God  have  we !  Who  for  our  sake, 
 To  save  us  from  the  burning  lake, 
 
 Did  change  the  order  of  creation ; 
 
 At  first  He  made 
 
 Man  like  himself,  in  his  own  image;  now, 
 
 In  the  more  blessed  reparation, 
 
 The  heavens  bow. 
 
310 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Eternity  took  the  measure  of  a  span  ; 
 
 And  said, 
 
 “  Let  us  make  our  self  like  man  ; 
 
 And  not  from  man  the  woman  take. 
 But  from  the  woman,  man.” 
 Hallelujah :  we  adore 
 His  name,  whose  goodness  hath  no  store. 
 
 The  Day  of  Pentecost . 
 
 Tongues  of  fire  from  heaven  descend, 
 
 With  a  mighty  rushing  wind, 
 
 To  blow  it  up,  and  make 
 A  living  fire 
 
 Of  heavenly  charity,  and  pure  desire, 
 
 Where  they  their  residence  should  take. 
 
 On  the  Apostles’  sacred  heads  they  sit; 
 
 Who  now,  like  beacons,  do  proclaim  and  tell, 
 The’  invasion  of  the  host  of  hell; 
 
 And  give  men  warning  to  defend 
 Themselves  from  the  enraging  brunt  of  it. 
 Lord,  let  the  flames  of  holy  charity, 
 
 And  all  her  gifts  and  graces  slide 
 Into  our  hearts,  and  there  abide ; 
 
 That,  thus  refined,  we  may  soar  above 
 With  it,  unto  the  element  of  love; 
 
 Even  unto  Thee,  dear  Spirit ; 
 
 And  there  eternal  peace  and  rest  inherit. 
 
 A  Prayer  for  Charity. 
 
 Full  of  mercy,  full  of  love, 
 
 Look  upon  us  from  above ; 
 
 Thou  who  taught’st  the  blind  man’s  night 
 To  entertain  a  double  light ; 
 
 Thine  and  the  day’s,  (and  that  thine  too:) 
 The  lame  away  his  crutches  threw ; 
 
NORRIS. 
 
 311 
 
 The  parched  crust  of  leprosy 
 Return’d  unto  its  infancy; 
 
 The  dumb  amazed  was  to  hear 
 His  own  unchain’d  tongue  strike  his  ear ; 
 Thy  powerful  mercy  did  even  chase 
 The  devil  from  his  usurped  place, 
 
 Where  Thou  Thyself  shouldst  dwell,  not  he. 
 O  let  thy  love  our  pattern  be  ! 
 
 Let  thy  mercy  teach  one  brother 
 To  forgive  and  love  another; 
 
 That  copying  thy  mercy  here, 
 
 Thy  goodness  may  hereafter  rear 
 Our  souls  unto  thy  glory,  when 
 Our  dust  shall  cease  to  be  with  men. 
 
 JOHN  NORRIS. 
 
 Born  1657.  Died  1711. 
 
 Author  of  Poems,  Essays,  Letters  and  Discourses,  &c. 
 
 Transient  Delights. 
 
 [In  this  stanza,  perhaps,  we  find  the  origin  of  an  admired  thought, 
 which  occurs  in  Blair's  Grave,  thus  expressed, 
 
 “  Visits, 
 
 Like  those  of  angels,  short  and  far  between  j” 
 and  in  Campbell's  Pleasures  of  Hope, 
 
 “  Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between.”] 
 
 How  fading  are  the  joyes  we  dote  upon, 
 
 Like  apparitions  seen  and  gone: 
 
 But  those  which  soonest  take  their  flight, 
 
 Are  the  most  exquisite  and  strong; 
 
 Like  angels’  visits,  short  and  bright ; 
 
 Mortality’s  too  weak  to  bear  them  long. 
 
312 
 
 NORRIS. 
 
 Angel-  Visits. 
 
 [The  thought  appears  again  in  the  Author’s  Elegy  on  his  Niece.] 
 
 No  wonder  such  a  noble  mind 
 Her  way  again  to  heaven  so  soon  could  find. 
 
 Angels,  as  ’tis  but  seldom  they  appear, 
 
 So  neither  do  they  make  long  stay, 
 
 They  do  but  visit,  and  away, 
 
 ’Tis  pain  for  them  to’  endure  our  too  gross  sphere. 
 
 We  could  not  hope  for  a  reprieve, 
 
 She  must  dye  soon,  that  made  such  haste  to  live. 
 
 The  Injidel. 
 
 Farewel  fruition,  thou  grand  cruel  cheat, 
 
 Which  first  our  hopes  dost  raise  and  then  defeat. 
 
 ******** 
 
 ******* 
 
 Distance  presents  the  object  fair, 
 
 With  charming  features  and  a  graceful  air, 
 
 But  when  we  come  to  seize  the’  inviting  prey, 
 Like  a  shy  ghost,  it  vanishes  away. 
 
 As  to  the’  unthinking  boy  the  distant  sky 
 Seems  on  some  mountain’s  surface  to  rely ; 
 
 He  with  ambitious  haste  climbs  the  ascent, 
 Curious  to  touch  the  firmament: 
 
 But  when  with  an  unweary’d  pace 
 Arrived  he  is  at  the  long-wish’d-for  place, 
 
 With  sighs  the  sad  defeat  he  does  deplore, 
 
 His  heaven  is  still  as  distant  as  before. 
 
 And  yet  ’twas  long  ere  I  could  throughly  see 
 This  grand  impostor’s  frequent  treachery. 
 
 Tho’  often  fool’d,  yet  I  should  still  dream  on 
 Of  pleasure  in  reversion : 
 
NORRIS. 
 
 313 
 
 Tho’  still  lie  (lid  ray  hopes  deceive, 
 
 His  fair  pretensions  I  would  still  believe: 
 
 Such  was  my  charity,  that  tho’  I  knew 
 
 And  found  him  false,  yet  I  would  think  him  true. 
 
 But  now  he  shall  no  more  with  shews  deceive, 
 
 I  will  no  more  enjoy,  no  more  believe, 
 
 The’  unwary  juggler  has  so  often  shewn 
 His  fallacies,  that  now  they’re  known. 
 
 Shall  I  trust  on?  the  cheat  is  plain, 
 
 I  will  not  be  imposed  upon  again : 
 
 I’ll  view  the  bright  appearance  from  afar, 
 
 But  never  try  to  catch  the  falling  star. 
 
 The  Meditation. 
 
 It  must  be  done,  my  soul,  but  ’tis  a  strange, 
 
 A  dismal  and  mysterious  change, 
 
 When  thou  shalt  leave  this  tenement  of  clay, 
 
 And  to  an  unknown  somewhere  wing  away; 
 
 When  time  shall  be  eternity,  and  thou 
 Shalt  be  thou  know’st  not  what,  and  live  thou  know’st 
 not  how. 
 
 Amazing  state  !  No  wonder  that  we  dread 
 To  think  of  death,  or  view  the  dead : 
 
 Tliou’rt  all  wrapt  up  in  clouds,  as  if  to  thee 
 Our  very  knowledge  had  antipathy; 
 
 Death  could  not  a  more  sad  retinue  find, 
 
 Sickness  and  pain  before,  and  darkness  all  behind. 
 
 Some  courteous  ghost,  tell  this  great  secrecy, 
 
 What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  be :  (a) 
 
 You  warn  us  of  approaching  death,  and  why 
 May  we  not  know  from  you  what  ’tis  to  dye  ? 
 
 (a)  This  couplet  is  thus  imitated  and  expanded  by  Blair : 
 
 “  Tell  us,  ye  dead ;  will  none  of  you,  in  pity 
 To  those  you  left  behind,  disclose  the  secret  ? 
 
 O  that  some  courteous  ghost  would  blab  it  out 
 
 What  ’tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be.”  The  Grave. 
 
 o  32 
 
314 
 
 NORRIS. 
 
 But  you,  having  shot  the  gulph,  delight  to  see 
 Succeeding  souls  plunge  in  with  like  uncertainty. 
 
 When  life’s  close  knot  by  writ  from  destiny, 
 
 Disease  shall  cut,  or  age  unty; 
 
 When  after  some  delays,  some  dying  strife, 
 
 The  soul  stands  shivering  on  the  ridge  of  life  • 
 
 With  what  a  dreadful  curiosity 
 
 Does  she  launch  out  into  the  sea  of  vast  eternity! 
 
 So  when  the  spacious  globe  was  deluged  o’er, 
 
 And  lower  holds  could  save  no  more, 
 
 On  the  utmost  bough  the’  astonish’d  sinners  stood, 
 And  view’d  the’  advances  of  the’  encroaching  flood. 
 O’ertopp’d  at  length  by  the’  element’s  encrease, 
 With  horrour  they  resign’d  to  the  untry’d  abyss. 
 
 Posthumous  Fame. 
 
 As  for  proud  glory  which  comes  after  fate, _ 
 
 All  that  can  then  of  me  he  said, 
 
 I  value  least  of  all,  it  comes  too  late, 
 
 ’Tis  like  the’  embalming  of  the  senseless  dead: 
 Others  with  pleasure,  what  me  labour  cost 
 May  read,  and  praise;  hut  to  me  all  is  lost; 
 
 Just  as  the  sun  no  joy  does  find 
 In  that  his  light,  which  chears  mankind. 
 
 Or  should  T  after  fate  has  closed  my  eyes, 
 
 Should  I  my  living  glories  know/ 
 
 My  wiser,  improved  soul  will  then  despise 
 All  that  poor  mortals  say  or  think  below : 
 
 Even  they  who  of  men’s  ignorance  before 
 Complain’d,  because  few  did  their  works  adore, 
 Will  then  the  self  same  censure  raise, 
 
 Not  from  their  silence,  hut  their  praise. 
 
 Death  and  destruction  shall  ere  long  deface 
 The  world,  the  work  of  hands  divine, 
 
 What  pillars  then,  or  monuments  of  brass 
 Shall  from  the  general  ruin  rescue  mine  ? 
 
HICKES. 
 
 315 
 
 All  then  shall  equal  be ;  I  care  not  then 
 To  be  a  while  the  talk  and  boast  of  men ; 
 This  only  grant,  that  I  may  be 
 Praised  by  thy  angels,  Lord,  and  Thee. 
 
 Resignation. 
 
 Since  ’tis  thy  sentence  I  should  part 
 With  the  most  precious  treasure  of  my  heart, 
 
 I  freely  that  and  more  resign, 
 
 My  heart  itself,  as  its  delight,  is  thine. 
 
 My  little  all  I  give  to  Thee, 
 
 Thou  gav’st  a  greater  gift,  thy  Son,  to  me. 
 
 Take  all,  great  God,  I  will  not  grieve, 
 
 But  still  will  wish,  that  I  had  still  to  give : 
 
 I  hear  thy  voice,  Thou  bid’st  me  quit 
 My  paradise,  I  bless  and  do  submit; 
 
 I  will  not  murmur  at  thy  word, 
 
 Nor  beg  thy  angel  to  sheath  up  his  sword. 
 
 GEORGE  HICKES. 
 
 Born  1642.  Died  1715. 
 
 TFrom  “  Reformed  Devotions ,  or  Hymns  and  Meditations  of 
 St  jusustine,  several  editions  of  which  were  published  in  the 
 seventeenth  century,  particularly  two  by  the  Rev.  George  Hickes, 
 Dean  of  Worcester,  who  may  have  been  the  original  paraphrast, 
 but  this  cannot  be  affirmed  here.  The  extracts  ensuing  are  copied 
 from  an  edition,  published  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  1792,  by  the 
 Rev.  H.  Cotes,  in  which,  it  is  presumed,  some  modern  variations 
 may  have  been  introduced.] 
 
 Sorrowing  yet  Rejoicing. 
 
 They  that  are  merry,  let  them  sing, 
 
 And  let  the  sad  hearts  pray; 
 
 Let  those  still  ply  their  cheerful  wing, 
 
 And  these  their  sober  day. 
 
 o  2 
 
316 
 
 HICKES. 
 
 So  mounts  the  early  warbling  lark 
 Still  upward  to  the  skies  ; 
 
 So  sits  the  turtle  in  the  dark, 
 
 Amidst  her  plaintive  cries. 
 
 And  yet  the  lark,  and  yet  the  dove, 
 Both  sing,  though  different  parts; 
 
 And  so  should  we,  howe’er  we  move 
 With  light  or  heavy  hearts. 
 
 Or,  rather,  we  should  each  essay, 
 
 And  our  cross  notes  unite; 
 
 Both  grief  and  joy  should  sing  and  pray, 
 Since  both  such  hopes  invite; — 
 
 Hopes  that  all  present  sorrow  heal, 
 
 All  present  joy  transcend; 
 
 Hopes  to  possess,  and  taste,  and  fee 
 Delights  that  never  end. 
 
 Answer  to  Christ's  Call. 
 
 “  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour,  and  are  heavy  laden,  and 
 I  will  give  you  rest.” 
 
 I  come,  renewed  from  above, 
 
 With  loyal  faith,  and  humble  love; 
 
 I  come,  O  Lord !  1  bow  to  Thee, 
 
 Whose  heavenly  love  bow’d  lower  to  me. 
 
 Faith  is  mine  eye,  faith  strength  affords 
 To  keep  pace  with  those  gracious  words; 
 
 And  words  more  kind,  more  sure  than  they, 
 
 Love  could  not  think,  Truth  could  not  say. 
 
 O  dear  memorial  of  that  death, 
 
 Which  still  survives,  and  gives  us  breath ! 
 
 Man’s  bread  of  life!  O  may’st  thou  be 
 My  food,  my  joy,  my  all  to  me! 
 
HICKES. 
 
 317 
 
 I  come,  good  Lord,  my  hopes  increase ; 
 Give  me  my  portion  in  thy  peace  ; 
 
 Come,  hidden  life,  and  that  long  day, 
 
 For  which  I  languish; — come  away:— 
 
 When  this  dry  soul  thine  eyes  shall  see, 
 And  drink  the  unseal’d  source  of  Thee ; 
 When  glory’s  sun  faith’s  shade  shall  chace, 
 And  for  thy  veil,  give  me  thy  face. 
 
 The  Plant  of  Renown. 
 
 I  will  adore  the  King  of  love, 
 
 And  King  of  sufferings  too  ; 
 
 For  love  it  was  that  brought  Him  down, 
 And  set  Him  here  in  woe. 
 
 Love  drew  Him  from  his  paradise, 
 Where  flowers  that  fade  not  grow; 
 
 And  planted  Him  in  our  poor  dust, 
 Among  us  weeds  below. 
 
 Here  for  a  time  this  heavenly  Plant 
 Fairly  grew  up  and  thrived, 
 
 Diffused  its  fragrance  all  around, 
 
 And  all  in  sweetness  lived. 
 
 But  envious  frosts,  and  furious  storms, 
 So  long,  so  fiercely  chide, 
 
 This  tender  Flower  at  last  bow’d  down 
 Its  bruised  head,  and  died. 
 
 O  narrow  thoughts,  and  narrow  speech! 
 Your  poverty  confess; 
 
 A  Saviour’s  love,  a  Saviour’s  death, 
 How  faintly  you  express ! 
 
 May  He,  who,  from  a  virgin-root 
 Made  this  fair  Flower  to  spring, 
 
 Help  me  to  raise  both  heart  and  voice 
 Redeeming  love  to  sing. 
 
HICKES. 
 
 318 
 
 “  All  thy  Works  bless  Thee 
 
 Hark  !  my  soul,  how  every  thing 
 Strives  to  serve  our  bounteous  King; 
 Each  a  double  tribute  pays, 
 
 Sings  its  part,  and  then  obeys. 
 
 Nature’s  sweet  and  chiefest  choir, 
 
 Him  with  chearful  notes  admire, 
 Chaunting  every  day  their  lauds, 
 
 While  the  grove  their  song  applauds. 
 
 Though  their  voices  lower  be. 
 
 Streams  have  too  their  melody; 
 
 Night  and  day  they  warbling  run. 
 
 Never  pause,  but  still  sing  on. 
 
 All  the  flowers,  that  gild  the  spring. 
 Hither  their  still  music  bring; 
 
 If  heaven  bless  them,  thankful  they 
 Smell  more  sweet,  and  look  more  gay* 
 
 Only  man  can  scarce  afford 
 This  small  tribute  to  his  Lord; 
 
 Man,  to  whom  his  bounty  flows. 
 
 All  things  gives  and  nothing  owes. 
 
 Wake,  for  shame,  my  sluggish  heart; 
 Wake,  and  gladly  sing  thy  part; 
 
 Learn  of  birds,  and  streams,  and  flowers. 
 How  to  use  thy  nobler  powers. 
 
 Call  whole  Nature  to  thine  aid, 
 
 Since  ’twas  He  whole  Nature  made; 
 
 Join  in  one  eternal  song, 
 
 All,  who  to  one  God  belong. 
 
FLETCHER. 
 
 319 
 
 R.  FLETCHER. 
 
 1656. 
 
 God  in  Christ  reconciled. 
 
 ’Tis  said,  that  God  is  a  consuming  fire,  _ 
 
 But  Oh !  ’tis  sure,  He  now  lays  by  his  ire : 
 
 He  thunders  out, 
 
 With  trumpet’s  shout, 
 
 No  judgment  from  Mount  Sinai;  but  a  still 
 Soft  voice  of  love  and  free  good  will : 
 
 He  that  appear’d  then  in  a  warlike  dress, 
 
 Seeks  now  the  stray-sheep  in  the  wilderness. 
 
 Receive  me,  Lord,  but  with  that  kind  regret 
 The  good  old  man  his  prodigal  child  met, 
 
 Who,  as  appears, 
 
 ’Twixt  joy  and  tears, 
 
 Ran,  and  embraced,  and  kiss’d  his  drooping  son, 
 In  all  points  now  undone, 
 
 But  the  rich  treasure  of  a  father’s  love, 
 
 Which  ne’er  could  be  exhausted,  nor  remove. 
 
320 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 RICHARD  BAXTER. 
 
 Born  1615.  Died  1691. 
 
 Ibis  eminent  minister  of  the  gospel,  though  author  of  some  of 
 the  most  popular  treatises  on  sacred  subjects*  is  scarcely  known  by 
 one  in  a  hundred  of  his  admirers  as  a  writer  in  verse:  yet  there  is 
 a  little  volume  of  “  Poetical  Fragments ”  by  him,  inestimable  for 
 its  piety,  and  far  above  mediocrity  in  many  passages  of  its  poetry. 
 The  longest  piece,  entitled  “  Love  breathing  thanks  and  praise," 
 contains  his  spiritual. auto-biography,  from  the  earliest  impressions 
 made  upon  his  conscience  by  divine  truth,  to  the  breaking  out  of 
 the  civil  war  between  Charles  I.  and  the  Parliament.  In  this,  and 
 indeed  in  all  the  other  minor  pieces,  he  speaks  the  language  of  a 
 minute  self-observer,  and  tells  the  experience  of  his  own  heart  in 
 strains,  which  never  lack  fervency,  nor  indeed  eloquence,  however 
 unapt  in  the  art  of  turning  tuneful  periods  in  rhyme  the  author 
 may  occasionally  be  found.  A  great  portion  of  this  volume  well 
 merits  republication,  as  the  annexed  examples  will  prove.  He 
 tiiat  is  not  powerfully  affected  by  some  of  these— whatever  be  his 
 taste  in  polite  literature— may  fear  that  he  has  neither  part  nor  lot 
 in  a  matter  of  infinitely  surpassing  interest  even  to  himself. 
 
 IWWVWWI 
 
 God  renewing  Man  in  his  own  Image. 
 
 When  man  from  holy  love,  turn’d  to  a  lye, 
 
 Thy  image  lost,  became  thine  enemy; 
 
 O  what  a  seal  did  love  and  wisdom  find 
 To  re-imprint  thine  image  on  man’s  mind ! 
 
 Thou  sent’st  the  signet  from  thine  own  right  hand, 
 Made  man  for  them  that  had  themselves  unman’d. 
 I  he’  eternal  Son,  who  in  thy  bosom  dwelt ; 
 Essentia]  burning  love,  men’s  hearts  to  melt: 
 
 Thy  lively  image;  he  that  knew  thy  mind  : 
 
 Fit  to  illuminate  and  heal  the  blind. 
 
 AVith  love’s  great  office  thou  didst  Him  adorn. 
 Redeemer  of  the  helpless  and  forlorn  : 
 
 On  love’s  chief  work  and  message  He  was  sent; 
 Our  flesh  He  took,  our  pain  Fie  underwent; 
 
 1  hy  pardoning,  saving  love  to  man  did  preach; 
 
 The  reconciler  stood  up  in  the  breach ; 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 321 
 
 The  uncreated  image  of  thy  love, 
 
 By  his  assumption,  and  the  Holy  Dove, 
 
 On  his  own  flesh  thy  image  first  imprest  ; 
 
 And  by  that  stamp  renews  it  on  the  rest. 
 
 Love  was  liis  nature,  doctrine,  life  and  breath; 
 Love  flamed  in  his  sufferings  and  death: 
 
 Thus  love  thine  image,  love  on  man  doth  print : 
 This  coin,  thy  Son,  thy  Word  and  Spirit  mint. 
 
 He  that  will  have  it  true,  must  have  it  here ; 
 Though  love  prepare  its  way  by  grief  and  fear : 
 
 Yea,  oft  by  these  expressed!  its  desire ; 
 
 They  are  sincere  when  kindled  by  its  fire. 
 
 These  are  love’s  methods,  passing  tongue  and  pen  ; 
 Wonders  and  joys,  to  angels,  and  to  men. 
 
 Mourning  over  Hard-heartedness. 
 
 Long  was  I  sadly  questioning  thy  grace, 
 
 Because  thy  Spirit’s  steps  I  could  not  tiace. 
 
 The  difference  is  so  great  ’twixt  heaven  and  hell, 
 
 That  those  must  differ  much  who  there  must  dwell. 
 
 I  fear’d  the  change  which  raised  my  soul  no  higher, 
 Would  not  suffice  to  save  me  from  hell  fire ; 
 
 But  above  all,  I  thought  so  hard  a  heart 
 Could  not  among  the  living  have  a  part; 
 
 I  thought  thy  Son  would  never  heal  my  sore, 
 
 Unless  my  tears  and  sorrow  had  been  more. 
 
 I  wonder’d  at  my  great  stupidity, 
 
 That  could  not  weep  when  I  deserved  to  dye ; 
 
 I  wonder’d  things  so  great  as  heaven  and  hell, 
 
 Did  on  my  heart  with  no  more  feeling  dwell ; 
 
 That  words  which  such  amazing  things  import, 
 
 Did  not  sink  deeper,  and  my  soul  transport; 
 
 That  things  of  everlasting  consequence 
 Did  not  affect  me  with  a  deeper  sense; 
 
 And  that  a  soul,  so  near  its  final  doom, 
 
 Could  give  these  worldly  trifles  any  room ; 
 
 That  on  these  shadows  I  could  cast  an  eye, 
 
 While  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell  stood  by. 
 
 o  3 
 
322 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 I  wonder’d  when  my  odious  sin  was  named, 
 
 I  was  no  more  confounded  and  ashamed. 
 
 Many  a  time  I  beg’d  a  tender  heart, 
 
 And  never  pray’d  so  much  for  joy,  as  smart ; 
 
 I  could  have  kiss’d  the  place  where  I  did  kneel, 
 
 If  what  my  tongue  had  spoke,  my  heart  could  feel. 
 These  were  my  cries,  when  I  to  Thee  did  speak, 
 
 O  that  this  heart  of  stone  might  melt  or  break! 
 These  were  my  groans,  this  was  my  daily  breath, 
 
 O  save  me  from  hard-heartedness  and  death! 
 
 This  was  the  title  which  I  used  to  take, — 
 
 Sensless,  hard-hearted  wretch,  that  cannot  wake! 
 But  as  thy  wisdom  gives  in  fittest  measure ; 
 
 Not  all  at.once;  ’tis  meet  we  wait  thy  leisure. 
 
 .1  thought  that  things  unseen  should  pierce  and  melt, 
 With  as  great  passion  as  things  seen  and  felt; 
 
 But  now  I  find  it  is  their  proper  part, 
 
 To  be  most  valued,  to  be  next  the  heart, 
 
 To  be  the  highest  interest  of  the  soul; 
 
 There  to  command,  and  all  things  else  controul. 
 
 What  shall  I  render  unto  the  Lord  ? 
 
 O  had  I  all  my  powers  at  command ! 
 
 As  readily  as  tongue,  or  foot,  or  hand! 
 
 My  eyes  should  empty  first  the  serious  store, 
 Because  I  love  so  good  a  God  no  more; 
 
 And  next  some  of  the  florid  blood  should  spend, 
 Because  the  God  of  love  I  did  offend  ; 
 
 The  rest  should  serve  for  oyl  unto  love’s  fire, 
 
 Wasting  in  restless  vehement  desire. 
 
 At  every  mention  of  thy  blessed  name, 
 
 My  ravish’d  soul  should  mount  up  in  love’s  flame; 
 Each  sermon  should  Elias’  chariot  be, 
 
 To  carry  up  my  longing  heart  to  Thee; 
 
 The  saints’  assemblies  I  would  make  more  bright; 
 Where  many  heaven-aspiring  flames  unite ; 
 
 And  when  my  Lord’s  love-sufferings  I  read, 
 
 My  pierced  and  love-wounded  heart  should  bleed. 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 323 
 
 Love  should  enforce  each  word  when  I  do  pray ; 
 
 A  flaming  heart  I’d  on  thy  altar  lay: 
 
 When  halving  hypocrites  give  Thee  a  part,  . 
 
 Love  should  present  my  whole ,  though  broken  heart , 
 When  in  thy  word  I  read  love’s  mysteries, 
 
 There  I  would  sweetly  feed  my  greedy  eyes ; 
 
 Each  sacrament  should  be  an  eucharist ; 
 
 There  heart  with  heart,  and  love  with  love  should  twist. 
 My  friends  and  I  would  in  our  daily  walk 
 Of  love’s  delights  and  entertainments  talk; 
 
 My  working  love  should  other’s  love  excite : 
 
 In  love  I’d  be  a  burning  shining  light. 
 
 Love  through  the  lanthorn  of  my  flesh  should  shine : 
 Who  heard  me  speak,  should  hear  that  I  am  thine. 
 My  daily  love  should  rise  before  the  sun, 
 
 And  it  in  speed  and  constancy  out-run ; 
 
 Love  as  my  life  should  fill  up  all  my  days  ;  . 
 
 Desire  should  be  my  pulse ;  my  breath  thy  praise ; 
 And  I  would  wind  up  all  the  strings  as  high 
 As  blessed  Paul  was  in  his  extasy. 
 
 Heavenly  love  should  all  my  words  indite, 
 
 And  be  the  soul  and  sense  of  all  I  write ; 
 
 My  heart  of  love’s  delight  should  sweetly  think, 
 
 I’d  write  with  flaming  fire  instead  of  ink. 
 
 And  yet  thy  holy  day  should  be  my  best,  ^ 
 
 In  it  my  thirsty  soul  should  taste  of  rest ;  > 
 
 My  daily  food  should  increase  to  a  feast.  J 
 O  my  dear  God !  how  precious  is  thy  love . 
 
 O  could  I  mount  thus  to  the  flames  above. 
 
 Fear  growing  into  Love. 
 
 Fear  is  the  soil  that  cherisheth  the  seed,  ^ 
 
 The  nursery  in  which  heaven’s  plants  do  breed, 
 
 God  first  in  nature  finds  self-love,  and  there 
 He  takes  advantage  to  implant  liis  fear. 
 
 With  some  the  time  is  long  before  the  earth 
 Disclose  her  young  one  by  a  springy  birth ; 
 
 When  heaven  doth  make  our  winter  sharp  and  long, 
 The  seed  of  love  lies  hid,  or  seems  but  young; 
 
3  M 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 I5ut  when  God  makes  it  spring-time,  his  approach 
 lakes  from  the  barren  soul  its  great  reproach ; 
 
 When  heaven’s  reviving  smiles  and  raies  appear, 
 
 Then  love  begins  to  spring  np  above  fear; 
 
 And  if  sin  hinder  not  by  cursed  shade, 
 
 It  quickly  shoots  up  to  a  youthful  blade; 
 
 And  when  heaven’s  warmer  beams  and  dews  succeed, 
 I  hat  s  ripen’d  fruit  which  e’en  now  was  but  seed: 
 
 Yet  doth  not  flowering,  fruitful  love  forget 
 Her  nursing  fear,  there  still  her  root  is  set, 
 
 In  humble  self-denyal  under-trod, 
 
 While  flower  and  fruit  are  growing  up  to  God. 
 
 True  and  False  Preachers. 
 
 I  his  call’d  me  out  to  work  while  it  was  day, 
 
 And  warn  poor  souls  to  turn  without  delay, 
 Resolving  speedily  thy  word  to  preach, 
 
 With  Ambrose,  T  at  once  did  learn  and  teach  : 
 Still  thinking  I  had  little  time  to  live, 
 
 >Iy  fervent  heart  to  win  men’s  souls  did  strive ; 
 
 I  preach’d,  as  never  sure  to  preach  again, 
 
 And  as  a  dying  man  to  dying  men! 
 
 *>  how  should  preachers  men’s  repenting  crave, 
 
 V,  ho  see  how  near  the  church  is  to  the  grave? 
 And  see  that  while  we  preach  and  hear,  we  dye, 
 Rapt  by  swift  time  to  vast  eternity! 
 
 Tv  hat  statues,  or  what  hypocrites  are  they, 
 
 Vi  ho  between  sleep  and  wake  do  preach  and  pray, 
 As  if  they  feared  wakening  the  dead, 
 
 Or  were  but  lighting  sinners  to  their  bed  ! 
 
 Vv  ho  speak  of  heaven  and  hell  as  on  a  stage, 
 
 And  make  the  pulpit  but  a  parrot’s  cage ; 
 
 T  ho  teach  as  men  that  care  not  much  who  learns, 
 And  preach  in  jest  to  men  that  sin  in  earns,  (a) 
 Surely  God’s  messenger,  if  any  man, 
 
 Should  speak  with  all  the  seriousness  he  can ; 
 
 (a)  In  earnest. 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 325 
 
 Who  treateth  in  the  name  of  the  Most  High, 
 About  the  matters  of  eternity; 
 
 Who  must  prevail  with  sinners  now  or  never, 
 
 As  those  that  must  be  saved  now,  if  ever; 
 
 When  sinners’  endless  joy  or  misery, 
 
 On  the  success  of  his  endeavours  lie. 
 
 Though  God  be  free,  He  works  by  instruments, 
 And  wisely  fitteth  them  to  his  intents. 
 
 A  proud,  unhumbled  preacher  is  unmeet 
 To  lay  proud  sinners  humbled  at  Christ  s  feet  j 
 So  are  the  blind  to  tell  men  what  God  saith, 
 
 And  faithless  men  to  propagate  the  faith ; 
 
 The  dead  are  unfit  means  to  raise  the  dead, 
 
 And  enemies  to  give  the  children  bread; 
 
 And  utter  strangers  to  the  life  to  come, 
 
 Are  not  the  best  conductors  to  our  home : 
 
 They  that  yet  never  learn’ d  to  live  and  dye, 
 
 Will  scarcely  teach  it  others  feelingly; 
 
 Or  if  they  should  preach  others  to  salvation, 
 Unhappy  men  that  preach  their  own  damnation  I 
 
 Forsaking  all  for  Christ. 
 
 fFrom  “  The  Resolution in  which  the  author  counts  the  cost  of 
 following  Christ  through  good  report  and  evil  report.  J 
 
 Must  1  be  driven  from  my  books? 
 
 From  house,  and  goods,  and  dearest  friends  ? 
 One  of  thy  sweet  and  gracious  looks, 
 
 For  more  than  this  will  make  amends. 
 
 The  world’s  thy  book  :  there  1  can  read, 
 Thy  power,  wisdom,  and  thy  love  ; 
 
 And  thence  ascend  by  faith,  and  feed 
 Upon  the  better  things  above. 
 
 As  for  my  house  it  was  my  tent, 
 
 While  there  I  waited  on  thy  flock: 
 
 That  work  is  done;  that  time  is  spent : 
 There  neither  was  my  home  nor  stock. 
 
326 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 Would  I  in  all  my  journey  have 
 Still  the  same  inn  and  furniture? 
 
 Or  ease  and  pleasant  dwellings  crave, 
 Forgetting  what  thy  saints  endure  ? 
 
 My  Lord  had  taught  me  how  to  want 
 A  place  wherein  to  put  my  head: 
 
 While  He  is  mine,  I’ll  be  content, 
 
 To  beg  or  lack  my  daily  bread. 
 
 Heaven  is  my  roof,  earth  is  my  floor ; 
 Thy  love  can  keep  me  dry  and  warm : 
 Christ  and  thy  bounty  are  my  store ; 
 Thy  angels  guard  me  from  all  harm. 
 
 As  for  my  friends,  they  are  not  lost : 
 The  several  vessels  of  thy  fleet, 
 
 Though  parted  now,  by  tempests  tost, 
 Shall  safely  in  the  haven  meet. 
 
 Still  we  are  centred  all  in  Thee ; 
 Members  tho’  distant,  of  one  head ; 
 
 In  the  same  family  we  be, 
 
 By  the  same  faith  and  Spirit  led. 
 
 Before  thy  throne  we  daily  meet, 
 
 As  joynt  petitioners  to  Thee  : 
 
 In  spirit  we  each  other  greet. 
 
 And  shall  again  each  other  see. 
 
 The  heavenly  hosts,  world  without  end, 
 Shall  be  my  company  above ; 
 
 And  Thou  my  best  and  surest  friend, 
 Who  shall  divide  me  from  thy  love? 
 
 « 
 
 Must  I  forsake  the  soil  and  air, 
 
 Where  first  I  drew  my  vital  breath  ? 
 That  way  may  be  as  near  and  fair; 
 Thence  I  may  come  to  Thee  by  death. 
 All  countries  are  my  Father’s  lands ; 
 Thy  Son,  thy  love  doth  shine  on  all ; 
 We  may  in  all  lift  up  pure  hands, 
 
 And  with  acceptance  on  Thee  call. 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 327 
 
 What  if  in  prison  I  must  dwell, 
 
 May  I  not  there  converse  with  Thee  ? 
 Save  me  from  sin,  thy  wrath,  and  hell, 
 Call  me  thy  child ;  and  I  am  free. 
 
 No  walls  or  bars  can  keep  Thee  out; 
 None  can  confine  a  holy  soul ; 
 
 The  streets  of  heaven  it  walks  about ; 
 None  can  its  liberty  controul. 
 
 Must  I  feel  sicknesses  and  smart, 
 
 And  spend  my  days  and  nights  in  pain? 
 Yet  if  thy  love  refresh  my  heart, 
 
 I  need  not  overmuch  complain. 
 
 This  flesh  hath  drawn  my  soul  to  sin; 
 
 If  it  must  smart,  thy  will  be  done; 
 
 O  fill  me  with  thy  joys  within, 
 
 And  then  I’ll  let  it  grieve  alone  ! 
 
 1  know  my  flesh  must  turn  to  dust, 
 
 My  parted  soul  must  come  to  Thee, 
 
 And  undergo  thy  judgment  just, 
 
 And  in  the  endless  world  must  be. 
 
 In  this  there’s  most  of  fear  and  joy, 
 Because  there’s  most  of  sin  and  grace, 
 
 Sin  will  this  mortal  frame  destroy, 
 
 But  Christ  will  bring  me  to  thy  face. 
 
 Shall  I  draw  back  and  fear  the  end 
 Of  all  my  sorrows,  tears  and  pain  ? 
 
 To  which  my  life  and  labours  tend, 
 Without  which  all  had  been  in  vain  ? 
 
 Can  I  for  ever  be  content 
 Without  true  happiness  and  rest? 
 
 Is  earth  become  so  excellent, 
 
 That  1  should  take  it  for  my  best? 
 
 Or  can  I  think  of  finding  here 
 That  which  my  soul  so  long  had  sought? 
 Should  I  refuse  those  joys  through  fear, 
 Which  bounteous  love  so  dearly  bought? 
 
328 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 All  that  doth  taste  of  heaven  is  good  ; 
 When  heavenly  light  doth  me  inform, 
 When  heavenly  life  stirs  in  my  blood, 
 When  heavenly  love  my  heart  cloth  warm. 
 
 How  many  guiltless  creatures  die, 
 
 To  be  a  feast  or  food  to  me, 
 
 Who  love  their  lives  as  well  as  I ; 
 
 And  hath  not  Gocl  more  right  to  me  ? 
 Must  I  be  privileged  alone  ? 
 
 Or  no  man  die  until  he  please  ? 
 
 And  God  deposed  from  his  throne. 
 
 And  humane  generation  cease? 
 
 Though  all  the  reasons  I  can  see, 
 
 Why  I  should  willingly  submit, 
 
 And  comfortably  come  to  Thee ; 
 
 My  God,  Thou  must  accomplish  it. 
 
 The  love  which  fill’d  up  all  my  daies. 
 
 Will  not  forsake  me  to  the  end; 
 
 This  broken  body  Thou  wilt  raise, 
 
 My  spirit  I  to  Thee  commend. 
 
 Faith  amidst  Trials . 
 
 I  turn’d  my  back  on  worldly  toys. 
 
 And  set  my  face  towards  glory’s  shore ; 
 Where  Thou  hast  promised  highest  joys, 
 And  blessedness  for  ever  more. 
 
 T  took  my  leave  of  sin  and  earth; 
 
 What  I  had  loved,  I  now  did  hate; 
 Ashamed  of  my  former  birth, 
 
 I  gave  my  life  a  newer  date. 
 
 But  since  that  time,  how  I  am  tost  1 
 Afraid  of  every  storm  and  wave, 
 Almost  concluding  I  am  lost, 
 
 As  if  Thou  wouldst  not  help  and  save. 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 If  I  look  out  beyond  thine  ark, 
 
 Nothing  but  raging  floods  I  see  ; 
 
 On  this  side  heaven  all’s  deep  and  dark, 
 Hut  I  look  further  unto  Thee. 
 
 Spare  Lord,  and  pity  thy  poor  dust, 
 
 That  fled  into  thy  ark  for  peace; 
 
 O  cause  my  soul  on  Thee  to  trust ! 
 
 And  do  not  my  distress  increase. 
 
 O  keep  up  life  and  peace  within, 
 
 If  I  must  feel  thy  chastening  rod  ! 
 
 Yet  kill  not  me,  but  kill  my  sin ; 
 
 And  let  me  know,  Thou  art  my  God. 
 
 Why  art  thou,  fainting  soul,  cast  down? 
 And  thus  disquieted  with  fears? 
 
 Art  thou  not  passing  to  thy  crown, 
 Through  storms  of  pain,  and  floods  of  tears 
 Fear  not,  O  thou  of  little  faith  ! 
 
 Art  thou  not  in  thy  Saviour’s  hand? 
 Remember  what  his  promise  saith  ; 
 
 Life  and  death  are  at  his  command. 
 
 To  Him  I  did  my  self  entrust, 
 
 When  first  I  did  for  heaven  embark. 
 
 And  He  hath  proved  kind  and  just; 
 
 Still  I  am  with  Him  in  his  ark. 
 
 Couldst  thou  expect  to  see  no  seas? 
 
 Nor  feel  no  tossing  wind  or  wave? 
 
 It  is  enough  that  from  all  these 
 Thy  faithful  pilot  will  thee  save. 
 
 Lord,  let  me  not  my  covenant  break; 
 
 Once  I  did  all  to  Thee  resign; 
 
 Only  the  words  of  comfort  speak, 
 
 And  tell  my  soul  that  I  am  thine. 
 
 It  is  no  death  when  souls  depart. 
 
 If  Thou  depart  not  from  the  soul : 
 
 Fill  with  thy  love  my  fainting  heart, 
 
 And  I’ll  not  fading  flesh  condole. 
 
330 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 My  God,  my  love,  my  hope,  my  life  l 
 Shall  I  be  loath  to  see  thy  face  ? 
 
 As  if  this  world  of  sin  and  strife, 
 
 Were  for  my  soul  a  better  place? 
 
 O  give  my  soul  some  sweet  foretast 
 Of  that  which  I  shall  shortly  see  ! 
 
 Let  faith  and  love  cry  to  the  last, 
 
 Come,  Lord,  I  trust  my  self  with  Thee. 
 
 Resignation. 
 
 Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care, 
 
 Whether  I  die  or  live ; 
 
 To  love  and  serve  Thee  is  my  share. 
 
 And  this  thy  grace  must  give. 
 
 If  life  be  long,  I  will  be  glad, 
 
 That  I  may  long  obey : 
 
 If  short;  yet  ..why  should  I  be  sad, 
 
 That  shall  have  the  same  pay? 
 
 Christ  leads  me  through  no  darker  rooms 
 Than  He  went  through  before; 
 
 He  that  into  God’s  kingdom  comes, 
 
 Must  enter  by  this  door. 
 
 Come,  Lord,  when  grace  hath  made  me  meet, 
 Thy  blessed  face  to  see ; 
 
 For  if  thy  work  on  earth  be  sweet, 
 
 What  will  thy  glory  be? 
 
 Then  I  shall  end  my  sad  complaints, 
 
 And  weary,  sinful  daies  ; 
 
 And  joyn  with  the  triumphant  saints, 
 
 That  sing  Jehovah’s  praise. 
 
 My  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small, 
 
 The  eye  of  faith  is  dim  ; 
 
 But  ’tis  enough  that  Christ  knows  all ; 
 
 And  I  shall  be  with  Him. 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 The  Believer  s  reply  to  Death's  threatening 
 
 I  knew  that  from  my  birth 
 I  was  a  mortal  man  ; 
 
 My  frailty  is  confest ; 
 
 I  knew  my  flesh  was  earth, 
 
 My  life  was  but  a  span, 
 
 And  here  is  not  my  rest. 
 
 If  thou  canst  say  no  more, 
 
 All  this  I  knew  before, 
 
 And  yet  thy  threats  defie; 
 
 Have  I  long  sought  in  pain. 
 
 And  would  I  not  obtain 
 Joyful  eternity  ? 
 
 O  feeble  thing  I 
 
 How  canst  thou  conquer  Christ, 
 
 And  make  his  promise  void? 
 
 First  overcome  my  King, 
 
 And  his  commands  resist, 
 
 By  whom  thou  art  employ’d; 
 
 First  win  the  world  above, 
 
 And  conquer  endless  love, 
 
 And  then  I’ll  be  thy  slave; 
 
 Kill  an  immortal  soul, 
 
 And  we  will  all  condole, 
 
 And  fear  a  darksom  grave. 
 
 ’Tis  Christ  that  doth  thee  send, 
 
 To  bring  about  his  end; 
 
 And  Him  thou  must  obey  ; 
 
 He  is  my  dearest  friend, 
 
 And  doth  no  harm  intend, 
 
 In  calling  me  away. 
 
 And  why  should  he  fear  ill, 
 
 Whom  love  itself  doth  kill  ? 
 
 And  numbereth  with  the  blest? 
 
 Why  should  not  death  fulfil 
 His  good  all-ruling  will, 
 
 My  spring,  my  guide,  my  rest  ? 
 
332 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 The  Exit. 
 
 My  soul,  go  boldly  forth, 
 
 Forsake  this  sinful  earth; 
 
 What  hath  it  been  to  thee 
 But  pain  and  sorrow  ; 
 
 And  think’st  thou  it  will  be 
 Better  to  morrow? 
 
 Why  art  thou  for  delay? 
 
 Thou  carn’st  not  here  to  stay: 
 What  tak’st  thou  for  thy  part, 
 But  heavenly  pleasure ; 
 
 Where  then  should  be  thy  heart, 
 But  where’s  thy  treasure  ? 
 
 Thy  God,  thy  head’s  above, 
 There  is  the  world  of  love, 
 Mansions  there  purchased  are, 
 By  Christ’s  own  merit, 
 
 For  these  He  doth  prepare 
 Thee  by  his  Spirit. 
 
 Jerusalem  above, 
 
 Glorious  in  light  and  love, 
 
 Is  mother  of  us  all ; 
 
 Who  shall  enjoy  them  ? 
 
 The  wicked  hell-ward  fall ; 
 
 Sin  will  destroy  them. 
 
 O  blessed  company, 
 
 Where  all  in  harmony, 
 Jehovah’s  praises  sing, 
 
 Still  without  ceasing ; 
 
 And  all  obey  their  King, 
 
 With  perfect  pleasing. 
 
 What  joy  must  there  needs  be, 
 Where  all  God’s  glory  see ; 
 
BAXTER. 
 
 333 
 
 Feeling  God’s  vital  love, 
 
 Which  still  is  burning  ; 
 
 And  flaming  God-ward  move, 
 Full  love  returning. 
 
 Hath  mercy  made  life  sweet: 
 
 And  is  it  kind  and  meet, 
 
 Thus  to  draw  back  from  God, 
 Who  doth  protect  thee? 
 
 Look  then  for  his  sharp  rod, 
 
 Next  to  correct  thee. 
 
 Lord  Jesus,  take  my  spirit: 
 
 I  trust  thy  love  and  merit : 
 
 Take  home  this  wandering  sheep, 
 For  Thou  hast  sought  it: 
 
 This  soul  in  safety  keep, 
 
 For  Thou  hast  bought  it. 
 
 The  Valediction. 
 
 Man  walks  in  a  vain  shew, 
 
 They  know,  yet  will  not  know, 
 Sit  still  when  they  should  go, 
 
 But  run  for  shadows  : 
 
 While  they  might  taste  and  know 
 The  living  streams  that  flow, 
 
 And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow 
 In  Christ’s  sweet  meadows. 
 Life’s  better  slept  away, 
 
 Than  as  they  use  it ; 
 
 In  sin  and  drunken  play, 
 
 Vain  men  abuse  it. 
 
 They  dig  for  hell  beneath, 
 
 They  labour  hard  for  death, 
 
 Run  themselves  out  of  breath 
 To  overtake  it. 
 
334 
 
 BAXTER. 
 
 Hell  is  not  had  for  nought, 
 Damnation’s  dearly  bought, 
 And  with  great  labour  sought, 
 They’ll  not  forsake  it. 
 
 Their  souls  are  Satan’s  fee, 
 He’ll  not  abate  it ; 
 
 Grace  is  refused  that’s  free, 
 Mad  sinners  hate  it. 
 
 Is  this  the  world  men  choose, 
 For  which  they  heaven  refuse, 
 And  Christ  and  grace  abuse, 
 And  not  receive  it? 
 
 Shall  I  not  guilty  be 
 Of  this  in  some  degree, 
 
 If  hence  God  would  me  free, 
 And  I’d  not  leave  it? 
 
 My  soul,  from  Sodom  flie, 
 Lest  wrath  there  find  thee ; 
 Thy  refuge-rest  is  nigh, 
 
 Look  not  behind  thee. 
 
BUNYAN. 
 
 335 
 
 JOHN  BUNYAN. 
 
 Born  1628.  Died  1688. 
 
 Bunyan,  like  Taylor  and  Baxter,  is  renowned  for  his  numerous 
 prose  works, — The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Holy  War,  &c  &c  but  he 
 is  scarcely  recognized  as  a  Poet.  His  verses  it  must  be  owned  is 
 of  a  very  humble  cast,  and  by  it  he  never  would  have  risen  to  dis- 
 tinction  His  principal  productions  in  rhyme,  are  Ebal  and  Geri- 
 xim,  Meditations  on  the  four  last  things,  Death,  Judgment  Heaven 
 and  Hell,  Prison  Thoughts  and  Divine  Emblems.  A  few  brief 
 
 hnm^n"LCafin0t  be,Unworth/  a  place  in  this  collection,  for  no 
 of  aiJParel>  nor  rudeness  of  speech,  can  utterly  disguise 
 the  nobility  of  such  ideas  as  had  birth  in  a  mind  like  Bunvan’f 
 pregnant  with  bold  imaginations,  full  of  zeal  for  ?he  Lord  Ksts’ 
 and  glorying  in  persecution  itself  for  righteousness’  sake.  ’ 
 
 Prison  Meditations. 
 
 Speaking  of  his  enemies  who  called  him  heretic,  and  loaded  him 
 with  bonds,  indignities  and  cruel  oppression,  he  says : 
 
 Alas,  they  little  think  what  peace 
 They  help  me  to,  for  by 
 Their  rage  my  comforts  do  increase  ; 
 Bless  God,  therefore,  do  I. 
 
 If  they  do  give  me  gall  to  drink, 
 
 Then  God  doth  sweetning  cast, 
 
 So  much  thereto,  that  they  can’t  think 
 How  bravely  it  doth  taste. 
 
 For  as  the  devil  sets  before 
 Me  heaviness  and  grief, 
 
 So  God  sets  Christ  and  grace  much  more, 
 Whereby  I  take  relief. 
 
 Though  they  say  then  that  we  are  fools, 
 Because  we  here  do  lie, 
 
 I  answer,  gaols  are  Christ  his  schools, 
 
 In  them  we  learn  to  die. 
 
336 
 
 BUNYAN. 
 
 ’Tis  not  the  baseness  of  this  state 
 Doth  hide  us  from  God’s  face, 
 
 He  frequently  both  soon  and  late, 
 
 Doth  visit  us  with  grace. 
 
 Here  come  the  angels,  here  come  saints, 
 Here  comes  the  Spirit  of  God, 
 
 To  comfort  us  in  our  restraints 
 Under  the  wicked’s  rod. 
 
 God  sometimes  visits  prisons  more 
 Than  lordly  palaces, 
 
 He  knocketh  at  our  dungeon  door, 
 When  He  our  house  would  miss. 
 
 The  truth  and  life  of  heavenly  things 
 Lifts  up  our  hearts  on  high, 
 
 And  carries  us  on  eagle’s  wings, 
 
 Beyond  carnality. 
 
 ******* 
 
 To  them  that  here  for  evil  lie, 
 
 The  place  is  comfortless, 
 
 But  not  to  me,  because  that  I 
 Lie  here  for  righteousness. 
 
 The  truth  and  I  were  both  here  cast 
 Together,  and  we  do 
 Lie  arm  in  arm,  and  so  hold  ftist 
 Each  other:  this  is  true. 
 
 This  gaol  to  us  is  as  a  hill, 
 
 From  whence  we  plainly  see 
 Beyond  this  world,  and  take  our  fill 
 Of  things  that  lasting  be. 
 
 From  hence  we  see  the  emptiness 
 Of  all  this  world  contains; 
 
 And  here  we  feel  the  blessedness 
 That  for  us  yet  remains. 
 
 ******* 
 
BUNYAN. 
 
 33 
 
 Know  then,  true  valour  there  doth  dwell 
 Where  men  engage  for  God, 
 
 Against  the  devil,  death  and  hell, 
 
 And  bear  the  wicked’s  rod. 
 
 These  be  the  men  that  God  doth  count. 
 Of  high  and  noble  mind  ; 
 
 These  be  the  men  that  do  surmount 
 What  you  in  nature  find. 
 
 First  they  do  conquer  their  own  hearts. 
 All  worldly  fears,  and  then 
 
 Also  the  devil’s  fiery  darts, 
 
 And  persecuting  men. 
 
 They  conquer  when  they  thus  do  fall, 
 They  kill  when  they  do  die; 
 
 They  overcome  then  most  of  all,— 
 
 And  get  the  victory. 
 
 [From  Divine  Emblems.^ 
 
 On  the  Peep  of  Day, 
 
 At  peep  of  day,  I  often  cannot  know 
 Whether  ’tis  night,  whether  ’tis  day  or  ne. 
 
 I  fancy  that  I  see  a  little  light, 
 
 But  eannot  yet  distinguish  day  from  night; 
 
 I  hope,  I  doubt,  but  certain  yet  I  he  not, 
 
 1  am  not  at  a  point,  the  sun  I  see  not. 
 
 Thus  such,  who  are  but  just  of  grace  possest. 
 They  know  not  yet  if  they  be  curst  or  blest. 
 
 On  the  Swallow. 
 
 This  pretty  bird,  oh!  how  she  flies  and  sings! 
 
 But  could  she  do  so  if  she  had  not  wings  ? 
 
 Her  wings  bespeak  my  faith,  her  songs  my  peace; 
 When  I  believe  and  sing,  my  doubtings  cease. 
 
 p  32 
 
338 
 
 MASON. 
 
 JOHN  MASON. 
 
 Died  1694. 
 
 The  following  Extracts  are  from  “  Spiritual  Songs;  or  Sonus  of 
 Praise,  with  Penitential  Cries  to  Almighty  God,  ifpon  several  oc 
 casions  ;  together  with  the  Song  of  Songs,  which  is  Solomon's  first 
 
 turn'd,  then  paraphras’d  in  Enslish  Versa ‘ f  nJ.\Prs\ 
 
 a  sacred  Poem  on  Lives  and  Lazarus  ”  The  °'f 
 
 Water  Stratford,  Bucks.  His  “Sins," Ire puU 
 decease,  by  his  Son,  and  consist  principally  of  letters  and  select  see 
 tences  trom  his  manuscript  compositions.  Of  the’  above  volume 
 wrote  the  whole,  except  about  thirty  of  the  “  Ecru 
 tential  Cries ,  which  were  the  production  of  his  friend  the  Rev* 
 i  homas  Shepherd.  Mason  flourished  between  the  atre  ’JnJ,  w  ' 
 and  that  of  IVaUs  his  stylo  being  a  S  tetflen t®“ it 
 colcunng  of  the  former  and  the  day-light  clearness  nf  hl  no 
 His  talent  is  equally  poised  between  both,  having  more  vigoufbJt 
 less  versatility  than  that  of  either  his  forerunner  or  hfssucceSsor 
 That  such  writings  should  once  have  been  exceediimlv  nm  r 
 
 i  ni^rrtmlC,fi0ffeillV°nSJr0ves)  and  now  be  nearly  forgotten  T 
 
 little  creditable  to  the  admirers  of  sacred  literature  in  rhic  6n’ 
 try.  Doctor  Watts,  Mr.  Pope,  and  tl^wS  anwar  to 
 been  famihar  with  the  contents  of  this  volume,  ’sbi  S  im 
 Phrases  in  verses  of  theirs  being  evidently  borrowed  from  n« 
 in  U;  The  extracts  hereunder  given  ar/from  the  hvelfThSlmi" 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  the  Morning. 
 
 My  God  was  with  me  all  this  night, 
 
 And  gave  me  sweet  repose: 
 
 My  God  did  watch,  even  whilst  I  slept, 
 
 Or  I  had  never  rose. 
 
 How  many  groan’d  and  wish’d  for  sleep, 
 Until  they  wish’d  for  day; 
 
 Measuring  slow  hours  with  their  quick  pains 
 Whilst  I  securely  lay !  ’ 
 
 Whilst  I  did  sleep,  all  dangers  slept, 
 
 No  thieves  did  me  affright; 
 
 Those  evening  wolves,  those’beasts  of  prey 
 Disturbers  of  the  night.  ’ 
 
 No  raging  flames  nor  storms  did  rend 
 The  house  that  I  was  in; 
 
MASON. 
 
 339 
 
 I  heard  no  dreadful  cries  without, 
 
 No  doleful  groans  within. 
 
 » 
 
 What  terrors  have  I  ’scap’d  this  night, 
 Which  have  on  others  fell ! 
 
 My  body  might  have  slept  its  last, 
 
 My  soul  have  waked  in  hell. 
 
 Sweet  rest  hath  gain’d  that  strength  to  me, 
 Which  labour  did  devour : 
 
 My  body  was  in  weakness  sown, 
 
 But  it  is  raised  in  power. 
 
 Lord,  for  the  mercies  of  the  night, 
 
 My  humble  thanks  I  pay ; 
 
 And  unto  Thee  I  dedicate 
 The  first-fruits  of  the  day. 
 
 Let  this  day  praise  Thee,  O  my  God, 
 
 And  so  let  all  my  days  : 
 
 And,  O  let  mine  eternal  day 
 Be  thine  eternal  praise. 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  the  Evening . 
 
 Now  from  the  altar  of  my  heart 
 Let  incerise-flames  arise : 
 
 Assist  me,  Lord,  to  offer  up 
 Mine  evening  sacrifice. 
 
 Awake,  my  love  ;  awake,  my  joy ; 
 Awake,  my  heart  and  tongue ; 
 
 Sleep  not  when  mercies  loudly  call, 
 Break  forth  into  a  song. 
 
 Man’s  life’s  a  book  of  history, 
 
 The  leaves  thereof  are  days ; 
 
 The  letters  mercies  closely  join’d, 
 
 The  title  is  thy  praise. 
 
 This  day  God  was  my  sun  and  shield, 
 My  keeper  and  my  guide; 
 
 His  care  was  on  my  frailty  shewn, 
 
 His  mercies  multiply’d. 
 
 p  2 
 
340 
 
 mason. 
 
 Minutes  and  mercies  multiply’d, 
 
 Have  made  up  all  this  day: 
 
 Minutes  came  quick ;  but  mercies  were 
 More  fleet  and  free  than  they. 
 
 New  time,  new  favour,  and  new  joys, 
 Do  a  new  song  require  : 
 
 Till  I  shall  praise  Thee  as  I  would, 
 Accept  my  heart’s  desire. 
 
 A  Song  of  Praise  for  a  Gospel-ministry. 
 
 [A  noble  strain  of  pious  gratitude,  full  of  spirit  and  fire  and 
 adorned  with  admirable  imagery.] 
 
 Fair  are  the  feet  which  bring  the  news 
 Of  gladness  unto  me : 
 
 What  happy  messengers  are  these 
 Which  my  hless’d  eyes  do  see  ! 
 
 These  are  the  stars  which  God  appoints 
 For  guides  unto  my  way, 
 
 To  lead  me  unto  Bethlem-fown, 
 
 Where  my  dear  Saviour  lay. 
 
 Ihese  are  my  God’s  ambassadors, 
 
 By  whom  his  mind  I  know; 
 
 God’s  angels  in  his  lower  heaven, 
 
 God’s  trumpeters  below. 
 
 The  trumpet  sounds,  the  dead  arise, 
 
 Which  fell  by  Adam’s  hand: 
 
 Again  the  trumpet  sounds,  and  they 
 Set  forth  for  Canaan’s  land. 
 
 Thy  servants  speak ;  but  Thou,  Lord,  dost 
 An  hearing  ear  bestow: 
 
 They  smite  the  rock;  but  Thou,  my  God, 
 
 Dost  make  the  waters  flow  : 
 
 They  shoot  the  arrow;  but  thy  hand 
 Doth  drive  the  arrow  home : 
 
 They  call ;  but,  Lord,  Thou  dost  compel, 
 
 And  then  tby  guests  are  come. 
 
MASON. 
 
 341 
 
 Angels  that  fly,  and  worms  that  creep, 
 
 Are  both  alike  to  Thee; 
 
 If  Thou  mak’st  worms  thine  angels,  Lord, 
 They  bring  my  God  to  me. 
 
 As  sons  of  thunder,  first  they  come, 
 
 And  I  the  lightning  fear; 
 
 But  then  they  bring  me  to  my  home, 
 
 And  sons  of  comfort  are. 
 
 Lord,  Thou  art  in  them  of  a  truth, 
 
 That  I  might  never  stray; 
 
 The  clouds  and  pillars  march  before, 
 
 And  shew  me  Canaan’s  way. 
 
 I  bless  my  God,  who  is  my  guide ; 
 
 I  sing  in  Sion’s  ways  : 
 
 When  shall  I  sing  on  Sion’s  hill 
 Thine  everlasting  praise? 
 
 Joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost. 
 
 There  is  a  stream,  which  issues  forth 
 From  God’s  eternal  throne, 
 
 And  from  the  Lamb  a  living  stream, 
 
 Clear  as  the  crystal  stone  ! 
 
 This  stream  doth  water  paradise, 
 
 It  makes  the  angels  sing: 
 
 One  cordial  drop  revives  my  heart, 
 
 Hence  all  my  joys  do  spring. 
 
 Such  joys  as  are  unspeakable, 
 
 And  full  of  glory  too  ; 
 
 Such  hidden  manna,  hidden  pearls, 
 
 As  worldlings  do  not  know. 
 
 Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, 
 From  fancy  ’tis  conceal’d, 
 
 What  Thou,  Lord,  hast  laid  up  for  thine, 
 And  hast  to  me  reveal’d. 
 
 I  see  thy  face,  I  hear  thy  voice, 
 
 I  taste  thy  sweetest  love ; 
 
 My  soul  doth  leap :  but,  O  for  wings, 
 
 The  wings  of  Noah’s  dove  ! 
 
342 
 
 MASON. 
 
 1  lien  should  I  flee  far  hence  away, 
 Leaving  this  world  of  sin  : 
 
 Then  should  my  Lord  put  forth  his  hand, 
 And  kindly  take  me  in. 
 
 Deliverance  from  danger  of  Death. 
 
 Loud  of  my  life,  length  of  my  days, 
 
 Thy  hand  hath  rescued  me ; 
 
 Who,  lying  at  the  gates  of  death, 
 
 Among  the  dead  was  free. 
 
 My  dearest  friends  I  had  resign’d 
 Unto  their  Maker’s  care; 
 
 Methought  I  only  time  had  left 
 For  a  concluding  prayer. 
 
 Methought  death  laid  his  hands  on  me, 
 And  did  his  prisoner  bind; 
 
 And  by  the  sound,  methought  I  heard 
 His  Master’s  feet  behind. 
 
 Methought  I  stood  upon  the  shore, 
 
 And  nothing  could  I  see, 
 
 But  the  vast  ocean,  with  my  eyes, 
 
 —  A  vast  Eternity. 
 
 Methought  I  heard  the  midnight  cry. 
 Behold  the  Bridegroom  comes:” 
 
 Methought  I  was  call’d  to  the  bar, 
 
 Where  souls  receive  their  dooms. 
 
 The  world  was  at  an  end  to  me, 
 
 As  if  it  all  did  burn  : 
 
 But  lo !  there  came  a  voice  from  heaven, 
 Which  order’d  my  return. 
 
 Lord,  I  return’d  at  thy  command, 
 
 What  wilt  Thou  have  me  do? 
 
 O  let  me  wholly  live  to  Thee, 
 
 To  whom  my  life  I  owe! 
 
 Fain  would  I  dedicate  to  Thee 
 The  remnant  of  my  days. 
 
 Lord,  with  my  life  renew  my  heart, 
 
 I  hat  both  thy  name  may  praise. 
 
SHEPHERD. 
 
 343 
 
 Lamenting  the  loss  of  first  I.ove. 
 
 [In  reading  this,  the  reader  will  be  reminded  of  Cowper’s  affecting 
 Hymn,  “  Ofov  a  closer  walk  with  God!” — This  and  the  follow¬ 
 ing  are  by  the  Rev.  T.  Shepherd.] 
 
 O  that  my  soul  was  now  as  fair 
 As  it  1ms  sometimes  been, 
 
 Devoid  of  that  distracting  care 
 Without,  and  guilt  within ! 
 
 There  was  a  time  when  I  could  tread 
 No  circle  but  of  love; 
 
 That  joyous  morning  now  is  fled, 
 
 How  heavily  I  move ! 
 
 Unhappy  soul,  that  thou  should’st  force 
 Thy  Saviour  to  depart, 
 
 When  He  was  pleased  with  so  coarse 
 A  lodging  in  thy  heart! 
 
 How  sweetly  I  enjoy’d  my  God! 
 
 With  how  divine  a  frame! 
 
 I  thought,  on  every  plant  I  trod, 
 
 I  read  my  Saviour’s  name  ! 
 
 O  might  those  days  return  again, 
 
 How  welcome  they  should  be ! 
 
 Shall  my  petition  be  in  vain 
 Since  grace  is  ever  free? 
 
 Lord  of  my  soul,  return,  return, 
 
 To  chase  away  this  night ; 
 
 Let  not  thine  anger  ever  burn ; 
 
 God  once  was  my  delight. 
 
 A  Cry  before  the  Sacrament, 
 
 To-day  the  Lord  of  Hosts  invites 
 Unto  a  costly  feast; 
 
 O,  what  a  privilege  is  this, 
 
 To  be  my  Saviour’s  guest ! 
 
3M 
 
 SHEPHERD. 
 
 But  who,  and  what  am  I?  O  Lord ! 
 Unholy,  and  unmeet 
 
 To  come  within  thy  doors,  or  once 
 Wash  thy  disciples’  feet. 
 
 Worldly  distractions,  stay  behind. 
 
 Below  the  mount  abide; 
 
 Be  no  disturbance  to  my  mind, 
 
 Nor  make  my  Saviour  chide. 
 
 Let  nothing  that  is  not  divine. 
 
 Within  thy  presence  move; 
 
 A  hate  er  would  cause  Thee  not  to  shine 
 In  tokens  of  thy  love. 
 
 Whilst  Thou  dost  at  thy  table  sit, 
 
 Send  out  thy  Spirit  to  breathe 
 
 Upon  my  soul,  to  summon  forth 
 My  graces  from  beneath. 
 
 Awake  repentance,  faith,  and  love, 
 
 A  wake,  O  every  grace  ! 
 
 Come,  come,  attend  this  glorious  King, 
 And  bow  before  his  face. 
 
 ^  Lord,  the  time  draws  nigh 
 
 That  I  am  to  receive, 
 
 Stand  with  my  pardon  sealed  by, 
 Perswade  me  to  believe. 
 
 O  let  our  entertainment  now 
 Be  so  exceeding  sweet, 
 
 That  we  may  long  to  come  again. 
 
 And  at  thy  table  meet. 
 
MASON. 
 
 345 
 
 .  The  Scriptures . 
 
 By  John  Mason,  aforementioned. 
 
 [From  “  Dives  and  Lazarus,”  being  part  of  Abraham’s  last  rejoin¬ 
 der  to  the  prayer  of  the  rich  man,  that  he  would  send  Lazarus 
 from  the  dead  to  warn  his  Brethren,  not  to  come  to  that  place  of 
 torment.  The  free  and  nervous  versification  of  this  extract  is, 
 in  many  passages,  worthy'of  Dryden  himself,  and  yet  throughout 
 the  whole  the  material  infinitely  surpasses  the  workmanship. 
 The  general  execution  of  the  poem  is  remarkably  inferior  to  this 
 noble  conclusion  of  the  whole.] 
 
 What  eye  e’er  pierced  the  Almighty’s  sacred  breast  ? 
 Himself  knows  only  what  will  please  Him  best. 
 
 Since  man  was  rfiade  to  serve  his  Maker’s  will, 
 
 Which  is  an  height  transcending  human  skill, 
 
 A  rule  must  needs  be  granted  from  on  high 
 For  him  to  regulate  his  actions  by ; 
 
 This  heaven-sprung  rule  that  sacred  roll  contains, 
 Which  in  the  consecrated  land  remains. 
 
 Its  words  and  mysteries  are  all  divine, 
 
 And  weighty  mountains  hang  on  every  line ; 
 
 It,  sun-like,  shines  by  its  own  golden  beams. 
 
 And  scorns  its  base  co-rivals’  sensless  dreams. 
 
 Those  spangles  which  the  heathen  sages  left,  . 
 
 Were  from  this  mine  snatch’d  by  an  honest  theft. 
 Give  me  that  hardy  brow  that  dares  deny 
 The  Bible's  well-attested  history. 
 
 Moses  said  many  things,  and  proved  them  too. 
 
 With  proofs,  which  all  hell’s  magick  did  out-do; 
 God’s  power  he  carried  in  his  hands,  to  show 
 That  from  his  mouth  the  truths  of  God  did  flow, 
 
 And  his  credentials  on  his  face  did  shine, 
 
 Which  there  were  written  by  a  beam  divine. 
 
 The  gazing  Jews  were  struck,  who  plainly  saw, 
 
 That  whence  he  had  his  light,  he  had  his  law. 
 
 Those  sections,  which  the  sacred  code  begin, 
 
 Were  by  an  age  of  wonders  usher’d  in ; 
 
 The  prophets’  superstructure  firmly  stands 
 
 On  two  hewn  stones  laid  by  the’  Almighty’s  hands; 
 
 They  count  the  footsteps  of  their  coming  Lord, 
 
 They  view  the  mercy-seat  with  one  accord ; 
 
 e  3 
 
346 
 
 MASON. 
 
 One  tells  his  name,  another  tells  his  place, 
 
 Another  writes  the  beauties  of  his  face  : 
 
 Thus  is  He  glanced  at  by  their  piercing  eyes, 
 i  he  last  of  them  his  harbinger  espies. 
 
 And  O  the  brisk,  the  charming,  airs  that  spring 
 From  the  consent  of  each  harmonious  string! 
 
 He  s  over-wise  who  dreads  fictitious  lines 
 biom  hands  unbribed,  and  hearts  without  designs* 
 
 1  hey  wrote  beyond  themselves,  which  serves  to  prov 
 J  heir  hearts  and  hands  were  guided  from  above. 
 
 Ihe  world’s  just  age,  and  what  was  done  of  old 
 Are  in  the  Sacred  Register  enroll’d; 
 
 Here  may  be  seen  the  pristine  state  of  man, 
 
 And  (that  Nile’s  head)  the  source  where  ills  began  • 
 Here  may  be  seen  what  makes  a  second  spring- 
 Heie  is  the  best  account  of  every  thing. 
 
 The  wonders  witness’d  now  by  mortal  eyes, 
 
 Are  but  the  products  of  its  prophesies  • 
 
 The  Scriptures  rule  the  world ;  till  this  shall  burn, 
 
 All  ages  on  their  axle-tree  shall  turn. 
 
 This  heaven-inspired  volume  doth  avow 
 reason  may  embrace,  or  must  allow. 
 
 When  God  describes  himself,  ’tis  such  an  height 
 As  fur  surmounts  quick  fancie’s  highest  flight: 
 
 Tis  reason,  reason  should  be  puzzled  here ; 
 
 3Ian  should  be  God  if  he  knew  what  he  were : 
 lo  these  vast  heights  thus  sober  reason  saith, 
 
 “  I  see  the  seals,  and  yield  the  chair  to  faith.” 
 
 Now,  the  Almighty’s  word  shall  reptiles  slight, 
 
 When  heaven  and  earth  bear  witness  to  his  might? 
 vast  numbers  from  his  word  at  first  did  flow, 
 
 And  must  his  word  pass  for  a  cypher  now? 
 
 Nay,  his  commands  at  first  creations  were, 
 
 And  now  his  word  commands  and  gives  an  ear: 
 
 It  is  a  sun  that  gives  both  light  and  eyes, 
 
 A  voice  that  bids,  and  makes  the  dead  arise ; 
 
 It  makes  clouds,  stars,  and  sends  them  to  the  sky  • 
 And  turneth  Heaven  into  a  colony. 
 
 Unbelief  is  not  reason,  but  a  lust; 
 
 God’s  hand  and  sword  gives  it  its  mortal  thrust; 
 
HOWARD. 
 
 347 
 
 The  Law  of  the  two  tables  will  prevail, 
 
 When  other  self-invented  means  shall  fail ; 
 
 Whilst  other  archers  level  in  the  dark, 
 
 The  arrows  from  God’s  quiver  hit  the  mark. 
 
 What  voices,  or  what  visions,  would  you  have? 
 
 God’s  voice,  or  nothing,  will  your  brethren  save : 
 
 New  methods  of  salvation  to  contrive, 
 
 Is  fruitless  labour;  let  them  hear  and  live. 
 
 If  preachers  raised  by  God  they  will  disdain, 
 
 Preachers  raised  from  the  grave  would  preach  in  vain. 
 
 SIR  ROBERT  HOWARD. 
 
 Died  1700. 
 
 Author  of  The  Duel  of  the  Stags,  and  other  Poems. 
 
 Death  Familiar. 
 
 We  always  should  remember  Death  is  sure ; 
 
 What  grows  familiar  most,  we  best  endure  ; 
 
 For  life  and  death  succeed  like  night  and  day, 
 
 And  neither  gives  increase,  nor  brings  decay; 
 
 We  must  all  pass  through  Death’s  Dead-sea  of  night 
 To  reach  the  haven  of  eternal  light. 
 
348 
 
 BEAUMONT. 
 
 JOSEPH  BEAUMONT. 
 
 Born  1615.  Died  1699. 
 
 Author  of  Psyche,  or  Love's  Mystery,  in  Twenty -four  Cantos, 
 displaying  the  intercourse  between  Christ  and  the  Soul  :—t he  long¬ 
 est  Poem  in  the  English  language,  consisting  of  nearly  forty  thou¬ 
 sand  lines s  yet  scarcely  known,  even  by  name,  to  one  reader  in  a 
 thousand.  This  work  is  so  mystical,  allegorical,  and  rhapsodical, 
 that  it  would  be  vain  to  attempt  any  sketch  of  the  plan  here:  it  is 
 indeed,  like  some  other  poems  of  the  age,  ( Stirling's  Doome's  Dan 
 tor  example)  a  history  of  the  world,  in  a  certain  line,— here  limited 
 to  the  revelations  of  Himself  by  God,  “  at  sundry  times  and  in 
 divers  manners.”  The  pages  perpetually  present  striking  and 
 brilliant  scintillations  of  genius  and  tine  thought,  amidst  obscurity 
 and  dulness,  which  no  effort  of  patience  in  these  “  degenerate 
 days,”  (when  readers  are  as  much  stunted  in  their  plodding  facul¬ 
 ties  as  heroes  in  their  bodily  stature,  in  comparison  with  those  of 
 the  olden  time,)  can  be  expected  to  overcome ;  and  yet  that  the 
 enterprise  of  an  adventurer,  who  could  persevere  through  the 
 whole,  would  be  reasonably  rewarded,  must  be  manifest  from  the 
 quotations  that  follow. 
 
 John  the  Baptist  in  the  Wilderness. 
 
 [Phylax,  Psyche’s  Guardian  Angel,  describes  to  her  the  pictures 
 embroidered  on  a  girdle,  transmitted  to  her  by  “  the  Spouse.”] 
 
 But  there  the  scene  is  changed,  where  Desolation 
 Was  sole  inhabitant,  until  that  one 
 Poor  Ermite  chose  his  tamest  habitation, 
 
 Amidst  its  wildness:  that  plain  thing  is  John. 
 
 ’lis  strange  how  Mary  taught  such  gems  to  seem 
 So  vile  a  garb,  as  here  becloudeth  him. 
 
 That  cincture  stands  but  for  a  thong  of  leather, 
 
 That  vestiment  for  a  coat  of  camel’s  hair: 
 
 The  sum  of  all  his  wardrobe  was  no  other 
 But  what  upon  his  simple  self  he  bare. 
 
 “  No  riches  will  I  own,”  said  noble  he, 
 
 “  But  what  may  make  me  rich  in  poverty. 
 
BEAUMONT. 
 
 349 
 
 “  I  know  my  dust;  nor  shall  my  flesh  and  blood, 
 Flatter  my  heart  into  forgetfulness, 
 
 That  they  are  sentenced  to  become  the  food 
 Of  putrefaction  :  and  why  should  I  dress 
 Corruption’s  seeds  in  beautie’s  livery, 
 
 And  be  a  painted  tomb  before  I  dy? 
 
 “  I’ll  rob  no  ermyn  of  his  dainty  skin 
 
 To  make  mine  own  grow  proud:  no  cloth  of  gold 
 
 To  me  shall  dangerous  emulation  win: 
 
 I  live  to  live;  I  live  not  to  be  sold  : 
 
 And  fine  enough  this  clod  of  mine  shall  be 
 In  weeds  which  best  will  suit  humility. 
 
 “  This  hairy  covering  is  my  only  bed, 
 
 My  shirt,  my  cloke,  my  gown,  my  every-thing; 
 
 When  over  it  these  several  names  I  read, 
 
 His  furniture  I  well  can  spare  the  king, 
 
 The  tumult  of  whose  store  yields  no  supply 
 So  fully  fit,  as  my  epitomy.” 
 
 H  is  common  diet  those  poor  locusts  are; 
 
 And  when  he  feasts,  he  lifts  but  up  his  head, 
 
 And  strait  those  courteous  trees,  to  mend  his  fare, 
 Into  his  mouth  sincerest  honey  shed; 
 
 Nor  turns  he  down  that  mouth,  until  it  has 
 Pay’d  for  its  sweet  feast  by  a  sweeter  grace. 
 
 Here  with  himself  he  does  converse:  a  rare 
 And  painful  thing,  when  men  in  presses  dwell ; 
 Where,  whilst  on  those  who  crowd  them  still  they  stare, 
 Unhappy  they,  alas,  though  too,  too  well 
 Skilled  in  all  their  neighbours,  never  come 
 To  be  acquainted  with  themselves  at  home. 
 
 The  rest  of  his  acquaintance  dwelt  on  high, 
 
 Beyond  his  eyes’  reach,  but  within  his  heart’s: 
 
 For  with  what  speed  brave  lightnings  downward  fly, 
 Through  every  stage  of  heaven,  this  upward  darts: 
 Nor  will  its  sprightful  journey  bounded  be 
 By  any  rampart  but  immensity.  > 
 
BEAUMONT. 
 
 850 
 
 At  God  it  aims,  nor  ever  fails  to  hit 
 
 Its  blessed  mark,  whilst  on  strong  Prayer’s  wings, 
 
 Or  Contemplation’s  it  steers  its  flight: 
 
 And  rank’d  above  with  joyous  angels  sings, 
 
 Admires,  adores,  and  studies  to  forget 
 There  is  a  breast  below  which  wanteth  it. 
 
 He  fetch’d  no  bold  materials  from  the  deep 
 Bowels  of  any  marble  mine,  to  raise 
 A  daring  fabric,  which  might  scorn  the  steep 
 Torrent  of  headlong  time;  as  if  his  days 
 And  years  had  been  his  own,  and  he  might  here 
 Lord  of  his  life  for  ever  domineer. 
 
 He  knew  the  least  blast’s  indignation  might 
 His  brittle  dust  and  ashes  blow  away: 
 
 He  knew  most  certain  death’s  uncertain  night 
 Lurk’d  in  the  bosom  of  his  vital  day: 
 
 He  knew,  that  any  house  would  serve  him,  who 
 Look’d  for  no  home  so  long’s  he  dwelt  below. 
 
 That  cave  his  palace  was,  both  safe  and  strong, 
 Because  not  kept  by  jealous  door  nor  bar: 
 
 Those  groves  his  gardens,  where  he  walk’d  among 
 The  family  of  dread,  yet  knew  no  fear: 
 
 For  fear’s  wild  realm  is  not  the  wilderness, 
 
 But  that  foul  breast  where  guilt  the  dweller  is. 
 
 Those  bears,  those  boars,  those  wolves,  whose  ireful 
 face 
 
 Strikes  terror  into  other  mortal  eyes, 
 
 With  friendly  mildness  upon  him  did  gaze, 
 
 As  on  sweet  Adam  in  calm  paradise; 
 
 They  slander’d  are  with  savageness;  no  spleen 
 They  bear  to  man,  but  to  man’s  poison,  sin. 
 
 So  wild,  so  black,  and  so  mis-shaped  a  beast 
 Is  sin,  that  other  monsters  it  defy, 
 
 Asa  more  monstrous  thing  than  they,  and  cast 
 About  how  to  revenge  it :  but  the  eye 
 And  port  of  purity  so  reverend  are, 
 
 That  beasts  most  feared  wait  on  it  with  fear. 
 
BEAUMONT. 
 
 351 
 
 The  beams  of  this  angelic  life  at  last 
 Broke  out,  and  summon’d  in  new  admiration  ; 
 bor  man  at  length,  that  duller,  ruder  beast, 
 
 Is  by  these  brutes  convinced  to  imitation  : 
 
 Behold  that  thronging  rout,  which  hither  flies  ; 
 
 See  how  they  stare,  and  scarce  believe  their  eyes. 
 
 Ihese  deserts  nothing  less  than  desert  seem, 
 
 Being  crowded  from  themselves,  and  now  become 
 Jury’s  thick  towns,  and  fair  Jerusalem, 
 
 Which  hither  have  removed  their  populous  home: 
 What  now  has  John  lost  by  his  private  cell, 
 
 To  which  whole  towns  and  cities  flock  to  dwell  ? 
 
 Ihus  generous  honor  righteously  disdains 
 Even  to  be  touch’d  by  the  high-panting  reach 
 Of  bold  ambition;  but  through  hills  and  plains, 
 
 And  dens  and  caves,  and  deserts  hunts  to  catcii 
 The  modest  fugitive,  whom  worth  doth  hurry 
 From  worth’s  reward,  and  makes  afraid  of  glory. 
 
 His  auditory  now  so  ample  grown, 
 
 The  noble  Ermite  is  resolved  to  preach  : 
 
 “  Behold,”  says  he,  “  that  promised  glory’s  dawn, 
 (Which  to  behold,  the  patriarchs,  did  reach 
 Their  necks  and  eyes  through  many  a  shady  thing,) 
 In  your  horizon  now  begins  to  spring. 
 
 “  O  fail  ye  not  to  meet  his  gracious  beams 
 With  un  defiled  hearts;  for  such  is  He; 
 
 And  will  baptize  you  with  refined  streams 
 Ot  searching  fire,  that  you  may  metal  be 
 Of  pure  alloy,  and,  signed  with  his  face 
 And  motto,  through  his  realm  for  current  pass. 
 
 “  Let  not  that  power  of  spots  and  blots,  which  in 
 lour  souls  now  reigns,  make  you  despair  to  be 
 .rreed  from  the  filthy  bondage  of  your  sin, 
 
 For  you  aforehand  shall  be  wash’d  by  me ; 
 
 3Iy  water  for  his  fire  the  way  prepares, 
 
 As  for  my  water  must  your  hearty  tears.” 
 
352 
 
 BEAUMONT. 
 
 Observ’st  thou,  Psyche,  how  that  silver  stream 
 Its  limpid  sell  doth  through  the  girdle  wind: 
 tins  Jordan  is,  and  there  the  people  seem 
 At  busy  crowding  strife  who  first  should  find 
 A  better  baptism  in  those  floods,  which  may 
 their  fruitless  legal  washings  wash  away. 
 
 Christ  Baptized  by  John. 
 
 [Another  scene  represented  in  the  girdle.] 
 
 But  mark  that  graceful  He:  how  sweet  his  eye 
 How  delicate  and  how  divine  his  face  ’ 
 
 Embellish  d  with  heart-conquering  majesty1 
 Wert  thou  to  choose  thy  spouse,  wouldst  thou  not 
 Thy  soul  to  Him?  ’Tis  He:  O  no,  it  is 
 As  much  of  him  as  jewels  can  express. 
 
 To  be  baptized,  not  cleansed,  cometh  Pie, 
 
 Who  is  more  spotless  than  that  living  Light 
 Which  gilds  the  crest  of  heaven’s  sublimity- 
 Pie  comes,  by  being  washed  to  wash  white  ’ 
 Baptism  itself,  that  it  henceforth  from  Him 
 Ana  his  puie  touch,  with  purity  may  swim. 
 
 As  when,  amongst  a  gross  ignoble  crowd 
 01  flints  and  peebles  and  such  earth-bred  stones, 
 An  heaven-descended  diamond  strives  to  shroud 
 Its  lustre’s  brave  ejaculations; 
 
 Although  it  ’scapes  the  test  of  vulgar  eyes 
 The  wiser  jeweller  the  gem  descries :~  ’ 
 
 ."so  most  judicious  John’s  discerning  eye 
 This  Stranger’s  shy  but  noble  splendor  read  * 
 Besides,  when  others  to  their  baptism  by  ’ 
 
 A  penitent  confession  prefaced, 
 
 He  waved  that  useless  circumstance,  and  so 
 Himself  conceal’d,  yet  intimated  too. 
 
 See  how  suspense  astounds  the  Baptist :  for 
 The  promised  sign  his  Master  to  descry 
 
BEAUMONT. 
 
 353 
 
 Appeared  not :  this  made  his  just  demur 
 Dispute  the  case,  and  resolutely  cry, 
 
 “If  Thou  art  spotless,  fitter  ’tis  for  me 
 Who  sinful  am,  to  be  baptized  by  Thee/* 
 
 But  when  his  Lord  reply’d,  “  For  once  let  me 
 Prevail,  since  thus  alone  we  must  fulfil 
 The  sum  of  righteousness ambiguous,  He 
 Felt  sacred  awe  surprise  his  trembling  will: 
 
 He  mused,  and  guess’d,  and  hovered  about 
 
 The  glimmering  truth  with  many  a  yielding  thought. 
 
 Which  Jesus  seeing,  He  upon  him  threw 
 The  urgent  yoke  of  an  express  injunction; 
 
 Whose  virtue  forthwith  efficacious  grew, 
 
 And  made  the  meek  saint  bow  to  his  high  functions : 
 Cast  but  thine  eye  a  little  up  the  stream, 
 
 Wading  in  crystal  there  thou  seest  them. 
 
 Old  Jordan  smiled,  receiving  such  high  pay 
 For  those  small  pains  obedient  he  had  spent, 
 
 Making  his  waters  guard  the  dryed  way 
 Through  wonders  when  to  Canaan  Israel  went; 
 
 Nor  does  he  envy  now  Pactolus  streams 
 Or  eastern  floods,  whose  paths  are  paved  with  gems. 
 
 The  waves  came  crowding  one  upon  another 
 To  their  fair  Lord,  their  chaste  salute  to  give : 
 
 Each  one  did  chide  and  justle  back  his  brother, 
 
 And  with  laborious  foaming  murmur  strive 
 To  kiss  those  feet,  and  so  more  spotless  grow. 
 
 Than  from  its  virgin  spring  it  first  did  flow. 
 
 But  those  most  happy  drops  the  Baptist  cast 
 On  life’s  pure  head,  into  the  joyless  sea 
 Which  borroweth  from  death  its  stile,  made  haste. 
 And  soon  confuted  that  sad  heraldry: 
 
 The  deep  that  day  revived,  and  clapt  his  hands, 
 
 And  roll’d  his  smiles  about  his  wond’ring  strands. 
 
354- 
 
 BEAUMONT. 
 
 See  there  thy  spouse  is  on  the  bank,  and  more 
 Than  heaven  flown  down  and  pitch’d  upon  his  head ; 
 That  snowy  Dove,  which  perched  heretofore 
 High  on  the  all-illustrious  throne  of  God, 
 
 Hath  chose  this  seat,  nor  thinks  it  a  descent 
 On  such  high  terms  to  leave  the  firmament. 
 
 For  wheresoever  Jesus  is,  although 
 In  the  profoundest  gulph  of  black  disgrace, 
 
 Still  Glory  triumphs  in  his  soveraign  brow, 
 
 Still  Majesty  holds  its  imperial  place 
 In  the  bright  orb  of  his  all-lovely  eye; 
 
 Still  most  depressed  He  remains  Most  High. 
 
 And  heaven  well  witness’d  this  strange  truth,  which  in 
 That  wondrous  instant  oped  its  mouth,  and  cry’d, 
 
 “  This  is  my  darling  Son,  in  whom  do  shine 
 All  my  joy’s  jewels.”  O  how  far  and  wide 
 That  voice  did  fly,  on  which  each  wind  gat  hold, 
 And  round  about  the  world  the  wonder  told. 
 
 Christ  stilling  the  Tempest. 
 
 Here  having  step’d  aboard,  Fie  turn’d  his  eye 
 Upon  the  storm,  and  sternly  signified 
 His  royal  will :  their  duty  instantly 
 The  winds  discover’d  in  that  glance,  and  hied 
 Away  in  such  great  haste  and  fear,  that  they 
 Lost  all  their  breath  and  spirits  by  the  way. 
 
 The  mutinous  billows  saw  his  awful  look, 
 
 And  hush’d  themselves  all  close  into  their  deep  : 
 The  sea  grew  tame  and  smooth ;  the  thunder  broke 
 Its  threatning  off;  forth  durst  no  lightning  peep, 
 But  kept  its  black  nest,  now  outshined  by 
 The  flashing  mandates  of  its  Master’s  eye. 
 
 The  Devils,  who  all  this  while  had  toss’d  and  rent 
 The  elements,  perceived  the  final  wrack 
 
KEN 
 
 355 
 
 Fall  on  their  own  design,  and  yelling  went 
 Home  to  their  pangs ;  the  clouds  in  sunder  brake, 
 And  having  clear’d  the  scene  of  these  loud  wars, 
 Left  heaven’s  free  face  all  full  of  smiling  stars. 
 
 Forthwith  the  ship  without  or  sail,  or  tide, 
 
 Kept  strait  its  course,  and  flew  to  kiss  the  shore : 
 Where  Jesus  deigns  to  be  the  vessel’s  Guide, 
 
 There  needs  no  help  of  time,  tide,  wind,  or  oar; 
 His  eye  alone  might  drive  the  bark,  whose  look 
 Abash’d  the  sea,  the  storm  with  terror  stroke. 
 
 His  eye,  his  eye  is  that  eternal  star 
 Which  gildeth  both  the  poles ;  which  day  and  night 
 Equally  shines;  which  guides  all  those  who  are 
 Sailing  in  life’s  rough  sea:  for  by  his  light, 
 
 And  none  but  his,  each  mortal  mariner 
 
 Who  goes  for  safety’s  port,  his  course  must  steer. 
 
 THOMAS  KEN. 
 
 Born  1637.  Died  1710. 
 
 Sometime  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells.  He  had  the  double  honour 
 of  being  one  of  the  seven  prelates,  sent  to  the  Tower  for  protesting 
 against  the  tyrannical  usurpations  of  spiritual  authority  by  James 
 I  I.  and  also  of  conscientiously  vacating  his  see,  rather  than  take 
 the  oaths  to  William  III.  after  having  sworn  allegiance  to  his 
 predecessor.— His  Poems  are  numerous  and  of  considerable  merit, 
 though  by  three  only  is  he  now  generally  known — the  Morning , 
 Evening ,  and  Midnight  Hymns. 
 
 Christ's  virtual  presence  on  Earth . 
 
 When  Peter  cry’d  out,  sinking  in  the  wave, 
 And  Jesus  stretch’d  his  hand  the  saint  to  save; 
 Had  Jesus  been  in  heaven  when  Peter  pray’d, 
 And  sent  invisible,  yet  mighty  aid; 
 
356 
 
 KEN. 
 
 He  as  effectually  had  Peter  freed, 
 
 Had  been  as  present  in  the  time  of  need, 
 As  if  He  had  been  treading  on  the  main,’ 
 And  reach  d  his  hand  his  votary  to  sustain  : 
 Christ’s  virtual  presence  may  as  real  be 
 As  if  we  should  his  person  present  see.’ 
 
 Indifference  to  the  Word  of  God. 
 
 See  Christians  there  in  throngs  the  church  attend, 
 1  here  warn  d  of  heaven  and  hell,  they  rarely  mend 
 Thus  a  sweet  voice  which  sings  a  pleasing  lay, 
 While  on  the  lute  the  artful  fingers  play, 
 
 M  hile  the  sound  lasts,  may  entertain  the  mind. 
 
 But  ceasing,  no  impression  leaves  behind; 
 
 Even  Priests  too  oft,  who  to  consider  teach. 
 Themselves  scarce  re-consider  what  they  preach. 
 
 A  Good  Priest 
 
 Give  me  the  Priest -these  graces  shall  possess;— 
 Of  an  ambassador  the  just  address, 
 
 A  father’s  tenderness,  a  shepherd’s  care, 
 
 A  leader’s  courage,  which  the  cross  can  bear, 
 
 A  ruler’s  awe,  a  watchman’s  wakeful  eye, 
 
 A  pilot’s  skill,  the  helm  in  storms  to  ply, 
 
 A  fisher’s  patience,  and  a  labourer’s  toil, 
 
 A  guide’s  dexterity  to  disembroil, 
 
 A  prophet’s  inspiration  from  above, 
 
 A  teacher’s  knowledge,  and  a  Saviour’s  love. 
 
 Edmund  and  Hilda . 
 
 As  two  embracing  palms,  whose  roots  conjoin, 
 \\  hose  boughs  to  a  perpetual  kiss  incline ; 
 
KEN. 
 
 357 
 
 Their  shady  locks  into  each  other  wreath, 
 
 Their  mutual  sweets  into  each  other  breathe; 
 
 Their  morning  dew  into  eacli  other  drop, 
 
 Both  feel  the  wound,  if  you  should  either  crop ; 
 Their  odorous  flowers  at  the  same  season  blow, 
 
 Both  twine  the  more,  the  more  their  branches  grow; 
 Both  influenced  are,  and  warm’d  by  the  same  ray, 
 Both  by  a  separation  soon  decay : 
 
 Edmund  and  Hilda  thus  soft  passions  vie, 
 
 Together  spring,  live,  flower,  and  wish  to  die; 
 
 To  die,  for  both  their  parting  hour  fore-view’d, 
 
 And  to  God’s  gracious  will  their  loves  subdued. 
 
 Hilda  at  Home. 
 
 Hilda,  while  Edmund  toil’d  in  state-affairs, 
 
 Eased  him  of  all  his  ceconomick  cares. 
 
 In  all  that  bounded  was  within  her  sphere, 
 
 Her  wisdom  shined,  in  her  whole  conduct,  clear; 
 No  vain  expence  she  on  herself  bestow’d, 
 
 A  spirit  frugal,  and  yet  generous  show’d ; 
 
 She  of  God’s  blessings  could  no  waste  endure, 
 
 But  in  rewards  was  bountiful  and  sure ; 
 
 The  poor  had  an  allotted  liberal  share, 
 
 In  all  that  she  with  decency  could  spare; 
 
 Her  speech  was  uncensorious  and  restrain’d, 
 
 All  that  she  spake  a  pleased  attention  gain’d; 
 
 In  her  discourse  a  gleam  of  virtue  shined, 
 Impressing  virtuous  tinctures  on  the  mind; 
 
 Her  robes  she  wore  when  form  of  state  required, 
 The  pomp  she  rather  suffer’d  than  desired ; 
 
 Yet  on  the  throne,  when  she  appear’d  a  queen, 
 More  graceful  majesty  was  never  seen  ; 
 
 Her  usual  dress  was  comely,  never  gay, 
 
 No  new  vain  fashion  could  her  judgment  sway; 
 Humility  so  ballasted  he/soul, 
 
 It  never  to  self-cbnfidence  could  roll; 
 
 •She  could  no  praise,  no  flattery  ever  bear, 
 
 She  seem’d  to  have  ne’er  known  that  she  was  fair ; 
 
358 
 
 KEN. 
 
 She,  like  a  star,  seem’d  little  light  to  cast, 
 
 Yet  had  a  splendor  and  an  orbit  vast; 
 
 Meek  in  command,  of  conversation  sweet, 
 
 Free  from  harsh  words,  disdain,  pride,  peevish  heat ; 
 In  well-chose  friendships  constant  and  sincere, 
 
 And  pitiful  when  forced  to  be  severe; 
 
 She  gratefully  a  kindness  overpaid, 
 
 And  but  the  virtuous  none  her  favourites  made. 
 
 God  is  Love. 
 
 By  various  names  we  thy  perfections  call, 
 
 But  pure,  unfathom’d  love,  exhausts  them  all; 
 
 By  love  all  things  were  made,  and  are  sustain’d, 
 Love  all  things,  to  allure  man’s  love  ordain’d; 
 
 Love  vengeance  from  lapsed  human  race  suspends, 
 Love  our  salvation,  when  provoked,  intends ; 
 
 Love,  Lord,  thy  infinite  perfections  join’d, 
 
 Into  all  forms  of  love  to  save  mankind ; 
 Enlightening  wisdom,  and  supporting  might, 
 
 Grace  to  forgive,  compassion  to  invite; 
 
 Thy  bounty  in  rewards  which  thought  exceed, 
 Munificence  to  promise  all  we  need ; 
 
 Truth  to  perform,  paternal,  tender  care, 
 
 A  patient  mildness  long  to  wait,  and  spare ; 
 
 A  justice,  to  chastise  love’s  hatefull  foes, 
 
 With  jealousy,  cursed  rivals  to  oppose; 
 
 Benignity,  to  hear  a  sinner’s  cry, 
 
 Unbounded  all-sufficience,  to  supply  ; 
 
 They  all  are  love,  love  only  is  their  aim, 
 
 My  verse  shall  love,  and  hymn  Thee  by  that  name. 
 
 A  Sinner  converted. 
 
 I  had  one  only  thing  to  do, 
 
 Yet  would  a  thousand  things  pursue; 
 God  only  could  exhaust  my  mind, 
 
 In  God  alone  I  rest  could  find; 
 
KEN. 
 
 359 
 
 Yet  o’er  the  world  wild  flights  I  took, 
 While  I  my  self  and  God  forsook. 
 
 My  thought  things  perishable  fill’d, 
 
 My  soul,  what  was  my  poison  will’d ; 
 
 I  fondly  loved  what  I  should  hate, 
 
 Desired  what  horror  should  create  : 
 
 I  lying  vanities  believed, 
 
 And  trusted  most,  where  most  deceived. 
 
 As  soon  might  the  autumnal  sun, 
 
 To  Libra,  when  its  course  was  run, 
 Revolve,  till  it  to  Aries  reel’d, 
 
 And  with  new  spring  bedeck’d  the  field, 
 As  I  from  sin  my  heart  estrange, 
 
 And  my  entire  propension  change. 
 
 God  shining  on  me  from  his  throne, 
 Benignly  brake  this  heart  of  stone; 
 
 All  love  to  God,  whose  gracious  stroke 
 Enflamed  my  heart,  as  well  as  broke : 
 Conscience,  whom  I  with  opiates  ply’d, 
 Now  wake,  and  be  my  watchful  guide. 
 
 On  Thee,  my  God,  my  thought  shall  muse, 
 Thee  sovereignly  my  will  shall  chuse 
 My  love  shall  to  my  love  aspire, 
 
 The  sole  desirable  desire; 
 
 Thou  wilt  have  all  my  heart  or  none. 
 
 The  world  I  for  thy  sake  disown. 
 
 My  soul  shall  long  for  blissful  sight, 
 
 Shall  in  the  source  of  joy  delight; 
 
 In  hymns  I  day  by  day  will  sing 
 The  favours  of  my  heavenly  King; 
 
 My  powers  from  Thee,  my  God,  descend. 
 And  shall  to  thy  sole  glory  tend. 
 
 Lord,  I,  self-offer’d,  am  not  mine, 
 
 Keep  safe  this  heart  entirely  thine  ; 
 
 Let  not  hell-powers  in  triumph  say, 
 
 That  what  was  thine  they  made  their  prey; 
 
360 
 
 KEN. 
 
 Maim’d  is  the  offering,  yet  sincere, 
 Heaven  will  its  imperfections  clear. 
 
 Sweet  Remembrances, 
 
 I  oft  recall  the  moments  dear, 
 
 Enjoy’d  in  penitential  tear, 
 
 A  beam  of  pardon  through  me  shined, 
 Diffusing  sweetness  o’er  my  mind; 
 
 Upon  my  knees,  while  that  I  felt, 
 
 I  could  eternally  have  dwelt. 
 
 My  God,  to  what  endearing  ways 
 Dost  Thou  descend  my  love  to  raise, 
 
 The  wings  of  the  all.-gracious  Dove 
 Shed  soft,  sweet,  penitential  love; 
 Thought  humble  and  devout  traject, 
 
 And  make  me  on  myself  reflect. 
 
 Lord,  when  the  blessings  of  both  lives, 
 To  recollect  my  spirit  strives ; 
 
 Their  number  and  their  greatness  swell. 
 To  heights  which  lowly  verse  excel ; 
 
 Yet  viewing  my  vile  self,  I  more 
 Thy  goodness  undeserved  adore. 
 
 Thy  self,  O  amiable  Lord! 
 
 Thou  hast  proposed  for  our  reward; 
 
 And  thy  benignities  so  clear, 
 
 So  beatifical  appear, 
 
 That  ’tis  impossible  to  love, 
 
 And  not  desire  thy  sight  above. 
 
 Lord,  while  in  view  thy  love  I  keep. 
 The  fruits  of  love  I  daily  reap ; 
 Heart-easing  tears  whene’er  I  slide, 
 Some  loveliness  yet  undescry’d ; 
 
 Or  zeal  all  frozen  hearts  to  fire, 
 
 Till  they  to  love  Thee  shall  conspire:— 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 To  prayer  some  gracious  answers  sent, 
 Some  meditations  more  intent; 
 
 Or  sudden  fervency  devout, 
 
 Or  heavenly  guidance  when  in  doubt ; 
 
 Or  fresh  aversions  to  false  joy, 
 
 Or  some  new  hymns  which  love  employ. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 1600  to  1700. 
 
 [From  “  Youth’s  Introduction  to  Divine  Harmony.”] 
 
 A  Sacramental  Hymn. 
 
 How  sweet  the  angel-trumpets  sound, 
 With  heaven’s  kind  invitation, 
 
 That  call,  the  altar  to  surround, 
 
 In  paschal  celebration : 
 
 Our  Father  has  us  Wellcome  bid, 
 
 Upon  the  Holy  Lamb  to  feed, 
 
 With  blest  solemnization. 
 
 O  sacred  viands,  here  prepared 
 For  our  divine  repasting! 
 
 O  sacred  gate,  for  us  unbarr’d 
 To  pleasures  everlasting ! 
 
 Jesus  is  manna,  bread  divine; 
 
 Jesus  is  oyl,  is  milk  and  wine, 
 
 And  honey  to  our  tasting. 
 
 Who  would  not,  Lord,  remember  Thee, 
 On  all  such  blest  occasions? 
 
 O  can  thy  cross  e’er  buried  be 
 In  worldly  occupations 3 
 
 Q 
 
 32 
 
362 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 O  tree  so  dry,  such  fruit  to  bring 
 
 As  ne’er  in  paradise  did  spring, 
 
 For  healing  of  the  nations. 
 
 Into  what  mysteries  must  we  dive, 
 
 In  this  divine  refection  ? 
 
 We  live  to  die,  we  die  to  live, 
 
 In  blissful  resurrection. 
 
 Dear  Lord,  who  would  not  die  with  Thee, 
 
 In  death  the  new-birth’s  gate  to  see, 
 
 And  inlet  to  perfection? 
 
 Good  Lord,  extend  thy  charity 
 To  thy  poor  flock  disjointed; 
 
 Restore  thy  church’s  unity, 
 
 As  when  ’twas  first  appointed. 
 
 O  let  us  live  in  love  with  Thee, 
 
 And  in  fraternal  amity, 
 
 With  ^yl  of  grace  anointed. 
 
 A  Breathing  after  Rest . 
 
 Each  day  on  wings  vexation  brings, 
 
 And  certain  cares  abounding ; 
 
 Yet  shall  not  this  disturb  our  bliss, 
 
 With  restless  thoughts  confounding. 
 
 God’s  promise  true  is  ever  new 
 To  hearts  in  him  confiding; 
 
 His  heavenly  grace,  in  every  case, 
 
 Advice  and  aid  providing. 
 
 Ah!  God  let  me  burn  ardently 
 In  thy  sweet  love  for  ever  ; 
 
 And  succour  send,  when  the’  evil  fiend 
 Me  from  my  rest  would  sever. 
 
 I’d  own  thy  truth  with  heart  and  mouth, 
 Before  thy  sceptre  falling; 
 
 Thy  Spirit  in  me,  of  liberty, 
 
 Thee  Abba,  Father,  calling. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 363 
 
 We  wait  the  dear  sabbatick  year 
 Of  grace  and  judgment  greeting; 
 
 All  enemies  made  now  thy  prize, 
 
 And  at  thy  feet  submitting. 
 
 When  every  king  shall  tribute  bring, 
 Their  rights  to  Thee  revolving ; 
 
 And  every  crown  be  molten  down, 
 
 In  thy  pure  love  dissolving. 
 
 O  Sion’s  rock  !  save  thy  poor  flock ; 
 Thy  faithful  word  remember; 
 
 Confirm  the  hands,  and  break  the  bands 
 Of  each  distressed  member. 
 
 Thy  will  be  known,  thy  trumpet  blown 
 For  joy  and  jubilating : 
 
 All  nations  round  in  peace  be  found, 
 Thy  Sabbath  celebrating. 
 
 A  Hue  and  Cry  after  Peace. 
 
 [Written  on  the  dissensions  in  Church  and  State,  about  the  middle 
 of  the  seventeenth  century.] 
 
 O  sacred  Peace,  where  art  thou  fled? 
 
 What  region  hides  thy  drooping  head  ? 
 
 Fled  from  the  church,  fled  from  the  state, 
 
 Fled  from  the  poor,  and  from  the  great. 
 
 An  exile  now  from  every  land, 
 
 Even  where  thy  sovereign’s  altars  stand ; 
 
 Fled  from  our  pastimes  and  delights, 
 
 Even  these  but  pall  our  appetites. 
 
 Peace  for  the  wicked  ne’er  was  known ; 
 
 But  peace  is  now  from  Zion  flown ; 
 
 Driven  to  the  deserts  and  the  woods, 
 
 And  there  pursued  by  dragon-floods. 
 
 O  Prince  of  Peace,  how  canst  Thou  see 
 Thy  subjects’  wreck  and  misery! 
 
 — Love  cannot  dwell  with  wrath  and  spite ; 
 
 No  peace  with  God  where  brethren  fight. 
 
 q.  2 
 
364 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 Yet,  Zion,  cast  on  Him  thy  care, 
 
 And  bear  of  present  ills  thy  share; 
 
 Yea,  at  the  worst,  dismiss  thy  fears, 
 
 For,  at  the  worst,  thy  God  appears. 
 
 Thy  suffering  Lord  obtain’d  his  birth, 
 
 In  peace  proclaim’d  throughout  the  earth ; 
 The  man-child  of  triumphant  power, 
 
 Comes  forth  even  in  the  darkness-hour. 
 
 He  breaks  the  clouds,  and  thunders  through 
 The  storm,  with  gales  that  stronger  blow ; 
 He  awes  the  tempest  with  his  nod 
 And  quells  his  foes  with  iron-rod. 
 
 Then  shall  the  Virgin  Peace  return, 
 
 And  Love  in  flames  seraphic  burn, 
 
 And  jointly  in  all  hearts  shall  reign. 
 
 As  every  where  they  now  lie  slain. 
 
 EDMUND  WALLER. 
 Born  1605.  Died  1687. 
 
 Waller,  like  Cowley,  had  his  portion  of  fame  in  this  life.  The 
 latter,  however,  may  be  revived  occasionally  from  the  death  of  ob¬ 
 livion,  and  command  the  admiration  of  posterity ;  the  former  never. 
 Waller’s  poems  were  principally  on  fugitive  or  fanciful  themes,  and 
 their  beauty  was  so  evanescent,  that  we  look  almost  in  vain  in  the 
 best  of  them  for  that  which  charmed  his  contemporaries. 
 
 Youth  and  Age. 
 
 The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  are  o’er, 
 So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more ! 
 For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
 Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 
 
WALLER. 
 
 365 
 
 Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
 Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries  : 
 
 The  soul’s  dark  cottage,  batter’d  and  decay’d, 
 
 Lets  in  new  light  thro’  chinks  that  time  has  made. 
 
 Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become 
 As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home ; 
 
 Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view’, 
 That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 
 
 Divine  Love . 
 
 Could  we  forbear  dispute,  and  practise  love. 
 
 We  should  agree,  as  angels  do  above. 
 
 Where  love  presides,  not  vice  alone  does  find 
 No  entrance  there,  but  virtues  stay  behind ; 
 
 Both  faith  and  hope,  and  all  the  meaner  train 
 Of  moral  virtues,  at  the  door  remain. 
 
 Love  only  enters  as  a  native  there ; 
 
 For,  born  in  Heaven,  it  does  but  sojourn  here. 
 
 He  that  alone  would  wise  and  mighty  be. 
 Commands  that  others  love  as  well  as  He. 
 
 Love  as  He  loved  !— How  can  we  soar  so  high?— 
 He  can  add  wings,  when  He  commands  to  fiy. 
 
 Nor  should  we  be  with  this  command  dismay’d; 
 
 He  that  examples  gives,  will  give  his  aid  : 
 
 For  He  took  flesh,  that,  where  his  precepts  fail, 
 
 His  practice,  as  a  pattern,  may  prevail. 
 
 His  love,  at  once,  and  dread  instruct  our  thought; 
 As  man  He  suffered,  and  as  God  He  taught. 
 
 Will  for  the  deed  He  takes;  we  may  with  ease 
 Obedient  be,  for  if  we  love,  we  please. 
 
 Weak  though  we  are,  to  love  is  no  hard  task, 
 
 And  love  for  love  is  all  that  Heaven  does  ask. 
 
 Love!  that  would  all  men  just  and  temperate  make. 
 Kind  to  themselves  and  others  for  his  sake. 
 
 ’Tis  with  our  minds  as  with  a  fertile  ground, 
 Wanting  this  love,  they  must  with  weeds  abound, 
 {Unruly  passions)  w'hose  effects  are  worse 
 Than  thorns  and  thistles,  springing  from  the  curse. 
 
366 
 
 ROSCOMMON. 
 
 EARL  OF  ROSCOMMON. 
 
 Born  1633.  Died  1684. 
 
 The  Day  of  Judgment. 
 
 The  last  loud  trumpet’s  wondrous  sound 
 Shall  through  the  rending  tombs  rebound. 
 And  wake  the  nations  under  ground. 
 
 Nature  and  Death  shall,  with  surprise, 
 Behold  the  pale  offender  rise, 
 
 And  view  the  Judge  with  conscious  eyes. 
 
 Then  shall,  with  universal  dread, 
 
 The  sacred  mystic  book  be  read, 
 
 To  try  the  living  and  the  dead. 
 
 The  Judge  ascends  his  awful  throne, 
 
 He  makes  each  secret  sin  be  known, 
 
 And  all  with  shame  confess  their  own. 
 
 O  then !  what  interest  shall  I  make, 
 
 To  save  my  last  important  stake, 
 
 When  the  most  just  have  cause  to  quake? 
 
 Thou  mighty,  formidable  King, 
 
 Thou  mercy’s  unexhausted  spring, 
 
 Some  comfortable  pity  bring ! 
 
 Forget  not  what  my  ransom  cost, 
 
 Nor  let  my  dear-bought  soul  be  lost, 
 
 In  storms  of  guilty  terrour  tost. 
 
 Thou,  who  for  me  didst  feel  such  pain, 
 Whose  precious  blood  the  cross  did  stain, 
 Let  not  those  agonies  be  vain. 
 
POMFRET. 
 
 367 
 
 Thou,  who  wert  moved  with  Mary’s  grief, 
 And,  by  absolving  of  the  thief, 
 
 Hast  given  me  hope,  now  give  relief. 
 
 Reject  not  my  unworthy  prayer, 
 
 Preserve  me  from  that  dangerous  snare 
 Which  death  and  gaping  hell  prepare. 
 
 Give  my  exalted  soul  a  place 
 Among  thy  chosen  right-hand  race  ; 
 
 The  sons  of  God,  and  heirs  of  grace. 
 
 Prostrate  my  contrite  heart  I  rend, 
 
 My  God,  my  Father,  and  my  Friend, 
 
 Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end. 
 
 JOHN  POMFRET. 
 
 Born  1667.  Died  1703. 
 
 Principal  Works  :—The  Choice  and  other  Poems. 
 
 The  Benefits  of  Affliction. 
 
 Too  soft  caresses  of  a  prosperous  fate 
 The  pious  fervours  of  the  soul  abate  ; 
 
 Tempt  to  luxurious  ease  our  careless  days, 
 
 And  gloomy  vapour  round  the  spirits  raise. 
 Thus  lull’d  into  a  sleep,  we  dozing  lie, 
 
 And  find  our  ruin  in  security; 
 
 Unless  some  sorrow  comes  to  our  relief, 
 
 And  breaks  the’  enchantment  by  a  timely  grief. 
 Rut  as  we  are  allow’d,  to  cheer  our  sight, 
 
 In  blackest  days,  some  glimmerings  of  light, 
 
 So.  in  the  most  dejected  hours,  we  may 
 The  secret  pleasure  have  to  weep  and  pray; 
 
368 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 And  those  requests  the  speediest  passage  find 
 To  heaven,  which  How  from  an  afflicted  mind : 
 
 And  while  to  Him  we  open  our  distress, 
 
 Our  pains  grow  lighter  and  our  sorrows  less. 
 
 The  finest  music  of  the  grove  we  owe 
 To  mourning  Philomel’s  harmonious  woe ; 
 
 And  while  her  grief’s  in  charming  notes  express’d, 
 A  thorny  bramble  pricks  her  tender  breast; 
 
 In  warbling  melody  she  spends  the  night. 
 
 And  moves  at  once  compassion  and  delight. 
 
 No  choice  had  e’er  so  happy  an  event, 
 
 Put  he  that  made  it  did  that  choice  repent, 
 
 So  weak  our  judgment,  and  so  short  our  sight, 
 
 We  cannot  level  our  own  wishes  right: 
 
 And  if  sometimes  we  make  a  wise  advance, 
 
 To’  ourselves  we  little  owe,  but  much  to  chance. 
 
 JOHN  DRYDEN. 
 
 Born  1631.  Died  1701. 
 
 Author  of  Miscellaneous  Poems ,  Plays,  and  Translations. 
 
 Divine  Revelation. 
 
 [From  Religio  Laid.'] 
 
 But  if  there  be  a  power  too  just  and  strong, 
 
 To  wink  at  crimes,  and  bear  unpunish’d  wrong; 
 Look  humbly  upward,  see  his  will  disclose 
 The  forfeit  first,  and  then  the  fine  impose: 
 
 A  mulct,  thy  poverty  could  never  pay, 
 
 Had  not  Eternal  Wisdom  found  the  way : 
 
 And  with  celestial  wealth  supply’d  thy  store: 
 
 His  justice  makes  the  fine,  his  mercy  quits  the  score. 
 
DRYDEN. 
 
 369 
 
 See  God  descending  in  thy  human  frame; 
 
 The’  offended  suffering  in  the’  offender’s  name: 
 
 All  thy  misdeeds  to  him  imputed  see, 
 
 And  all  his  righteousness  devolved  on  thee. 
 
 For,  granting  we  have  sinn’d,  and  that  the’  offence 
 Of  man  is  made  against  Omnipotence, 
 
 Some  price  that  bears  proportion  must  be  paid ; 
 
 And  infinite  with  infinite  he  weigh’d. 
 
 See  then  the  deist  lost:  remorse  for  vice, 
 
 Not  paid  ;  or,  paid,  inadequate  in  price  : 
 
 What  further  means  can  reason  now  direct, 
 
 Or  what  relief  from  human  wit  expect? 
 
 That  shows  us  sick  ;  and  sadly  are  we  sure 
 Still  to  he  sick,  till  Heaven  reveal  the  cure : 
 
 If  then  Heaven’s  will  must  needs  be  understood, 
 Which  must,  if  we  want  cure, 'and  heaven  be  good, 
 Let  all  records  of  will  reveal’d  be  shown ; 
 
 With  Scripture  all  in  equal  balance  thrown, 
 
 And  our  one  sacred  book  will  be  that  one. 
 
 Proof  needs  not  here  ;  for  whether  we  compare 
 That  impious,  idle,  superstitious  ware 
 Of  rites,  lustrations,  offerings,  which  before, 
 
 In  various  ages,  various  countries  bore, 
 
 With  Christian  faith  and  virtues,  we  shall  find 
 None  answering  the  great  ends  of  human  kind 
 But  this  one  rule  of  life,  that  shows  us  best 
 How  God  may  be  appeased  and  mortals  blest. 
 Whether  from  length  of  time  its  worth  we  draw, 
 
 The  word  is  scarce  more  ancient  than  the  law : 
 Heaven’s  early  care  prescribed  for  every  age; 
 
 First,  in  the  soul,  and  after,  in  the  page. 
 
 Or,  whether  more  abstractedly  we  look, 
 
 Or  on  the  writers,  or  the  written  book, 
 
 Whence,  but  from  heaven,  could  men  unskill’d  in  arts, 
 In  several  ages  born,  in  several  parts, 
 
 Weave  such  agreeing  truths?  or  how,  or  why, 
 
 Should,  all  conspire  to  cheat  us  with  a  lie? 
 
 Unask’d  their  pains,  ungrateful  their  advice, 
 
 Starving  their  gain,  and  martyrdom  their  price. 
 
 If  on  the  book  itself  we  cast  our  view, 
 
 Concurrent  heathens  prove  the  story  true : 
 
 Q  3 
 
370 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 The  doctrine,  miracles;  which  must  convince, 
 
 For  Heaven  in  them  appeals  to  human  sense: 
 
 And  though  they  prove  not,  they  confirm  the  cause. 
 When  what  is  taught  agrees  with  Nature’s  laws. 
 
 Then  for  the  style,  majestic  and  divine ; 
 
 It  speaks  no  less  than  God  in  every  line  : 
 Commanding  words;  whose  force  is  still  the  same 
 As  the  first  fiat  that  produced  our  frame. 
 
 All  faiths  beside,  or  did  by  arms  ascend; 
 
 Or  sense  indulged  has  made  mankind  their  friend : 
 This  only  doctrine  does  our  lusts  oppose : 
 
 Unfed  by  nature’s  soil,  in  which  it  grows ; 
 
 Cross  to  our  interests,  curbing  sense  and  sin  ; 
 Oppress’d  without,  and  undermined  within, 
 
 It  thrives  through  pain;  its  own  tormentors  tires; 
 And  with  a  stubborn  patience  still  aspires. 
 
 To  what  can  reason  such  effects  assign 
 Transcending  nature,  but  to  laws  divine  ; 
 
 Which  in  that  sacred  volume  are  contain’d ; 
 Sufficient,  clear,  and  for  that  use  ordain’d  ? 
 
 The  Resurrection  of  Poets  at  the  Last  Day. 
 
 [[From  Verses  on  Mrs.  Anne  Killegrew.] 
 
 When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound, 
 
 To  raise  the  nations  under  ground; 
 
 When  in  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 
 
 The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  Fate; 
 
 And  there  the  last  assizes  keep, 
 
 For  those  who  wake,  and  those  who  sleep : 
 
 When  rattling  bones  together  fly, 
 
 From  the  four  corners  of  the  sky; 
 
 When  sinews  o’er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
 
 Those  cloth’d  with  flesh,  and  life  inspires  the  dead 
 The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound, 
 
 And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound, 
 
 For  they  are  cover’d  with  the  lightest  ground ; 
 
PARNELL. 
 
 And  straight,  with  inborn  vigour,  on  the  wing, 
 Like  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing. 
 There  thou,  sweet  saint,  before  the  quire  shalt  g' 
 As  harbinger  of  Heaven,  the  way  to  show  ; 
 
 The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast  learnt  below. 
 
 THOMAS  PARNELL. 
 Born  1679.  Died  1717. 
 
 A  Night-Piece ,  on  Death . 
 
 By  the  blue  taper’s  trembling  light, 
 
 No  more  I  waste  the  wakeful  night. 
 Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
 The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o’er : 
 
 Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 
 
 Or  point  at  best  the  longest  way. 
 
 I’ll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
 Where  wisdom’s  surely  taught  below. 
 
 How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky ! 
 Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumber’d  lie, 
 
 While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
 The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide. 
 
 The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe. 
 The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
 Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
 Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
 
 The  grounds,  which  on  the  right  aspire, 
 In  dimness  from  the  view  retire: 
 
 The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
 
 Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 
 
 That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
 Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 
 
 There  pass  with  melancholy  state 
 By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  Fate, 
 
372 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread 
 Above  the  venerable  dead, 
 
 “  ^  was,  like  thee,  they  life  possest, 
 
 And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shalt  rest.” 
 
 Those,  with  bending  osier  bound, 
 
 That,  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
 Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose. 
 Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 
 
 The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name, 
 The  chisel’s  slender  help  to  fame, 
 
 (Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay 
 Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away,) 
 
 A  middle  race  of  mortals  own. 
 
 Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 
 
 The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
 
 Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 
 
 Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
 Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones, 
 
 1  hese,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state, 
 
 Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great ; 
 
 Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live, 
 
 Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 
 
 Ha!  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades, 
 
 The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades  ! 
 
 All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrap’d  with  shrouds, 
 They  rise  in  visionary  crowds, 
 
 And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
 
 “Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die!” 
 
 Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew, 
 
 That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 
 Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  begin; 
 
 (Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din, 
 
 Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 
 O’er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground  !) 
 
 It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans, 
 
 Thus  speaking  from  among  the  bones  : — 
 
 “  When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply, 
 How  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 
 
 They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things; 
 
 They  make,  and  then  they  dread,  my  stings. 
 
373 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 fools!  it  you  less  provoked  your  fears, 
 
 No  more  my  spectre-form  appears. 
 Death’s  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod, 
 
 It  man  would  ever  pass  to  God  : 
 
 A  port  of  calms,  a  state  to  ease 
 from  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas. 
 
 Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 
 
 Deep  pendant  cypress,  mourning  poles, 
 Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weeds, 
 Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  cover’d  steeds, 
 And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread, 
 Nod  o’er  the  escutcheons  of  the  dead? 
 
 Nor  can  the  parted  body  know, 
 
 Nor  wants  the  soul  these  forms  of  woe  ; 
 As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell, 
 
 With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell, 
 Whene’er  their  suffering  years  are  run, 
 Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  sun  : 
 Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense, 
 Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence. 
 
 On  earth,  and  iri  the  body  placed, 
 
 A  few  and  evil  years  they  waste : 
 
 But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside, 
 
 See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide, 
 
 Clap  the  glad  wing  and  tower  away, 
 
 And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day. 
 
 Hymn  to  Contentment. 
 
 “  Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind  ! 
 Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
 Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
 To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky 
 With  more  of  happiness  below 
 Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know; 
 Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
 To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head  ? 
 What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
 To  make  the  seat  of  calm  and  ease? 
 
374 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 “  Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
 Of  pomp  and  state  to  meet  thee  there  ; 
 Increasing  avarice  would  find 
 Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined : 
 
 The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
 Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
 
 To  gain  thy  love,  and  then  perceives 
 Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves  : 
 The  silent  heart  which  grief  assails, 
 
 Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o’er  the  vale.*, 
 Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
 
 And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done,) 
 Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 
 That  solitude’s  the  nurse  of  woe. 
 
 No  real  happiness  is  found 
 In  trailing  purple  o’er  the  ground; 
 
 Or  in  a  soul,  exalted  high 
 To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 
 
 Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
 All  nature  in  its  forms  below: 
 
 The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 
 
 And  doubts  at  last  for  knowledge  rise. 
 
 “  Lovely,  lasting  peace  !  appear ; 
 
 This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
 
 Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
 
 And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast.” 
 
 ’Twas  thus,  as  under  shade,  I  stood, 
 
 I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
 
 And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
 The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved  : 
 
 It  seem’d  as  all  the  quiet  place 
 Confess’d  the  genius  of  the  Grace  : 
 
 When  thus  she  spoke : — “  Go,  rule  thy  w 
 Hid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still ; 
 
 Know  God,  and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
 The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  ; 
 
 Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
 And  I’ll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest.” 
 
 Oh  !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
 
 In  my  hours  of  cool  retreat, 
 
PARNELL. 
 
 3r?  r 
 
 liy 
 
 Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ 
 W  ith  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy; 
 
 Raised,  as  ancient  prophets  were, 
 
 In  heavenly  vision,  praise  and  prayer; 
 
 Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 
 
 Pj eased  and  blest  with  God  alone  : 
 
 Then,  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
 
 With  all  the  colours  of  delight; 
 
 While  silver  waters  glide  along, 
 
 I  o  please  mine  ear,  and  court  my  song, 
 
 1  11  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 
 
 And  Thee,  great  Source  of  Nature  losing. 
 
 The  sun,  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
 lo  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day; 
 
 The  moon,  that  shines  with  borrow’d  light; 
 lhe  stars,  that  gild  the  gloomy  night; 
 
 The  seas,  that  roil  unnumber’d  waves; 
 
 I  he  wood,  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves  ; 
 
 1  iie  field,  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
 
 The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; 
 
 All  of  these,  and  all  I  see, 
 
 Should  be  sung  and  sung  by  me: 
 
 I  hey  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
 
 Tut  want,  and  ask,  the  tongue  of  man. 
 
 —Go,  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
 
 Your  busy,  or  your  vain  extremes; 
 
 And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
 
 Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 
 
376 
 
 ADDISON. 
 
 JOSEPH  ADDISON. 
 
 Born  1672.  Died  1719. 
 
 Author  of  manjr  celebrated  Essays  in  the  Spectator,  Tatter,  and 
 Guardian ,  and  other  Miscellanies  in  prose  and  verse. 
 
 Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIU. 
 
 The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
 
 And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd’s  care ; 
 
 His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
 
 And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye: 
 
 My  noon-day  walks  He  shall  attend, 
 
 And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 
 
 When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
 
 Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant; 
 
 To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
 My  weary  wandering  steps  He  leads  : 
 Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
 
 Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 
 
 Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
 
 With  gloomy  horrours  overspread, 
 
 My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
 
 For  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
 
 Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
 
 And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 
 
 Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
 Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
 
 Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile : 
 
 The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 
 
 With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown’d 
 And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around,  (a) 
 
 ( a )  The  other  Hymns  of  this  accomplished  Writer  may  be  found 
 in  “  The  Christian  Psalmist .” 
 
PRIOR. 
 
 377 
 
 MATTHEW  PRIOR. 
 
 Born  1664.  Died  1721. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Alma,  Solomon,  and  Miscellaneous 
 Poems. 
 
 Chanty. 
 
 [A  Paraphrase  on  1  Cor.  xiii.] 
 
 Did  sweeter  sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue 
 Ilian  ever  man  pronounced  or  angel  sung; 
 
 Had  I  all  knowledge,  human  and  divine, 
 
 That  thought  can  reach  or  science  can  define; 
 And  had  I  power  to  give  that  knowledge  birth 
 In  all  the  speeches  of  the~babbling  earth ; 
 
 Did  Shadrach  s  zeal  my  glowing  breast  inspire, 
 To  weary  tortures  and  rejoice  in  fire; 
 
 Or  had  I  faith  like  that  which  Israel  saw 
 When  Moses  gave  them  miracles  and  law; 
 
 ^et,  gracious  Charity,  indulgent  guest, 
 
 Were  not  thy  power  exerted  in  my  breast, 
 
 Those  speeches  would  send  up  unheeded  prayer, 
 I  hat  scorn  of  life  would  be  but  wild  despair; 
 
 A  cymbal  s  sound  were  better  than  my  voice ; 
 
 My  faith  were  form,  my  eloquence  were  noise. 
 Charity!  decent,  modest,  easy,  kind, 
 
 Softens  the  high,  and  rears  the  abject  mind; 
 Knovvs  with  just  reins,  and  gentle  hand,  to  guide 
 Betwixt  vile  shame  and  arbitrary  pride. 
 
 Eot  soon  provoked,  she  easily  forgives, 
 
 And  much  she  suffers,  as  she  much  believes. 
 
 Soft  peace  she  brings  wherever  she  arrives; 
 
 She  builds  our  quiet  as  she  forms  our  lives; 
 
 Lays  the  rough  paths  of  peevish  Nature  ev’n, 
 
 And  opens  in  each  heart  a  little  heaven. 
 
 Each  other  gift  which  God  on  man  bestows 
 Its  proper  bounds  and  due  reflection  knows, 
 
378 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 To  one  fix’d  purpose  dedicates  its  power, 
 
 And  finishing  its  act,  exists  no  more. 
 
 Thus,  in  obedience  to  what  heaven  decrees, 
 Knowledge  shall  fail,  and  prophecy  shall  cease ; 
 
 But  lasting  Charity’s  more  ample  sway, 
 
 Nor  hound  by  time,  nor  subject  to  decay, 
 
 In  happy  triumph  shall  for  ever  live, 
 
 And  endless  good  diffuse,  and  endless  praise  receive. 
 
 As  through  the  artist’s  intervening  glass 
 Our  eye  observes  the  distant  planets  pass, 
 
 A  little  we  discover,  but  allow 
 
 That  more  remains  unseen  than  art  can  show ; 
 
 So  whilst  our  mind  its  knowledge  would  improve, 
 
 (Its  feeble  eye  intent  on  things  above) 
 fligh  as  we  may  we  lift  our  reason  up, 
 
 By  faith  directed,  and  confirm’d  by  hope ; 
 
 Yet  are  we  able  only  to  survey 
 Dawnings  of  beams,  and  promises  of  day, 
 
 Heaven’s  fuller  effluence  mocks  our  dazzled  sight, 
 Too  great  is  swiftness,  and  too  strong  is  light. 
 
 But  soon  the  mediate  clouds  shall  be  dispell’d, 
 
 The  sun  shall  soon  be  face  to  face  beheld, 
 
 In  all  his  robes,  with  all  his  glory  on, 
 
 Seated  sublime  on  his  meridian  throne. 
 
 Then  constant  Faith  and  holy  Hope  shall  die, 
 
 One  lost  in  certainty'and  one  in  joy; 
 
 Whilst,  thou,  more  happy  power,  fair  Charity, 
 Triumphant  sister,  greatest  of  the  three, 
 
 Thy  office  and  thy  nature  still  the  same, 
 
 Lasting  thy  lamp,  and  unconsuined  thy  flame, 
 
 Shalt  still  survive — 
 
 Shalt  stand  before  the  host  of  heaven  confess’d, 
 
 For  ever  blessing,  and  for  ever  bless’d. 
 
POPE. 
 
 379 
 
 ALEXANDER  POPE. 
 
 Born  1688.  Died  1744. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — Essay  on  Criticism,  The  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
 Essay  on  Man,  Moral  Epistles,  the  Dunciad,  Translation  of 
 Homer ,  &c. 
 
 ltjui 
 
 Messiah. 
 
 Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma !  begin  the  song : 
 
 J'o  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
 
 The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
 
 The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the’  Aonian  maids, 
 Delight  no  more — O  Thou  my  voice  inspire 
 Who  touch’d  Isaiah’s  hallow’d  lips  with  fire ! 
 
 Rapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun  : 
 
 A  virgin  shall  conceive,  a  virgin  bear  a  Son  ! 
 
 From  Jesse’s  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
 
 Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance -fills  the  skies  : 
 The’  ethereal  spirit  o’er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
 
 And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  Dove. 
 
 Ye  heavens!  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
 
 And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower ! 
 
 The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
 
 From  storm  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 
 
 All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds  shall  fail; 
 Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale; 
 
 Peace  o’er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
 
 And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  descend. 
 Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the’  expected  morn ! 
 
 Oh  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born ! 
 
 See,  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
 With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring : 
 
 See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance, 
 
 See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance: 
 
 See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 
 
 And  Carmel’s  flowery  top  perfume  the  skies! 
 
 Hark  !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers; 
 Prepare  the  way!  a  God,  a  God  appears! 
 
380 
 
 POPE. 
 
 A  God,  a  God!  the  vocal  hills  reply; 
 
 The  rocks  proclaim  the’  approaching  Deity. 
 
 Lo  earth  receives  Him  from  the  bending  skies! 
 
 Sink  down,  ye  mountains !  and  ye  valleys  rise  ! 
 
 With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ! 
 
 Be  smooth,  ye  rocks !  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way ! 
 
 The  Saviour  comes  !  by  ancient  bards  foretold: 
 
 Hear  him,  ye  deaf !  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
 
 He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
 
 And  on  the  sightless  eye-ball  pour  the  day : 
 
 ’Tis  He  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
 
 And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear: 
 
 The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
 
 And  leap  exulting,  like  the  bounding  roe. 
 
 No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear; 
 
 From  every  face  He  wipes  off  every  tear. 
 
 In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 
 
 And  hell’s  grim  tyrant  feel  the’  eternal  wound. 
 
 As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
 
 Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air  ; 
 
 Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
 
 By  day  o’ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects ; 
 
 The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms, 
 
 Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms: 
 
 Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage, 
 
 The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 
 
 No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
 
 Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes, 
 
 Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o’er, 
 
 The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more ; 
 
 But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
 
 And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  plough-share  end. 
 
 Then  palaces  shall  rise;  the  joyful  son 
 Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun; 
 
 Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
 
 And  the  same  hand  that  sow’d,  shall  reap  the  field. 
 The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
 Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
 
 And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 
 New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
 
POPE. 
 
 381 
 
 On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon’s  late  abodes, 
 
 The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 
 Waste  sandy  valleys,  onee  perplex’d  with  thorn, 
 
 The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn : 
 
 To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palms  succeed, 
 
 And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 
 
 The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 
 And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead. 
 
 The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
 
 And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim’s  feet. 
 
 The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
 The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 
 
 Pleased,  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 
 
 And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently  play. 
 
 Rise,  crown’d  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise ! 
 Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 
 
 See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
 
 See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 
 
 In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
 
 Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies  ! 
 
 See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
 
 Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend; 
 
 See  thy  bright  altars  throng’d  with  prostrate  kings, 
 And  heap’d  with  products  of  Sabean  springs ! 
 
 For  thee  Idume’s  spicy  forests  blow, 
 
 And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir’s  mountains  glow. 
 
 See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 
 
 And  break  upon  them  in  a  flood  of  day! 
 
 No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 
 
 Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn; 
 
 But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 
 
 One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze 
 O’erflow  thy  courts  :  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 
 Reveal’d,  and  God’s  eternal  day  be  thine! 
 
 The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
 Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away! 
 
 But  fix’d  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains ; 
 
 Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns  ! 
 
 1 
 
382 
 
 ARBUTIINOT. 
 
 The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul. 
 
 Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  1 
 Quit,  oh !  quit  this  mortal  frame  : 
 Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying— 
 
 Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 
 
 Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
 
 And  let  me  languish  into  life. 
 
 Hark !  they  whisper ;  angels  say, 
 
 “  Sister  spirit,  come  away.” 
 
 What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
 
 Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
 Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
 Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  l 
 
 The  world  recedes;  it  disappears; 
 Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ;  my  ears 
 With  sounds  seraphic  ring: 
 
 Lend,  lend  your  wings;  I  mount,  I  fly: 
 Oh  grave  !  where  is  thy  victory? 
 
 Oh  death !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 
 
 JOHN  ARBUTHNOT. 
 
 Born  about  1660.  Died  1735. 
 
 friond  nf  PoDe  and  Swift,  and  associated  with  them  in 
 several  humorotL’ prSe  works.  He  was  the  author  also  of  some 
 distinguished  medical  and  scientific  treatises. 
 
 Know  Thyself. 
 
 What  am  I?  how  produced?  and  for  what  end? 
 Whence  drew  I  being?  to  what  period  tend? 
 Am  I  the’  abandon’d  orphan  of  blind  chance, 
 Dropp’d  by  wild  atoms  in  disorder  d  dance  ? 
 
ARBUTHNOT. 
 
 383 
 
 Or  from  an  endless  chain  of  causes  wrought, 
 
 And  of  unthinking  substance,  born  with  thought? 
 
 By  motion  which  began  without  a  cause. 
 
 Supremely  wise,  without  design  or  laws  ? 
 
 Am  I  but  what  I  seem,  mere  flesh  and  blood? 
 
 A  branching  channel,  with  a  mazy  flood  ? 
 
 The  purple  stream  that  through  my  vessels  glides, 
 Dull  and  unconscious  flows,  like  common  tides ; 
 
 The  pipes  through  which  the  circling  juices  stray, 
 
 Are  not  that  thinking  I,  no  more  than  they: 
 
 This  frame,  compacted  with  transcendent  skill 
 Of  moving  joints  obedient  to  my  will, 
 
 Nursed  from  the  fruitful  glebe,  like  yonder  tree, 
 Waxes  and  wastes ;  I  call  it  mine,  not  me. 
 
 New  matter  still  the  mould’ring  mass  sustains: 
 
 The  mansion  changed,  the  tenant  still  remains ; 
 
 And  from  the  fleeting  stream  repair’d  by  food, 
 Distinct,  as  is  the  swimmer  from  the  flood. 
 
 What  am  I  then?  sure  of  a  nobler  birth; 
 
 By  parents’  right,  I  own  as  mother,  Earth; 
 
 But  claim  superior  lineage  by  my  sire, 
 
 Who  warm’d  the’  unthinking  clod  with  heavenly  fire; 
 Essence  divine,  with  lifeless  clay  allay’d, 
 
 By  double  nature,  double  instinct  sway’d : 
 
 With  look  erect,  I  dart  my  longing  eye, 
 
 Seem  wing’d  to  part,  and  gain  my  native  sky; 
 
 I  strive  to  mount,  but  strive,  alas !  in  vain, 
 
 Tied  to  this  massy  globe  with  magic  chain. 
 
 Now  with  swift  thought  I  range  from  pole  to  pole, 
 View  worlds  around  their  flaming  centres  roll: 
 
 What  steady  powers  their  endless  motions  guide 
 Through  the  same  trackless  paths  of  boundless  void ! 
 1  trace  the  blazing  comet’s  fiery  tail, 
 
 And  weigh  the  whirling  planets  in  a  scale ; 
 
 These  godlike  thoughts  while  eager  I  pursue, 
 
 Some  glittering  trifle  offer’d  to  my  view, 
 
 A  gnat,  an  insect  of  the  meanest  kind, 
 
 Erase  the  new-born  image  from  my  mind : 
 
 Some  beastly  want,  craving,  importunate, 
 
 Vile  as  the  grinning  mastiff  at  my  gate, 
 
 Calls  off  from  heavenly  truth  this  reasoning  me, 
 
 And  tells  me  I’m  a  brute  as  much  as  he. 
 
384 
 
 ARBUTHNOT. 
 
 If,  on  sublimer  wings  of  love  and  praise, 
 
 My  soul  above  the  starry  vault  I  raise, 
 
 Lured  by  some  vain  conceit,  or  shameful  lust, 
 
 I  flag,  I  drop,  and  flutter  in  the  dust. 
 
 The  towering  lark  thus,  from  her  lofty  strain, 
 
 Stoops  to  an  emmet,  or  a  barley  grain. 
 
 By  adverse  gusts  of  jarring  instincts  tost, 
 
 I  rove  to  one,  now  to  the  other,  coast ; 
 
 To  bliss  unknown  my  lofty  soul  aspires, 
 
 My  lot  unequal  to  my  vast  desires. 
 
 As  ’mongst  the  hinds  a  child  of  royal  birth 
 Finds  his  high  pedigree  by  conscious  worth ; 
 
 So  man,  amongst  his  fellow  brutes  exposed, 
 
 Sees  he’s  a  king,  but  ’tis  a  king  deposed. 
 
 Pity  him,  beasts!  you  by  no  law  confined, 
 
 And  barr’d  from  devious  paths  by  being  blind ; 
 
 Whilst  man,  through  opening  views,  ot  various  ways, 
 Confounded,  by  the  aid  of  knowledge  strays  ; 
 
 Too  weak  to  choose,  yet  choosing  still  in  haste, 
 
 One  moment  gives  the  pleasure  and  distaste; 
 
 Bilk’d  by  past  minutes,  while  the  present  cloy, 
 
 The  flattering  future  still  must  give  the  joy ; 
 
 Not  happy,  but  amused  upon  the  road, 
 
 And  (like  you)  thoughtless  of  his  last  abode. 
 
 Whether  next  sun  his  being  shall  restrain 
 To  endless  nothing,  happiness,  or  pain. 
 
 Around  me,  lo  !  the  thinking  thoughtless  crew 
 (Bewilder’d  each)  their  different  paths  pursue. 
 
 Of  them  I  ask  the  way;  the  first  replies, 
 
 Thou  art  a  god  ;  and  sends  me  to  the  skies : 
 
 Down  on  the  turf,  the  next,  thou  two-legg  d  beast, 
 There  fix  thy  lot,  thy  bliss  and  endless  rest. 
 
 Between  these  wide  extremes  the  length  is  such, 
 
 I  find  I  know  too  little  or  too  much. 
 
 “  Almighty  Power,  by  whose  most  wise  command, 
 Helpless,  forlorn,  uncertain,  here  I  stand, 
 
 Take  this  faint  glimmering  of  thyself  away, 
 
 Or  break  into  my  soul  with  perfect  day! 
 
 This  said,  expanded  lay  the  sacred  text,  s 
 
 The  balm,  the  light,  the  guide,  of  souls  perplex  d. 
 Thus  the  benighted  traveller,  that  strays  . 
 
 Through  doubtful  paths,  enjoys  the  morning  rays: 
 
ARBUTHNOT 
 
 385 
 
 The  nightly  mist,  and  thick  descending  dew, 
 
 Parting,  unfolds  the  fields  and  vaulted  blue. 
 
 “  O  truth  divine  !  enlighten’d  by  thy  ray, 
 
 I  grope  and  guess  no  more,  but  see  my  way; 
 
 Thou  clear’dst  the  secret  of  my  high  descent, 
 
 And  told’st  me  what  those  mystic  tokens  meant; 
 Marks  of  my  birth,  which  I  had  worn  in  vain. 
 
 Too  hard  for  worldly  sages  to  explain. 
 
 Zeno’s  were  vain,  vain  Epicurus’  schemes, 
 
 Their  systems  false,  delusive  were  their  dreams; 
 Unskill’d  my  twofold  nature  to  divide, 
 
 One  nursed  my  pleasure,  and  one  nursed  my  pride; 
 Those  jarring  truths,  which  human  art  beguile, 
 
 Thy  sacred  page  thus  bids  me  reconcile.” 
 
 Offspring  of  God,  no  less  thy  pedigree, 
 
 What  thou  once  wert,  art  now,  and  still  may  be, 
 
 Thy  God  alone  can  tell,  alone  decree; 
 
 Faultless  thou  dropp’dst  from  his  unerring  skill, 
 
 With  the  bare  power  to  sin,  since  free  of  will : 
 
 Yet  charge  not  with  thy  guilt  his  bounteous  love, 
 
 For  who  has  power  to  walk  has  power  to  rove : 
 
 Who  acts  by  force  imped’d  can  nought  deserve; 
 
 And  wisdom  short  of  infinite  may  swerve. 
 
 Borne  on  thy  new-imp’d  wings,  thou  took’st  thy  flight, 
 Left  thy  Creator,  and  the  realms  of  light; 
 
 Disdain’d  his  gentle  precept  to  fulfil, 
 
 And  thought  to  grow  a  god  by  doing  ill: 
 
 Though  by  foul  guilt  thy  heavenly  form  defaced. 
 
 In  nature  changed,  from  happy  mansions  chased. 
 Thou  still  retain’st  some  sparks  of  heavenly  fire, 
 
 Too  faint  to  mount,  yet  restless  to  aspire; 
 
 Angel  enough  to  seek  thy  bliss  again. 
 
 And  brute  enough  to  make  thy  search  in  vain. 
 
 The  creatures  now  withdraw  their  kindly  use, 
 
 Some  fly  thee,  some  torment,  and  some  seduce; 
 Repast  ill-suited  to  such  different  guests, 
 
 For  what  thy  sense  desires,  thy  soul  distastes : 
 
 Thy  lust,  thy  curiosity,  thy  pride, 
 
 Curb’d  or  indulged,  or  baulk’d  or  gratified,. 
 
 R 
 
 32 
 
386 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Rage  on,  and  make  thee  equally  unbless  d  ? 
 
 In  what  thou  want’st,  and  what  thou  hast  possess  d  ; 
 In  vain  thou  hop’st  for  bliss  on  this  poor  clod ; 
 Return,  and  seek  thy  Father  and  thy  God ; 
 
 Yet  think  not  to  regain  thy  native  sky, 
 
 Rome  on  the  wings  of  vain  philosophy! 
 
 Mysterious  passage  !  hid  from  human  eyes 
 Soaring  you’ll  sink,  and  sinking  you  will  rise  • 
 
 Ret  humble  thoughts  thy  weary  footsteps  guide ; 
 
 4  Repair  by  meekness  what  you  lost  by  pride. 
 
 JAMES  THOMSON. 
 
 Born  1700.  Died  1748. 
 
 Principal  Works  -.—The  Seasons,  Liberty ,  Castle  of  Indolence, 
 
 Tragedies,  &c. 
 
 /  N 
 
 Midnight  Devotion. 
 
 Huge  uproar  lords  it  wide.  The  clouds,  commix  d 
 With  stars  swift  gliding,  sweep  along  the  sky. 
 
 All  Nature  reels:  till  Nature’s  King,  who  ott 
 Amid  tempestuous  darkness  dwells  alone, 
 
 And  on  the  wings  of  the  careering  wind 
 Walks  dreadfully  serene,  commands  a  calm  ; 
 
 Then  straight,  air,  sea,  and  earth,  are  hush’d  at  once 
 As  yet  ’tis  midnight  deep.  The  weary  clouds 
 Slow-meeting,  mingle  into  solid  glooim 
 Now,  while  the  drowsy  world  lies  lost  in  sleep, 
 
 .Let  me  associate  with  the  serious  Night, 
 
 And  Contemplation,  her  sedate  compeer; 
 
 Let  me  shake  off  the’  intrusive  cares  of  day, 
 
 And  lay  the  meddling  senses  all  aside. 
 
 Wliere  now,  ye  lying  vanities  of  hie  ! 
 
 Ye  ever-tempting,  ever-cheating  train  ! 
 
 Where  are  ye  now?  and  what  is  your  amount. 
 Vexation,  disappointment,  and  remorse. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 387 
 
 Sad,  sickening  thought!  and  yet  deluded  man, 
 
 A  scene  of  crude  disjointed  visions  past, 
 
 And  broken  slumbers,  rises  still  resolved, 
 
 With  new-flush’d  hopes,  to  run  the  giddy  round. 
 
 Father  of  light  and  life!  thou  good  Supreme  ! 
 
 O,  teach  me  what  is  good!  teach  me  Thyself; 
 
 Save  me  from  folly,  vanity,  and  vice, 
 
 From  every  low  pursuit;  and  feed  my  soul 
 With  knowledge,  conscious  peace,  and  virtue  pure; 
 Sacred,  substantial,  never-fading  bliss ! 
 
 The  Goodness  of  Providence : — A  Paraphrase  on  the 
 latter  pari  of  Matthew  vi. 
 
 When  my  breast  labours  with  oppressive  care, 
 
 And  o’er  my  cheek  descends  the  falling  tear; 
 
 While  all  my  warring  passions  are  at  strife, 
 
 Oh,  let  me  listen  to  the  words  of  life ! 
 
 Raptures  deep-felt  his  doctrine  did  impart, 
 
 And  thus  He  raised  from  earth  the  drooping  heart. 
 
 Think  not,  when  all  your  scanty  stores  afford 
 Is  spread  at  once  upon  the  sparing  board; 
 
 Think  not,  when  worn  the  homely  robe  appears, 
 While,  on  the  roof,  the  howling  tempest  bears; 
 Wdiat  farther  shall  this  feeble  life  sustain, 
 
 And  what  shall  clothe  these  shivering  limbs  again. 
 Say,  does  not  life  its  nourishment  exceed? 
 
 And  the  fair  body  its  investing  weed? 
 
 Behold  !  and  look  away  your  low  despair — 
 
 See  the  light  tenants  of  the  barren  air : 
 
 To  them,  nor  stores,  nor  granaries,  belong ; 
 
 Nought,  but  the  woodland,  and  the  pleasing  song: 
 Yet,  your  kind  heavenly  Father  bends  his  eye 
 On  the  least  wing,  that  flits  along  the  sky. 
 
 To  Him  they  sing,  when  Spring  renews  the  plain, 
 To  him  they  cry,  in  Winter’s  pinching  reign ; 
 
 Nor  is  their  music,  nor  their  plaint  in  vain : 
 
 He  hears  the  gay,  and  the  distressful  call, 
 
 And  with  unsparing  bounty  fills  them  all. 
 
 R  2 
 
388 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Observe  the  rising  lily’s  snowy  grace, 
 
 Observe  the  various  vegetable  race; 
 
 They  neither  toil,  nor  spin,  but  careless  grow, 
 
 Yet  see  how  warm  they  blush,- how  bright  they  glow ; 
 What  regal  vestments  can  with  them  compare! 
 
 What  king  so  shining !  or  what  queen  so  fair ! 
 
 If,  ceaseless,  thus  the  fowls  of  Heaven  He  feeds, 
 
 If,  o’er  the  fields  such  lucid  robes  He  spreads ; 
 
 Will  he  not  care  for  you,  ye  faithless,  say? 
 
 Is  He  unwise?  or,  are  ye  less  than  they? 
 
 On  JEolus ’  Harp. 
 
 Ethereal  race,  inhabitants  of  air, 
 
 Who  hymn  your  God  amid  the  secret  grove; 
 
 Ye  unseen  beings,  to  my  harp  repair, 
 
 And  raise  majestic  strains,  or  melt  in  love. 
 
 Those  tender  notes,  how  kindly  they  upbraid ; 
 
 With  what  soft  woe  they  thrill  the  lover’s  heart! 
 Sure  from  the  hand  of  some  unhappy  maid, 
 
 Who  died  of  love,  these  sweet  complainings  part. 
 
 But  hark!  that  strain  was  of  a  graver  tone, 
 
 On  the  deep  strings  his  hand  some  hermit  throws; 
 Or  he,  the  sacred  Bard,  (a)  who  sat  alone, 
 
 In  the  drear  wraste,  and  wept  his  people’s  woes. 
 
 Such  was  the  song  which  Zion’s  children  sung, 
 
 When  by  Euphrate’s  stream  they  made  their  plaint: 
 And  to  such  sadly-solemn  notes  are  strung 
 Angelic  harps,  to  sooth  a  dying  saint. 
 
 Methinks  I  hear  the  full  celestial  choir. 
 
 Thro’  heaven’s  high  dome  their  awful  anthem  raise ; 
 Now  chanting  clear,  and  now  they  all  conspire 
 To  swell  the  lofty  hymn,  from  praise  to  praise. 
 
 (a)  Jeremiah. 
 
WATTS 
 
 389 
 
 Let  me,  ye  wandering  spirits  of  the  wind, 
 
 Who,  as  wild  fancy  prompts  you,  touch  the  string, 
 Smit  with  your  theme,  be  in  your  chorus  join’d, 
 For,  till  you  cease,  my  Muse  forgets  to  sing. 
 
 ISAAC  WATTS. 
 
 Born  1674.  Died  1748. 
 
 Author  of  Psalms,  Hymns,  Lyric  Poems,  as  well  as  numerous  and 
 valuable  works  in  prose. 
 
 Happy  Frailty. 
 
 “  How  meanly  dwells  the  immortal  mind! 
 
 How  vile  these  bodies  are  ! 
 
 Why  was  a  clod  of  earth  design’d 
 To’  inclose  a  heavenly  star? 
 
 “  Weak  cottage,  where  our  souls  reside ! 
 
 This  flesh  a  tottering  wall ; 
 
 With  frightful  breaches  gaping  wide, 
 
 The  building  bends  to  fall. 
 
 “  All  round  it  storms  of  trouble  blow, 
 
 And  waves  of  sorrow  roll ; 
 
 Cold  waves  and  winter  storms  beat  through, 
 And  pain  the  tenant-soul. 
 
 “  Alas!  how  frail  our  state!”  said  I; 
 
 And  thus  went  mourning  on, 
 
 Till  sudden  from  the  cleaving  sky 
 A  gleam  of  glory  shone. 
 
 My  soul  all  felt  the  glory  come, 
 
 And  breathed  her  native  air ; 
 
 Then  she  remember’d  Heaven  her  home, 
 And  she  a  prisoner  here. 
 
390 
 
 WATTS. 
 
 Straight  she  began  to  change  her  key, 
 And,  joyful  in  lier  pains, 
 
 She  sung  the  frailty  of  her  clay 
 In  pleasurable  strains. 
 
 “  How  weak  the  prison’s  where  I  dwell ! 
 Flesh  but  a  tottering  wall ; 
 
 The  breaches  cheerfully  foretell, 
 
 The  house  must  shortly  fall. 
 
 «  No  more,  my  friends,  shall  I  complain, 
 Though  all  my  heart-strings  ache  ; 
 
 Welcome  disease,  and  every  pain 
 That  makes  the  cottage  shake. 
 
 “  Now  let  the  tempest  blow  all  round, 
 Now  swell  the  surges  high, 
 
 And  beat  this  house  of  bondage  down, 
 To  let  the  stranger  fly. 
 
 «  I  have  a  mansion  built  above 
 By  the  Eternal  Hand ; 
 
 And  should  the  earth’s  old  basis  move, 
 My  heavenly  house  must  stand. 
 
 “  Yes ;  for  ’tis  there  my  Saviour  reigns, 
 (I  long  to  see  the  God) 
 
 And  his  immortal  strength  sustains 
 The  courts  that  cost  him  blood. 
 
 “  Hark,  from  on  high  my  Saviour  calls : 
 I  come,  my  Lord,  my  Love : 
 
 Devotion  breaks  the  prison-walls, 
 
 And  speeds  my  last  remove.” 
 
 False  Greatness. 
 
 Mylo,  forbear  to  call  him  blest, 
 
 That  only  boasts  a  large  estate, 
 
 Should  all  the  treasures  of  the  west 
 Meet,  and  conspire  to  make  him  great. 
 I  know  thy  better  thoughts ;  I  know 
 Thy  reason  can’t  descend  so  low: 
 
WATTS. 
 
 391 
 
 Let  a  broad  stream  with  golden  sands 
 Through  all  his  meadows  roll, 
 
 He’s  but  a  wretch,  with  all  his  lands, 
 
 That  wears  a  narrow  soul. 
 
 He  swells  amidst  his  wealthy  store, 
 
 And  proudly  poizing  what  he  weighs, 
 
 In  his  own  scale,  he  tondly  lays 
 Huge  heaps  of  shining  ore  : 
 
 He  spreads  the  balance  wide  to  hold 
 His  manors  and  his  farms, 
 
 And  cheats  the  beam  with  loads  of  gold 
 He  hugs  between  his  arms. 
 
 So  might  the  plough-boy  climb  a  tree, 
 When  Croesus  mounts  his  throne, 
 
 And  both  stand  up,  and  smile  to  see 
 How  long  their  shadow’s  grown : 
 
 Alas !  how  vain  their  fancies  be 
 To  think  that  shape  their  own  ! 
 
 Thus  mingled  still  with  wealth  and  state, 
 Croesus  himself  can  never  know ; 
 
 His  true  dimensions  and  his  weight 
 Are  far  inferior  to  their  show. 
 
 Were  I  so  tall  to  reach  the  pole, 
 
 Or  grasp  the  ocean  with  my  span, 
 
 I  must  be  measured  by  my  soul : 
 
 The  mind’s  the  standard  of  the  man. 
 
 True  Riches. 
 
 I  am  not  concern’d  to  know 
 What  to-morrow  fate  will  do : 
 
 ’Tis  enough  that  I  can  say, 
 
 I’ve  possess’d  myself  to-day; 
 
 Then  if  haply  midnight-death 
 Seize  my  flesh  and  stop  my  breath 
 Yet  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
 Heir  to  the  best  part  of  me. 
 
WATTS. 
 
 Glittering  stones,  and  golden  things. 
 Wealth  and  honours  that  have  wings, 
 Ever  fluttering  to  be  gone,  *'• 
 
 I  could  never  call  my  own  : 
 
 Riches  that  the  world  bestows. 
 
 She  can  take,  and  I  can  lose ; 
 
 But  the  treasures  that  are  mine 
 Lie  afar  beyond  her  line. 
 
 When  I  view  my  spacious  soul. 
 
 And  survey  myself  awhole. 
 
 And  enjoy  myself  alone, 
 
 I’m  a  kingdom  of  my  own. 
 
 I’ve  a  mighty  part  within 
 That  the  world  hath  never  seen, 
 
 Rich  as  Eden’s  happy  ground, 
 
 And  with  choicer  plenty  crown’d. 
 Here  on  all  the  shining  boughs 
 Knowledge  fair  and  useful  grows ; 
 
 On  the  same  young  flowery  tree 
 All  the  seasons  you  may  see ; 
 
 Notions  in  the  bloom  of  light, 
 
 Just  disclosing  to  the  sight; 
 
 Here  are  thoughts  of  larger  growth, 
 Ripening  into  solid  truth; 
 
 •  Fruits  refined,  of  noble  taste; 
 
 Seraphs  feed  on  such  repast. 
 
 Here,  in  a  green  and  shady  grove, 
 Streams  of  pleasure  mix  with  love : 
 There  beneath  the  smiling  skies 
 Hills  of  contemplation  rise  : 
 
 Now  upon  some  shining  top 
 Angels  light,  and  call  me  up ; 
 
 I  rejoice  to  raise  my  feet. 
 
 Both  rejoice  when  there  we  meet. 
 
 There  are  endless  beauties  more, 
 Earth  hath  no  resemblance  for ; 
 Nothing  like  them  round  the  pole. 
 Nothing  can  describe  the  soul; 
 
WATTS. 
 
 393 
 
 ’Tis  a  region  half  unknown, 
 
 That  has  treasures  of  its  own, 
 
 More  remote  from  public  view 
 Than  the  bowels  of  Peru; 
 
 Broader  ’tis,  and  brighter  far, 
 
 Than  the  golden  Indies  are  ; 
 
 Ships  that  trace  the  watery  stage 
 Cannot  coast  it  in  an  age ; 
 
 Harts,  or  horses,  strong  and  fleet. 
 Had  they  wings  to  help  their  feet, 
 Could  not  run  it  half  way  o’er 
 In  ten  thousand  days  and  more. 
 
 Yet  the  silly  wandering  mind, 
 Loth  to  be  too  much  confined, 
 
 Roves  and  takes  her  daily  tours, 
 Coasting  round  the  narrow  shores. 
 Narrow  shores  of  flesh  and  sense, 
 Picking  shells  and  pebbles  thence : 
 Or  she  sits  at  Fancy’s  door, 
 
 Calling  shapes  and  shadows  to’  her ; 
 Foreign  visits  still  receiving, 
 
 And  to’  herself  a  stranger  living. 
 Never,  never  would  she  buy 
 Indian  dust,  or  Tyrian  dye, 
 
 Never  trade  abroad  for  more. 
 
 If  she  saw  her  native  store ; 
 
 If  her  inward  worth  were  known, 
 She  might  ever  live  alone. 
 
 r  3 
 
394 
 
 ROWE. 
 
 MRS.  ROWE. 
 
 Born  1674.  Died  1737. 
 
 Principal  Works  '.—Devout  Meditations,  Friendship  in  Death, 
 
 Poems,  &c. 
 
 Thou  didst,  O  mighty  God !  exist 
 Ere  time  began  its  race; 
 
 Before  the  ample  elements 
 Fill’d  up  the  void  of  space : 
 
 Before  the  ponderous  earthly  globe 
 In  fluid  air  was  stay’d; 
 
 Before  the  ocean’s  mighty  springs 
 Their  liquid  stores  display’d : 
 
 Ere  through  the  gloom  of  ancient  night 
 The  streaks  of  light  appear’d ; 
 
 Before  the  high  celestial  arch, 
 
 Or  starry  poles  were  rear’d  : 
 
 Before  the  loud  melodious  spheres 
 Their  tuneful  round  begun  ; 
 
 Before  the  shining  roads  of  heaven 
 Were  measured  by  the  sun : 
 
 Ere  through  the  empyrean  courts 
 One  hallelujah  rang ; 
 
 Or  to  their  harps  the  sons  of  light 
 Ecstatic  anthems  sang : 
 
 Ere  men  adored,  or  angels  knew, 
 
 Or  praised  thy  wondrous  Name ; 
 
 Thy  bliss,  O  Sacred  Spring  of  life! 
 
 Thy  glory,  was  the  same. 
 
 And  when  the  pillars  of  the  world 
 With  sudden  ruin  break, 
 
COLLINS. 
 
 395 
 
 And  all  this  vast  and  goodly  frame 
 Sinks  in  the  mighty  wreck; 
 
 When  from  her  orb  the  moon  shall  start, 
 The’  astonish’d  sun  roll  back, 
 
 And  all  the  trembling  starry  lamps 
 Their  ancient  course  forsake; — 
 
 For  ever  permanent  and  fix’d, 
 
 From  agitation  free, 
 
 Unchanged  in  everlasting  years, 
 
 Shall  thy  existence  be. 
 
 WILLIAM  COLLINS. 
 
 Born  1728.  Died  1756. 
 
 ■From  the  few  exquisite  productions  of  this  incomparable  Poet, 
 
 can  be  fsu'l!' 
 
 pressed  into  the  service  of  The  Christian  x  oec. 
 
 On  Milton. 
 
 High  on  some  cliff,  to  Heaven  up-piled, 
 
 Of  rude  access,  of  prospect  wild, 
 
 Where,  tangled  round  the  jealous  steep, 
 
 Strange  shades  o’erbrow  the  valleys  deep, 
 
 And  holy  genii  guard  the  rock, 
 
 Its  glooms  embrown,  its  springs  unlock, 
 
 While  on  its  rich  ambitious  head, 
 
 An  Eden,  like  his  own,  lies  spread; 
 
 I  view  that  oak,  the  fancied  glades  among, 
 
 By  which  as  Milton  lay,  his  evening  ear, 
 
 From  many  a  cloud  that  dropp’d  ethereal  dew, 
 
 Nigh  sphered  in  Heaven  its  native  strains  could  hear 
 On  which  that  ancient  trump  he  reach’d  was  hung; 
 Thither  oft  his  glory  greeting, 
 
 From  Waller’s  myrtle  shades  retreating, 
 
396 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 With  many  a  vow  from  Hbpe’s  aspiring  tongue, 
 
 My  trembling  feet  his  guiding  steps  pursue; 
 
 In  vain — such  bliss  to  one  alone, 
 
 Of  all  the  sons  of  soul  was  known, 
 
 And  Heaven,  and  Fancy,  kindred  powers, 
 
 Have  now  o’erturn’d  the’  inspiring  bowers, 
 
 Or  curtain’d  close  such  scene  from  every  future  view. 
 
 EDWARD  YOUNG. 
 
 Born  1681.  Died  1765. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Night  Thoughts,  Universal  Passion,  and 
 other  Poems. 
 
 > 
 
 Address  to  the  Deity. 
 
 “  O  Thou!  whose  balance  does  the  mountains  weigh, 
 Whose  will  the  wild  tumultuous  seas  obey, 
 
 Whose  breath  can  turn  those  watery  worlds  to  flame, 
 That  flame  to  tempest,  and  that  tempest  tame ; 
 Earth’s  meanest  son,  all  trembling,  prostrate  falls, 
 And  on  the  boundless  of  thy  goodness  calls. 
 
 “  Oh !  give  the  winds  all  past  offence  to  sweep, 
 
 To  scatter  wide,  or  bury  in  the  deep : 
 
 Thy  power,  my  weakness,  may  I  ever  see, 
 
 And  wholly  dedicate  my  soul  to  Thee : 
 
 Reign  o’er  my  will ;  my  passions  ebb  and  flow 
 At  thy  command,  nor  human  motive  know: 
 
 If  anger  boil,  let  anger  be  my  praise, 
 
 And  sin  the  graceful  indignation  raise; 
 
 My  love  be  warm  to  succour  the  distress’d, 
 
 And  lift  the  burthen  from  the  soul  oppress’d. 
 
 Oh  may  my  understanding  ever  read 
 
 This  glorious  volume,  which  thy  wisdom  made ! 
 
 Who  decks  the  maiden  Spring  with  flowery  pride? 
 Who  calls  forth  Summer,  like  a  sparkling  bride? 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 397 
 
 Who  joys  the  mother  Autumn’s  bed  to  crown? 
 
 And  bids  old  Winter  lay  her  honours  down? 
 
 Not  the  great  Ottoman,  or  greater  Czar, 
 
 Not  Europe’s  arbitress  of  peace  and  war.  (a) 
 
 May  sea  and  land,  and  Earth  and  Heaven  be  join’d 
 To  bring  the’  eternal  Author  to  my  mind ! 
 
 When  oceans  roar,  or  awful  thunders  roll, 
 
 May  thoughts  of  thy  dread  vengeance  shake  my  soul 
 When  Earth’s  in  bloom,  or  planets  proudly  shine, 
 Adore,  my  heart,  the  Majesty  Divine  ! 
 
 “  Through  every  scene  of  life,  or  peace,  or  war, 
 Plenty,  or  want,  thy  glory  be  my  care  ! 
 
 Shine  we  in  arms?  or  sing  beneath  our  vine? 
 
 Thine  is  the  vintage,  and  the  conquest  thine: 
 
 Thy  pleasure  points  the  shaft,  and  bends  the  bow ; 
 The  cluster  blasts,  or  bids  it  brightly  glow: 
 
 ’Tis  Thou  that  lead’st  our  powerful  armies  forth, 
 And  giv’st  great  Anne  thy  sceptre  o’er  the  north. 
 
 “  Grant  I  may  ever,  at  the  morning  ray, 
 
 Open  with  prayer  the  consecrated  day; 
 
 Tune  thy  great  praise,  and  bid  my  soul  arise, 
 
 And  with  the  mounting  Sun  ascend  the  skies : 
 
 As  that  advances,  let  my  zeal  improve, 
 
 And  glow  with  ardour  of  consummate  love; 
 
 Nor  cease  at  eve,  but  with  the  setting  Sun 
 My  endless  worship  shall  be  still  begun. 
 
 “  And,  oh !  permit  the  gloom  of  solemn  night 
 To  sacred  thought  may  forcibly  invite. 
 
 When  this  world’s  shut,  and  awful  planets  rise, 
 
 Call  on  our  minds,  and  raise  them  to  the  skies; 
 Compose  our  souls  with  a  less  dazzling  sight, 
 
 And  show  all  Nature  in  a  milder  light; 
 
 How  every  boisterous  thought  in  calms  subsides ! 
 How  the  smooth’d  spirit  into  goodness  glides! 
 
 O  how  divine!  to  tread  the  milky  way, 
 
 To  the  bright  palace  of  the  Lord  of  day: 
 
 His  court  admire,  or  for  his  favour  sue. 
 
 Or  leagues  of  friendship  with  his  saints  renew ; 
 
 (a)  Queen  Anne. 
 
398 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 Pleased  to  look  down,  and  see  tlie  world  asleep, 
 While  I  long  vigils  to  its  Founder  keep ! 
 
 “  Canst  Thou  not  shake  the  centre?  Oh  control, 
 Subdue  by  force,  the  rebel  in  my  soul : 
 
 Thou,  who  canst  still  the  raging  of  the  flood, 
 
 Restrain  the  various  tumults  of  my  blood  ; 
 
 Teach  me,  with  equal  firmness,  to  sustain 
 Alluring  pleasure,  and  assaulting  pain. 
 
 O  may  I  pant  for  Thee  in  each  desire ! 
 
 And  with  strong  faith  foment  the  holy  fire ! 
 
 Stretch  out  my  soul  in  hope,  and  grasp  the  prize 
 Which  in  Eternity’s  deep  bosom  lies  ! 
 
 At  the  Great  Day  of  recompense  behold, 
 
 Devoid  of  fear,  the  fatal  book  unfold ! 
 
 Then  wafted  upward  to  the  blissful  seat, 
 
 From  age  to  age,  my  grateful  song  repeat; 
 
 My  light,  my  life,  my  God,  my  Saviour  see, 
 
 And  rival  angels  in  the  praise  of  Thee.” 
 
 [From  “  Night  Thoughts.”] 
 
 Time. 
 
 The  bell  strikes  one.  We  take  no  note  of  time 
 But  from  its  loss.  To  give  it  then  a  tongue 
 Is  wise  in  man.  As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
 
 I  feel  the  solemn  sound.  If  heard  aright, 
 
 It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours : 
 
 Where  are  they?  With  the  years  beyond  the  flood. 
 It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch ; 
 
 How  much  is  to  be  done !  My  hopes  and  fear 
 Start  up  alarm’d,  and  o’er  life’s  narrow  verge 
 Look  down— On  what?  a  fathomless  abyss; 
 
 A  dread  eternity!  how  surely  mine  ! 
 
 And  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 
 
 Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour? 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 399 
 
 Employment  of  Time. 
 
 Oh  the  dark  days  of  vanity!  while  here, 
 
 How  tasteless  !  and  how  terrible,  when  gone ! 
 
 Gone !  they  ne’er  go ;  when  past,  they  haunt  us  still ; 
 The  spirit  walks  of  every  day  deceased ; 
 
 And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury  frowns. 
 
 Nor  death,  nor  life  delight  us.  If  time  past, 
 
 And  time  possess’d,  both  pain  us,  what  can  please? 
 That  which  the  Deity  to  please  ordain’d, 
 
 Time  used.  The  man  who  consecrates  his  hours 
 By  vigorous  effort,  and  an  honest  aim, 
 
 At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life  and  death; 
 
 He  walks  with  Nature ;  and  her  paths  are  peace. 
 
 Eying  Friends. 
 
 Our  dying  friends  come  o’er  us  like  a  cloud, 
 
 To  damp  our  brainless  ardours;  and  abate 
 That  glare  of  life  which  often  blinds  the  wise: 
 Our  dying  friends  are  pioneers,  to  smooth 
 Our  rugged  pass  to  death ;  to  break  those  bars 
 Of  terror  and  abhorrence  Nature  throws 
 Cross  our  obstructed  way;  and,  thus  to  make 
 Welcome,  as  safe,  our  port  from  every  storm. 
 Each  friend  by  fate  snatch’d  from  us,  is  a  plume 
 Pluck’d  from  the  wing  of  human  vanity, 
 
 Which  makes  us  stoop  from  our  aerial  heights, 
 And,  damp’d  with  omen  of  our  own  decease, 
 
 On  drooping  pinions  of  ambition  lower’d, 
 
 Just  skim  earth’s  surface,  ere  we  break  it  up, 
 O’er  putrid  earth  to  scratch  a  little  dust, 
 
 And  save  the  world  a  nuisance.  Smitten  friends 
 Are  angels  sent  on  errands  full  of  love; 
 
 For  us  they  languish,  and  for  us  they  die : 
 
 And  shall  they  languish,  shall  they  die,  in  vain? 
 Ungrateful,  shall  we  grieve  their  hovering  shades, 
 Which  wait  the  revolution  in  our  hearts? 
 
 Shall  we  disdain  their  silent,  soft  address; 
 
400 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 Their  posthumous  advice,  and  pious  prayer? 
 Senseless,  as  herds  that  graze  their  hallow’d  graves, 
 Tread  under-foot  their  agonies  and  groans ; 
 Frustrate  their  anguish,  and  destroy  their  deaths  ? 
 
 Retirement. 
 
 Blest  be  that  hand  divine,  which  gently  laid 
 My  heart  at  rest,  beneath  this  humble  shed. 
 
 The  world’s  a  stately  bark,  on  dangerous  seas, 
 With  pleasure  seen,  but  boarded  at  our  peril : 
 Here,  on  a  single  plank,  thrown  safe  ashore, 
 
 I  hear  the  tumult  of  the  distant  throng, 
 
 As  that  of  seas  remote,  or  dying  storms : 
 
 And  meditate  on  scenes  more  silent  still; 
 Pursue  my  theme,  and  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
 Here,  like  a  shepherd  gazing  from  his  hut, 
 Touching  his  reed,  or  leaning  on  his  staff, 
 
 Eager  ambition’s  fiery  chase  I  see; 
 
 I  see  the  circling  hunt,  of  noisy  men, 
 
 Burst  law’s  enclosure,  leap  the  mounds  of  right, 
 Pursuing  and  pursued,  each  other’s  prey; 
 
 As  wolves,  for  rapine;  as  the  fox,  for  wiles. 
 
 Till  Death,  that  mighty  hunter,  earths  them  all. 
 
 Redemption. 
 
 And  was  the  ransom  paid?  It  was :  and  paid 
 (What  can  exalt  the  bounty  more?)  for  you. 
 
 The  sun  beheld  it— No,  the  shocking  scene 
 Drove  back  his  chariot :  Midnight  veil’d  his  face; 
 
 Not  such  as  this ;  not  such  as  Nature  makes; 
 
 A  midnight  nature  shudder’d  to  behold; 
 
 A  midnight  new!  a  dread  eclipse  (without 
 Opposing  spheres)  from  her  Creator’s  frown ! 
 
 Sun  !  didst  thou  fly  thy  Maker’s  pain  ?  or  start 
 At  that  enormous  load  of  human  guilt, 
 
 Which  bow’d  his  blessed  head,  o’erwhelm’d  his  cross, 
 
YOUNG- 
 
 401 
 
 Made  groan  the  centre,  burst  earth’s  marble  womb 
 With  pangs,  strange  pangs!  deliver’d  other  dead? 
 Hell  howl’d ;  and  heaven  that  hour  let  fall  a  tear  : 
 Heaven  wept,  that  men  might  smile  1  Heaven  bled, 
 that  man 
 
 Might  never  die  ! - 
 
 And  is  devotion  virtue?  yTis  compelt'd. 
 
 What  heart  of  stone  but  glows  at  thoughts  like  these? 
 Such  contemplations  mount  us,  and  should  mount 
 The  mind  still  higher;  nor  ever  glance  or>  man 
 Unraptured,  uninflamed. — Where  roll  my  thoughts 
 To  rest  from  wonders?  other  wonders  rise, 
 
 And  strike  where’er  they  roll:  my  soul  is  caught: 
 Heaven’s  sov’reign  blessings,  clustering  from  the  cross, 
 Rush  on  her  in  a  throng,  and  close  her  round. 
 
 The  prisoner  of  amaze  l — in  his  blest  life 
 I  see  the  path,  and  in  his  death  the  price, 
 
 And  in  his  great  ascent  the  proof  supreme 
 Of  immortality.— And  did  He  rise? 
 
 Hear,  O  ye  nations !  hear  it,  O  ye  dead ! 
 
 He  rose,  He  rose !  He  burst  the  bars  of  death. 
 
 Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates, 
 
 And  give  the  King  of  Glory  to  come  in. 
 
 Who  is  the  King  of  Glory?  He  who  left 
 His  throne  of  glory  for  the  pang  of  death  ! 
 
 Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates  ! 
 
 And  give  the  King  of  Glory  to  come  in. 
 
 Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?  He  who  slew 
 The  ravenous  foe  that  gorged  all  human  race  ! 
 
 The  King  of  Glory,  He,  whose  glory  fill’d 
 Heaven  with  amazement  at  his  love  to  man; 
 
 And  with  divine  complacency  beheld 
 Powers  most  illumin’d  wilder’d  In  the  theme. 
 
 Worldly  Pursuits* 
 
 What  wondrous  prize  has  kindled  this  eareep, 
 Stuns  with  the  din,  and  chokes  us  with  the  dust, 
 
402 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 On  life’s  gay  stage,  one  inch  above  the  grave? 
 
 The  proud  run  up  and  down  in  quest  of  eyes; 
 
 The  sensual  in  pursuit  of  something  worse; 
 
 The  grave,  of  gold;  the  politic,  of  power; 
 
 And  all,  of  other  butterflies,  as  vain  ! 
 
 As  eddies  draw  things  frivolous  and  light, 
 
 How  is  man’s  heart  by  vanity  drawn  in; 
 
 On  the  swift  circle  of  returning  toys, 
 
 Whirl’d,  straw-like,  round  and  round,  and  then 
 gulph’d, 
 
 Where  gay  delusion  darkens  to  despair ! 
 
 Piety. 
 
 On  Piety  humanity  is  built; 
 
 And  on  humanity,  much  happiness; 
 
 And  yet  still  more  on  piety  itself. 
 
 A  soul  in  commerce  with  her  God,  is  heaven ; 
 Feels  not  the  tumults  and  the  shocks  of  life; 
 
 The  whirls  of  passions,  and  the  strokes  of  heart. 
 A  Deity  believed,  is  joy  begun ; 
 
 A  Deity  adored,  is  joy  advanced  ; 
 
 A  Deity  beloved,  is  joy  matured. 
 
 Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires ; 
 
 Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next, 
 O’er  death’s  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horror  hides ; 
 Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 
 
 That  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still; 
 Prayer  ardent  opens  heaven,  lets  down  a  stream 
 Of  glory  on  the  consecrated  hour 
 Of  man,  in  audience  with  the  Deity. 
 
 Who  worships,  the  Great  God,  that  instant  joins 
 The  first  in  heaven,  and  sets  his  foot  on  hell. 
 
 The  Good  Man. 
 
 Some  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw, 
 What  nothing  less  than  angel  can  exceed ! 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 403 
 
 A  man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies ; 
 
 Like  ships  on  seas,  while  in,  above  the  world. 
 
 With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye, 
 
 Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene, 
 
 Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion’s  storm; 
 
 All  the  black  cares  and  tumults  of  this  life, 
 
 Like  harmless  thunders,  breaking  at  his  feet, 
 
 Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 
 
 Earth’s  genuine  sons,  tiie  sceptred  and  the  slave, 
 
 A  mingled  mob!  a  wandering  herd!  he  sees, 
 Bewilder’d  in  the  vale  :  or  all  unlike  ! 
 
 His  full  reverse  in  all !  What  higher  praise  ? 
 
 What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right  ? 
 
 The  present  all  their  care ;  the  future  his. 
 
 When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want, 
 
 They  give  to  fame;  his  bounty  he  conceals; 
 
 Their  virtues  varnish  nature,  his'exalt; 
 
 Mankind’s  esteem  they  court,  and  he  his  own ; 
 Theirs  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities, 
 
 His  the  composed  possession  of  the  true. 
 
 Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  peace, 
 
 All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread ; 
 
 While  party-colour’d  shreds  of  happiness, 
 
 With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
 A  madman’s  robe ;  each  puff  of  fortune  blows 
 The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 
 
 He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs :  where  they 
 Behold  a  sun,  he  spies  a  Deity  ; 
 
 What  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore ; 
 Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees; 
 
 An  empire,  in  his  balance,  weighs  a  grain. 
 
 They  things  terrestrial  worship,  as  divine; 
 
 His  hopes  immortal  blow  them  by,  as  dust 
 That  dims  his  sight,  and  shortens  his  survey, 
 Which  longs,  in  infinite,  to  lose  all  bound. 
 
 Titles  and  honours  (if  they  prove  his  fate) 
 
 He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignity; 
 
 No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 
 
 They  triumph  in  externals  (which  conceal 
 Man’s  real  glory,)  proud  of  an  eclipse. 
 
 Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud, 
 
404 
 
 YOUNG 
 
 And  nothing  thinks  so  great  in  man  as  man. 
 
 Too  dear  he  holds  his  interest  to  neglect 
 Another’s  welfare,  or  his  right  invade; 
 
 Their  interest,  like  a  lion,  lives  on  prey. 
 
 They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong  : 
 
 Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heaven, 
 Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe  ; 
 
 Nought  but  what  wounds  his  virtue  wounds  his  peace 
 A  cover’d  heart  their  character  defends ; 
 
 A  cover’d  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
 
 With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees  ; 
 
 While  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall. 
 
 Their  no-joys  end,  where  his  full  feast  begins  : 
 
 His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 
 
 To  triumph  in  existence,  his  alone; 
 
 And  his  alone  triumphantly  to  think 
 His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 
 
 His  glorious  course  was,  yesterday,  complete; 
 
 Death,  then,  was  welcome ;  yet  life  still  is  sweet. 
 
 The  World  a  Grave* 
 
 Lorenzo!  such  the  glories  of  the  world ! 
 What  is  the  world  itself?  Thy  world — a  grave. 
 Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive? 
 
 The  spade,  the  plough,  disturb  our  ancestors ; 
 From  human  mould  we  reap  our  daily  bread. 
 The  globe  around  earth’s  hollow  surface  shakes. 
 And  is  the  ceiling  of  her  sleeping  sons. 
 
 O’er  devastation  we  blind  revels  keep ; 
 
 Whole  bury’d  towns  support  the  dancer’s  heel. 
 The  moist  of  human  frame  the  sun  exhales ; 
 Winds  scatter  through  the  mighty  void  the  dry  ; 
 Earth  repossesses  part  of  what  she  gave. 
 
 And  the  freed  spirit  mounts  on  wings  of  fire; 
 Each  element  partakes  our  scatter’d  spoils; 
 
 As  nature,  wide,  our  ruins  spread  :  man’s  death 
 Inhabits  all  things,  but  the  thought  of  man. 
 
 Nor  man  alone ;  his  breathing  bust  expires, 
 His  tomb  is  mortal;  empires  die:  where,  now, 
 
ERSKINE. 
 
 405 
 
 Hie  Roman?  Greek?  They  stalk,  an  empty  name! 
 Yet  few  regard  them  in  this  useful  light; 
 
 Though  half  our  learning  is  their  epitaph. 
 
 When  down  thy  vale,  unlock’d  by  midnight  thought, 
 That  loves  to  wander  in  thy  sunless  realms, 
 
 O  Death  !  I  stretch  my  view:  what  visions  rise! 
 What  triumphs!  toils  imperial!  arts  divine! 
 
 In  wither’d  laurels  glide  before  my  sight ! 
 
 What  lengths  of  far-fam’d  ages,  billow’d  high 
 With  human  agitation,  roll  along 
 In  unsubstantial  images  of  air! 
 
 The  melancholy -ghosts  of  dead  renown, 
 
 Whispering  faint  echoes  of  the  world’s  applause. 
 
 With  penitential  aspect  as  they  pass. 
 
 All  point  at  earth,  and  hiss  at  human  pride, 
 
 The  wisdom  of  the  wise,  and  prancings  of  the  great. 
 
 RALPH  ERSKINE. 
 
 Born  1685.  Died  1752. 
 
 Author  of  Gospel  Sonnets,  Sermons ,  and  Theological  Essays. 
 
 Faith  and.  Frames  compared. 
 
 Faith  has  for  its  foundation  broad 
 A  stable  rock  on  which  I  stand, 
 
 The  truth  and  faithfulness  of  God, 
 
 All  other  grounds  are  sinking  sand. 
 
 My  frames  and  feelings  ebb  and  flow: 
 
 And  when  my  faith  depends  on  them, 
 It  fleets  and  staggers  to  and  fro, 
 
 And  dies  amidst  the  dying  frame. 
 
 Could  I  believe  what  God  has  spoke, 
 Rely  on  his  unchanging  love, 
 
 And  cease  to  grasp  at  fleeting  smoke, 
 
 No  changes  would  my  mountain  move. 
 
406 
 
 ERSKINE. 
 
 When  divine  smiles  in  sight  appear, 
 
 And  I  enjoy  the  heavenly  gale; 
 
 When  wind  and  tide  and  all  is  fair, 
 
 I  dream  my  faith  shall  never  fail : — 
 
 But  ah !  by  sudden  turns  I  see 
 My  lying  heart’s  fallacious  guilt, 
 
 And  that  my  faith,  not  firm  in  me, 
 
 On  sinking  sand  was  partly  built. 
 
 So  much  my  faith’s  affiance  seems 
 Its  life  from  fading  joys  to  bring, 
 
 That  when  I  lose  the  dying  streams, 
 
 I  cannot  trust  the  living  spring. 
 
 When  drops  of  comfort  quickly  dry’d, 
 
 And  sensible  enjoyments  fail : 
 
 When  cheering  apples  are  deny’d, 
 
 Then  doubts  instead  of  faith  prevail. 
 
 But  why,  though  fruit  be  snatch’d  from  me, 
 Should  I  distrust  the  glorious  Root; 
 
 And  still  affront  the  standing  Tree, 
 
 By  trusting  more  to  falling  fruit? 
 
 The  frame  of  Nature  shall  decay, 
 
 Time-changes  break  her  rusty  chains ; 
 
 Yea,  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ; 
 
 But  faith’s  foundation  firm  remains. 
 
 Heaven’s  promises  so  fix’dly  stand, 
 Engraved  with  an  immortal  pen, 
 
 In  great  Immanuel’s  mighty  hand, 
 
 All  hell’s  attempts  to  raze  are  vain. 
 
 Did  faith  with  none  but  truth  advise, 
 
 My  steady  soul  would  move  no  more, 
 
 Than  stable  hills  when  tempests  rise, 
 
 Or  solid  rocks  when  billows  roar. 
 
 But  when  my  faith  the  counsel  hears 
 Of  present  sense  and  reason  blind, 
 
WESLEY. 
 
 407 
 
 My  wavering  spirit  then  appears 
 A  feather  toss’ll  with  every  wind. 
 
 I  would,  when  dying  comforts  fly, 
 
 As  much  as  when  they  present  were, 
 •  Upon  thy  living  joy  rely: 
 
 Help,  Lord,  for  here  I  dajly  err. 
 
 SAMUEL  WESLEY,  Sen. 
 
 Born  1662.  Died  17 35. 
 
 Father  of  Samuel,  John,  and  Charles  Wesley.  He  was  the 
 Author  of  “  The  Life  of  Christ ,  an  Heroic  Poem  in  ten  Boohs,” 
 and  some  small  pieces. 
 
 The  Transfiguration  of  Christ . 
 
 [From  “  The  Life  of  Christ,”  Book  I.] 
 
 Tabor,  the  place  to  prove  his  mission  true, 
 
 Where  heaven  and  earth  must  have  an  interview 
 That  upper  Mount,  as  Sinai  long  before, 
 the  upper  world’s  whole  weight  descending  bore; 
 Lovely  it  look’d,  like  some  divine  abode, 
 
 All  beauteous  as  the  Paradise  of  God. 
 
 lo  this  blest  Mount  did  our  blest  Lord  ascend, 
 
 Three  witnesses  must  thither  Him  attend, 
 
 Two  destined  martyrs,  and  the  third  his  friend. 
 
 Scarce  had  the  cheerful  harbinger  of  day 
 
 Clapp  d  his  bright  wings,  and  warn’d  the  shades  away, 
 
 Ere  our  still-watchful  Saviour,  who  denies 
 
 The  Sun,  his  shade,  before  Himself  to  rise, 
 
 Had  conquer’d  Tabor’s  hoary  top;  and  there 
 Yet  higher  mounts  in  ardent  hymns  and  prayer. 
 
 No  earthly  thought,  no  sublunary  thing 
 Could  clog  his  towering  soul’s  seraphic  wing; 
 
408 
 
 WESLEY. 
 
 He  pass’d  through  all  the  glittering  guards  on  high, 
 Who  staid  their  songs,  and  bow’d  as  He  went  by ; 
 Nor  stopp’d  but  at  his  Father’s  radiant  throne : 
 
 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 
 
 He  ask’d  and  had  ;  and  beckon’d  thence  away 
 ( Gladly  all  Heaven  his  loved  commands  obey,) 
 
 '  Two  of  the  brightest  saints  which  fill  the  place. 
 Aye-gazing  on  the  beatific  face! 
 
 Elias,  who  to  heaven  triumphing  rode, 
 
 Moses,  expiring  with  the  kiss  of  God. 
 
 High  on  the  trembling  mountain’s  brow  they  walk'd, 
 And  things  unutterable  look’d  and  talk’d; 
 
 Talk’d  of  his  wondrous  passion,  wondrous  love; 
 
 _ A  riddle  to  the  very  blest  above! 
 
 Slumbers,  meanwhile,  the  witnesses  surprise. 
 
 And  heavy  shameful  sloth  fast  seal  d  theii  eyes  ; 
 
 With  their  brief  vigils  tired,  supine  they  lay, 
 
 Till  them  their  Master,  turning,  did  survey ; 
 
 From  his  loved  face  He  shot  a  piercing  beam, 
 
 Which  roused  them  all  from  their  inglorious  dream  ; 
 A  while  they  gazed,  but  found  the  scene  too  bright, 
 And  sunk  beneath  the’  insufferable  light. 
 
 Thus,  when,  at  the  last  dreadful  hour  of  doom, 
 
 The’  archangel’s  trump  shall  wake  the  silent  tomb, 
 When  God’s  pavilion  in  the  clouds  is  spread, 
 Lightnings  and  rainbows  wreath’d  around  his  head, 
 O’er-burthen’d  Nature  at  the  sight  would  fly, 
 
 Again  would  be  entomb’d,  again  would  die.^ 
 
 His  glories  now  in  part  our  Lord  repress’d, 
 
 And  mildly  veils  and  mitigates  the  rest: 
 
 Again  they  look’d  ;— what  wonders  then  they  saw ! 
 Not  they  themselves  the  shining  scene  could  draw. 
 
 If  yet  alive.  What  glory  and  what  grace  ! 
 
 Dazzling  his  form  ;  ineffable  his  face ; 
 
 His  seamless  robe  than  new-fallen  snow  more  white; 
 One  radiant  pillar  all  of  sparkling  light : 
 
 Far  did  it  mortal  art’s  best  strokes  outshine, 
 
 The  perfect  workmanship  of  hands  divine. 
 
 Near  Him  the  two  great  Prophets  stand  in  bliss. 
 With  modest  splendour  only  less  than  his ; 
 
WESLEY. 
 
 409 
 
 Such  as  the  twinkling  stars’  clear  silver  ray 
 To  the  strong  lustre  of  the  golden  day. 
 
 Celestial  joy  seized  each  disciple’s  breast, 
 
 Too  big  to  be  resisted  or  express’d; 
 
 All  that  they  knew  was  pleasure  mix’d  with  pain ; 
 
 All  that  they  fear’d  was  losing  it  again  : 
 
 When  Cephas  thus — 
 
 “  In  this  blest  place  for  ever  let  us  stay; 
 
 Rather  than  tis,  O  take  our  lives  away ! 
 
 Three  humble  tabernacles  soon  we’ll  rear 
 For  Thee  and  these  illustrious  strangers,  here.” 
 
 Scarce  from  his  lips  the  last  swift  accent  flies, 
 
 Ere  still  new  scenes  of  miracle  arise, 
 
 For,  lo !  a  cloud  wafts  through  the’  enlighten’d  air, 
 (Clouds  dress’d  by  summer’s  evening  are  less  fair;) 
 
 A  wondrous  cloud, — the  morn  itself  less  bright — 
 Wove  from  the  finest  threads  of  heavenly  light : 
 
 Such  clouds  far  off  in  those  blest  regions  stray, 
 
 Where  God’s  high  throne  scatters  eternal  day; 
 
 Such  that  strange  cloud,  which  made  the  world’s  first 
 morn, 
 
 Before  the  stars,  or  sun  himself,  was  born  ; 
 
 That  pillar  such,  which  did  from  Egypt  come, 
 
 And  piloted  the  chosen  nation  home ; 
 
 From  earth  to  heaven  did  its  broad  top  aspire, 
 Miraculous  mixture !  ’twas  both  shade  and  fire. 
 
 And  lo!  it  comes,  and  lo!  they  strive  in  vain  ; 
 
 Their  faultering  knees  their  bodies  scarce  sustain ; 
 Celestial  lustre,  even  thro’  clouds  survey’d, 
 
 Must  sink  the  strongest  frame,  of  matter  made. 
 Weaken’d  with  wonders,  and  exhausted  all, 
 
 Their  spirits  forsake  their  task ;  to  earth  they  fall ; 
 They  fall  to  earth;  but  first  with  reverend  fear, 
 
 The  voice,  the  awful  voice  of  God  they  hear ; 
 
 The’  eternal  Father  (in  the  great  Three- One,) 
 
 From  heaven  attesting  his  eternal  Son. 
 
 They  hear,  but  Him  who  speaks  they  dare  not  meet ; 
 So  down  they  fall,  and  kiss  their  Master’s  feet : 
 
 He  touch’d  (whose  touch  the  very  dead  could  raise,) 
 Their  lifeless  limbs;  and,  rising,  Him  they  praise. 
 
 s  32 
 
410 
 
 CAWTHORN. 
 
 Around  they  look’d,  but  could  no  more  descry 
 That  heavenly  pair,  whose  happy  company 
 They  late  enjoy’d ;  return’d  to  bliss,  to  show 
 To  those  above,  what  they  had  Iearn’d  below. 
 
 Thus  holy  souls,  from  dregs  of  sin  refined, 
 
 Whose  frames  are  little  less  than  perfect  mind, 
 
 Whose  commerce  and  acquaintance  with  the  bless’d. 
 Commences  here,  and  half  their  heaven’s  possess’d ; 
 — Thus,  when  to  these  thro’  sleep’s  thin  curtain  shine 
 Angelic  essences,  and  forms  divine, 
 
 They  sighing  wake,  and  clasp  the  empty  air: 
 
 — Thus  Cephas,  thus  the  Zebedean  pair, 
 
 And  would  have  grieved,  had  not  their  Lord  been 
 there ; 
 
 Who,  free  from  worldly  glory’s  vain  desire, 
 
 Unwarm’d  at  fond  ambition’s  foolish  fire, 
 
 What  they  had  seen  commands  them  to  conceal, 
 
 Nor  to  the  world  those  sacred  truths  reveal, 
 
 Till  He  had  conquer’d  death,  and  broke  its  chain; 
 Then  faith  to  this,  as  this  to  that,  might  gain. 
 
 JAMES  CAWTHORN. 
 
 "  Born  1719.  Died  1761. 
 
 Author  of  Abelard  to  Eloisa,  and  other  Poems. 
 
 On  Two  Daughters ,  twins ,  ivho  died  in  two  days. 
 
 Let  vulgar  souls  endure  the  body’s  chain, 
 
 Till  life’s  dull  current  ebbs  in  every  vein, 
 
 Dream  out  a  tedious  age,  ere,  wide-display’d, 
 Death’s  blackest  pinion  wraps  them  in  the  shade. 
 
 These  happy  infants,  early  taught  to  shun 
 All  that  the  world  admires  beneath  the  sun, 
 Scorn’d  the  weak  bands  mortality  could  tie, 
 
 And  tied  impatient  to  their  native  sky. 
 
BLAIR. 
 
 411 
 
 Dear,  precious  Babes  !  alas  !  when  fondly  wild, 
 
 A  mother’s  heart  hung  melting  o’er  her  child; 
 When  my  charm’d  eye  a  flood  of  joy  express’d, 
 
 And  all  the  father  kindled  in  my  breast, 
 
 A  sudden  paleness  seized  each  guiltless  face, 
 
 And  Death,  though  smiling,  crept  o’er  every  grace. 
 
 Nature,  be  calm ;  heave  not  the  impassion’d  sigh, 
 Nor  teach  one  tear  to  tremble  in  mine  eye; 
 
 A  few  unspotted  moments,  pass’d  between 
 Their  dawn  of  being,  and  their  closing  scene ; 
 
 And  sure  no  nobler  blessing  can  be  given, 
 
 When  one  short  anguish  is  the  price  of  heaven. 
 
 ROBERT  BLAIR. 
 
 Born  1699.  Died  1747. 
 
 Author  of  “  The  Grave  j”  a  composition  in  blank  verse,  remark¬ 
 able  for  masculine  strength  of  thought,  and  repulsive  coarseness  of 
 expression.  There  are  only  two  slight  touches  of  tenderness  in  the 
 whole,— the  lines  on  Friendship,  and  those  on  the  Maiden  who 
 died  before  her  time,— yet  has  the  intense  and  dreadful  interest  of 
 the  subject  made  this  poem  one  of  the  most  popular  in  the  lan¬ 
 guage  ;  nor,  while  men  continue  to  live  and  die,  is  it  likely  soon  to 
 lose  its  hold  upon  a  numerous  class  of  readers. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Invidious  Grave  ! — how  dost  thou  rend  in  sunder 
 Whom  love  has  knit,  and  sympathy  made  one! 
 
 A  tie  more  stubborn  far  than  Nature’s  band. 
 Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul, 
 Sweetner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society, 
 
 I  owe  thee  much.  Thou  hast  deserved  from  me, 
 Far,  far  beyond  what  I  can  ever  pay. 
 
 Oft  have  I  proved  the  labours  of  thy  love, 
 
 And  the  warm  efforts  of  the  gentle  heart, 
 
 Anxious  to  please. — Oh  !  when  my  friend  and  I 
 In  some  thick  wood  have  wander’d  heedless  on, 
 
 s  2 
 
412 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye,  and  sat  us  down 
 Upon  the  sloping  cowslip-cover’d  bank, 
 
 Where  the  pure  limpid  stream  has  slid  along 
 In  grateful  errors  through  the  underwood, 
 
 Sweet  murmuring;  methoughttheshrill-tongued  thrush 
 Mended  his  song  of  love ;  the  sooty  blackbird 
 Mellow’d  his  pipe,  and  soften’d  every  note: 
 
 The  eglantine  smell’d  sweeter,  and  the  rose 
 Assumed  a  dye  more  deep ;  whilst  every  flower 
 Vied  with  its  fellow-plant  in  luxury 
 
 Of  dress - Oh  !  then  the  longest  summer’s  day 
 
 Seem’d  too  too  much  in  haste ;  still  the  full  heart 
 Had  not  imparted  half:  ’twas  happiness 
 Too  exquisite  to  last.  Of  joys  departed, 
 
 Not  to  return,  how  painful  the  remembrance ! 
 
 Death  Unwelcome. 
 
 How  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  O  Death, 
 To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possessions ; 
 
 Who,  counting  on  long  years  of  pleasure  here, 
 
 Is  quite  unfurnish’d  for  that  world  to  come ! 
 
 In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
 Ilaves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement ; 
 Runs  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help, 
 
 But  shrieks  in  vain ! — How  wishfully  she  looks 
 On  all  she’s  leaving,  now  no  longer  her’s ! 
 
 A  little  longer,  yet  a  little  longer, 
 
 Oh  !  might  she  stay  to  wash  away  her  stains, 
 And  fit  her  for  her  passage.— Mournful  sight! 
 Her  very  eyes  weep  blood;  and  every  groan 
 She  heaves  is  big  with  horror. — But  the  foe, 
 Like  a  staunch  murderer  steady  to  his  purpose, 
 Pursues  her  close  through  every  lane  of  life, 
 Nor  misses  once  the  track,  but  presses  on; 
 
 Till  forced  at  last  to  the  tremendous  verge. 
 
 At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin. 
 
 Sure  ’tis  a  serious  thing  to  die,  my  soul ! 
 What  a  strange  moment  must  it  be,  when  near 
 
BLAIR. 
 
 413 
 
 Thy  journey’s  end,  thou  hast  the  gulf  in  view! 
 
 That  awful  gulf,  no  mortal  e’er  repass’d 
 To  tell  what’s  doing  on  the  other  side. 
 
 Nature  runs  back,  and  shudders  at  the  sight, 
 
 And  every  life-string  bleeds  at  thought  of  parting; 
 
 For  part  they  must ;  body  and  soul  must  part: 
 
 Fond  couple!  link’d  more  close  than  wedded  pair. 
 This  wings  its  way  to  its  Almighty  Source, 
 
 The  witness  of  its  actions,  now  its  judge ; 
 
 That  drops  into  the  dark  and  noisome  grave, 
 
 Like  a  disabled  pitcher  of  no  use. 
 
 Dreadful  familiarity  with  Death. 
 
 Death’s  shafts  fly  thick :  here  falls  the  village  swain. 
 And  there  his  pamper’d  lord.  The  cup  goes  round: 
 And  who  so  artful  as  to  put  it  by ! 
 
 ’Tis  long  since  Death  had  the  majority; 
 
 Yet  strange !  the  living  lay  it  not  to  heart. 
 
 See  yonder  maker  of  the  dead  man’s  bed, 
 
 The  sexton,  hoary-headed  chronicle, 
 
 Of  hard,  unmeaning  face,  down  which  ne’er  stole 
 A  gentle  tear,  with  mattock  in  his  hand, 
 
 Digs  thro’  whole  rows  of  kindred  and  acquaintance, 
 By  far  his  juniors. — Scarce  a  skull’s  cast  up, 
 
 But  well  he  knew  its  owner,  and  can  tell 
 Some  passage  of  his  life. — Thus  hand  in  hand 
 The  sot, has  walk’d  with  Death  twice  twenty  years, 
 And  yet  ne’er  younker  on  the  green  laughs  louder, 
 
 Or  clubs  a  smuttier  tale :  when  drunkards  meet. 
 
 None  sings  a  merrier  catch,  or  lends  a  hand 
 More  willing  to  his  cup. — Poor  wretch!  he  minds  not 
 That  soon  some  trusty  brother  of  the  trade 
 Shall  do  for  him,  what  he  has  done  for  thousands. 
 
 On  this  side,  and  on  that,  men  see  their  friends 
 Drop  olf,  like  leaves  in  autumn;  yet  launch  out 
 Into  fantastic  schemes,  which  the  long  livers 
 In  the  world’s  hale  and  undegenerate  days 
 Could  scarce  have  leisure  for. — Fools  that  we  are, 
 
414 
 
 BYROM. 
 
 Never  to  think  of  death  and  of  ourselves 
 At  the  same  time:  as  if  to  learn  to  die 
 Were  no  concern  of  ours. — Oh  !  more  than  sottish, 
 For  creatures  of  a  day  in  gamesome  mood, 
 
 To  frolic  on  Eternity’s  dread  brink 
 Unapprehensive;  when,  for  ought  we  know, 
 
 The  very  first  swoln  surge  shall  sweep  us  in. 
 
 Think  we,  or  think  we  not,  Tinae  hurries  on 
 With  a  resistless,  unremitting  stream  ; 
 
 Yet  treads  more  soft  than  e’er  did  midnight  thief, 
 That  slides  his  hand  under  the  miser’s  pillow, 
 
 And  carries  otf  his  prize. 
 
 JOHN  BYROM. 
 
 Born  1691.  Died  1763. 
 
 Author  of  many  amusing  pieces  in  rhyme.  Byrom  was,  perhaps, 
 without  exception,  the  most  expert  versifier  in  the  English  lan¬ 
 guage  ;  no  subject,  not  even  verbal  criticism,  being  too  intractable 
 to  be  run  into  familiar  metre  by  him.  In  the  essay  on  Enthusiasm, 
 however,  there  are  passages  that  nearly  rival  Pope  in  energy  and 
 compactness. 
 
 St.  Philip  Neri  and  the  Youth. 
 
 St.  Philip  Neri,  as  old  readings  say, 
 
 Met  a  young  stranger  irr Rome’s  streets  one  day; 
 And,  being  ever  courteously  inclined 
 To  give  young  folks  a  sober  turn  of  mind, 
 
 He  fell  into  discourse  with  him,  and  thus 
 The  dialogue  they  held  comes  down  to  us.. 
 
 St.  Tell  me  what  brings  you,  gentle  youth,  to  Rome  ? 
 Y.  To  make  myself  a  scholar,  sir,  I  come. 
 
 St.  And,  when  you  are  one,  what  do  you  intend  ? 
 
 Y.  To  be  a  priest,  I  hope,  sir,  in  the  end. 
 
 St.  Suppose  it  so— what  have  you  next  in  view? 
 
 Y.  That  I  may  get  to  be  a  canon  too. 
 
BYROM. 
 
 415 
 
 St.  Well;  and  how  then? 
 
 Y.  Why  then,  for  ought  I  know, 
 I  may  be  made  a  bishop. 
 
 St.  Be  it  so — 
 
 What  then  ? 
 
 Y.  Why,  cardinal’s  a  high  degree — 
 
 And  yet  my  lot  it  possibly  may  be. 
 
 St.  Suppose  it  was — what  then  ? 
 
 Y.  Why,  who  can  say 
 But  I’  ve  a  chance  for  being  pope  one  day? 
 
 St.  Well,  having  worn  the  mitre,  and  red  hat, 
 
 And  triple  crown,  what  follows  after  that  ? 
 
 Y.  Nay,  there  is  nothing  further  to  be  sure, 
 
 Upon  this  Earth,  that  wishing  can  procures 
 When  I’ve  enjoy’d  a  dignity  so  high, 
 
 As  long  as  God  shall  please,  then- — I  must  die. 
 
 St.  What!  must  you  die?  fond  youth!  and  at  the  best 
 But  wish  and  hope,  and  may  be  all  the  rest ! 
 
 Take  my  advice — whatever  may  betide, 
 
 For  that  which  must  be,  first  of  all  provide ; 
 
 Then  think  of  that  which  may  be;  and  indeed, 
 
 When  well  prepared,  who  knows  what  may  succeed? 
 But  you  may  be,  as  you  are  pleased  to  hope, 
 
 Priest,  canon,  bishop,  cardinal,  and  pope! 
 
 '  tfWW/VW* 
 
 i 
 
 Enthusiasm. 
 
 [This  piece  is  considerably  abridged  here.] 
 
 What  is  enthusiasm  ?  What  can  it  be, 
 
 But  thought  enkindled  to  a  high  degree? 
 
 That  may,  whatever  be  its  ruling  turn, 
 
 Right,  or  not  right,  with  equal  ardour  burn. 
 
 It  must  be  therefore  various  in  its  kind, 
 
 As  objects  vary  that  engage  the  mind : 
 
 When  to  religion  we  confine  the  word, 
 
 What  use  of  language  can  be  more  absurd? 
 
 ’Tis  just  as  true,  that  many  words  beside, 
 
 As  love,  or  zeal,  are  only  thus  apply’d: 
 
416 
 
 BYROM. 
 
 To  every  kind  of  life  they  all  belong; 
 
 Men  may  be  eager,  tho’  their  views  be  wrong: 
 
 And  hence  the  reason,  why  the  greatest  foes 
 To  true  religious  earnestness  are  those 
 Who  fire  their  wits  upon  a  different  theme, 
 
 Deep  in  some  false  enthusiastic  scheme. 
 
 One  man  politely,  seized  with  classic  rage, 
 
 Dotes  on  old  Rome,  and  its  Augustan  age; 
 
 On  those  great  souls  who  then,  or  then  abouts, 
 
 Made  in  their  state  such  riots  and  such  routs, 
 
 He  fancies  all  magnificent  and  grand, 
 
 Under  this  mistress  of  the  world’s  command: 
 
 Scarce  can  his  breast  the  sad  reverse  abide, 
 
 The  dame  despoil’d  of  all  her  glorious  pride: 
 
 Time,  an  old  Goth,  advancing  to  consume 
 Immortal  gods,  and  once-eternal  Rome; 
 
 When  the  plain  gospel  spread  its  artless  ray, 
 
 And  rude  unsculptured  fishermen  had  sway; 
 
 Who  spared  no  idol,  though  divinely  carved, 
 
 Though  Art,  and  muse,  and  shrine-engraver,  starved 
 Who  saved  poor  wretches,  and  destroy’d,  alas ! 
 
 The  vital  marble,  and  the  breathing  brass. 
 
 Where  does  all  sense  to  him,  and  reason,  shine  ? 
 Behold — in  Tully’s  rhetoric  divine  ! 
 
 Tully !  enough — high  o’er  the  Alps  he’s  gone, 
 
 To  tread  the  ground  that  Tully  trod  upon; 
 
 Haply  to  find  his  statue,  or  his  bust, 
 
 Or  medal  green’d  with  Ciceronian  rust: 
 
 Perchance  the  rostrum — yea,  the  very  wood, 
 Whereon  this  elevated  genius  stood; 
 
 When  forth  on  Catiline,  as  erst  he  spoke, 
 
 The  thunder  of  “  quousque  tandem”  broke. 
 
 Well  may  this  grand  enthusiast  deride 
 The  dulness  of  a  pilgrim’s  humbler  pride, 
 
 Who  paces  to  behold  that  part  of  earth, 
 
 Which  to  the  Saviour  of  the  world  gave  birth ; 
 
 To  see  the  sepulchre  from  whence  He  rose; 
 
 Or  view  the  rocks  that  rented  at  his  woes; 
 
 Whom  Pagan  reliques  have  no  force  to  charm, 
 
 Yet  e’en  a  modern  crucifix  can  warm  : 
 
BYROM. 
 
 417 
 
 The  sacred  signal  who  intent  upon, 
 
 Thinks  on  the  sacrifice  that  hung  thereon. 
 
 Another’s  heated  brain  is  painted  o’er, 
 
 With  ancient  hieroglyphic  marks  of  yore  : 
 
 He  old  Egyptian  mummies  can  explain, 
 
 And  raise  them  up  almost  to  life  again; 
 
 Can  into  deep  antique  recesses  pry, 
 
 And  tell,  of  all,  the  wherefore  and  the  why ; 
 
 How  this  philosopher,  and  that,  has  thought, 
 Believed  one  thing,  and  quite  another  taught; 
 
 Can  rules,  of  Grecian  sages  long  forgot, 
 
 Clear  up,  as  if  they  lived  upon  the  spot. 
 
 What  bounds  to  nostrum?  Moses,  and  the  Jews, 
 Observed  this  learned  legislator’s  views, 
 
 While  Israel’s  leader  purposely  conceal’d 
 Truths,  which  his  whole  economy  reveal’d; 
 
 No  heaven  disclosed,  but  Canaan’s  fertile  stage, 
 
 And  no  for-ever — but  a  good  old  age ; 
 
 Whilst  the  well-untaught  people,  kept  in  awe 
 By  meanless  types,  and  unexplained  law, 
 
 Pray’d  to  their  local  god  to  grant  a  while 
 The  future  state,  of  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil; 
 
 ’Till,  by  a  late  captivity  set  free, 
 
 Their  destin’d  error  they  began  to  see; 
 
 Dropp’d  the  Mosaic  scheme,  to  teach  their  youth 
 Dramatic  Job,  and  Babylonish  truth. 
 
 To  soar  aloft  on  obeliskal  clouds ; 
 
 To  dig  down  deep  into  the  dark— for  shrouds ; 
 
 To  vex  old  matters,  chronicled  in  Greek, 
 
 While  those  of  his  own  parish  are  to  seek; 
 
 What  can  .come  forth  from  such  an  antic  taste, 
 
 But  a  clarissimus  enthusiast? 
 
 Fraught  with  discoveries  so  quaint,  so  new, 
 
 So  deep,  so  smart,  so  ipse-dixit  true, 
 
 See  arts,  and  empires,  ages,  books,  and  men, 
 
 Rising,  and  falling,  as  he  points  the  pen: 
 
 See  frauds  and  forgeries,  if  ought  surpass, 
 
 Of  nobler  stretch,  the  limits  of  his  class, 
 
 Not  found  within  that  summary  of  laws, 
 
 Conjecture,  tinsel’d  with  its  own  applause. 
 
 s  3 
 
418 
 
 BYROM. 
 
 Where  erudition  so  unbless’d  prevails, 
 
 Saints,  and  their  lives,  are  legendary  tales; 
 Christians,  a  brain-sick  visionary  crew, 
 
 That  read  the  Bible  with  a  Bible  view, 
 
 And  through  the  letter  humbly  hope  to  trace 
 The  living  word,  the  spirit,  and  the  grace. 
 
 It  matters  not,  whatever  be  the  state 
 That  full-bent  will  and  strong  desires  create; 
 Where’er  they  fall,  where’er  they  love  to  dwell. 
 They  kindle  there  their  heaven,  or  their  hell; 
 
 The  chosen  scene  surrounds  them  as  their  own, 
 All  else  is  dead,  insipid,  or  unknown. 
 
 However  poor  and  empty  be  the  sphere, 
 
 ’Tis  all,  if  inclination  centre  there: 
 
 Its  own  enthusiasts  each  system  knows, 
 
 Down  to  laced  fops,  and  powder-sprinkled  beaus. 
 Great  wits,  affecting,  what  they  call,  to  think, 
 That  deep  immersed  in  speculation  sink, 
 
 Are  great  enthusiasts,  howe’er  refined, 
 
 Whose  brain-bred  notion-s  so  inflame  the  mind. 
 That,  during  the  continuance  of  its  heat, 
 
 The  summum  bonum  is — its  own  conceit: 
 
 Critics,  with  all  their  learning  recondite, 
 
 Poets,  that  severally  be-mused  write  ; 
 
 The  virtuosos,  whether  great  or  small ; 
 
 The  connoisseurs,  that  know  the  worth  of  all; 
 Philosophers,  that  dictate  sentiments, 
 
 And  politicians,  wiser  than  events; 
 
 Such,  find  such-like,  come  under  the  same  law, 
 Although  their  heat  be  from  a  flame  of  straw ; 
 Although  in  one  absurdity  they  chime, 
 
 To  make  religious  entheasm  a  crime. 
 
 Endless  to  say  how  many  of  their  trade 
 Ambition,  pride,  and  self-conceit  have  made. 
 
 If  one,  the  chief  of  such  a  numerous  name, 
 
 Let  the  great  scholar  justify  his  claim. 
 
 Self-love,  in  short,  wherever  it  is  found, 
 
 Tends  to  its  own  enthusiastic  ground ; 
 
 With  the  same  force  that  goodness  mounts  above. 
 Sinks,  by  its  own  enormous  weight,  self-love — 
 
BYROM. 
 
 419 
 
 By  this  the  wavering  libertine  is  press’d, 
 
 And  the  rank  atheist  totally  possess’d  : 
 
 Atheists  are  dark  enthusiasts  indeed, 
 
 Whose  fire  enkindles  like  the  smoking  weed: 
 Lightless,  and  dull,  the  clouded  fancy  burns, 
 
 Wild  hopes,  and  fears,  still  flashing  out  by  turns. 
 Averse  to  heaven,  amid  the  horrid  gleam, 
 
 They  quest  annihilation’s  monstrous  theme. 
 
 On  gloomy  depths  of  nothingness  to  pore, 
 
 ’Till  all  be  none,  and  being  be  no  more. 
 
 The  sprightlier  infidel,  as  yet  more  gay. 
 
 Fires  off  the  next  ideas  in  his  way, 
 
 The  dry  Tag-ends  of  every  obvious  doubt; 
 
 And  puffs  and  blows  for  fear  they 'should  go  out. 
 Boldly  resolved,  against  conviction  steel’d, 
 
 Nor  inward  truth,  nor  outward  fact,  to  yield; 
 
 Urged  with  a  thousand  proofs,  he  stands  unmoved 
 Fast  by  himself,  and  scorns  to  be  out-proved  ; 
 
 To  his  own  reason  loudly  he  appeals, 
 
 No  saint  more  zealous  for  what  God  reveals. 
 
 Think  not  that  you  are  no  enthusiast,  then : 
 
 All  men  are  such,  as  sure  as  they  are  men. 
 
 The  thing  itself  is  not  at  all  to  blame: 
 
 *Tis  in  each  state  of  human  life  the  same. 
 
 That  which  concerns  us  therefore  is  to  see 
 What  species  of  enthusiasts  we  be ; 
 
 On  what  materials  the  fiery  source 
 Of  thinking  life  shall  execute  its  force : 
 
 Whether  a  man  shall  stir  up  love,  or  hate, 
 
 From  the  mix’d  medium  ot  this  present  state ; 
 Shall  choose  with  upright  heart  and  mind  to  rise, 
 And  reconnoitre  heaven’s  primeval  skies  ; 
 
 Or  down  to  lust  and  rapine  to  descend, 
 
 Brute  for  a  time,  and  demon  at  its  end. 
 
 When  true  religion  kindles  up  the  fire, 
 
 Who  can  condemn  the  vigorous  desire? 
 
 That  burns  to  reach  the  end  for  which  ’twas  given, 
 To  shine,  and  sparkle  in  its  native  heaven  ? 
 
 What  else  was  our  creating  Father’s  view? 
 
 Ilis  image  lost  why  sought  he  to  renew? 
 
420 
 
 BYROM. 
 
 Why  all  the  scenes  of  love  that  Christians  know, 
 But  to  attract  us  from  this  poor  below? 
 
 To  save  us  from  the  fatal  choice  of  ill, 
 
 And  bless  the  free  co-operating  will? 
 
 Blame  not  enthusiasm,  if  rightly  bent; 
 
 Or  blame  of  saints  the  holiest  intent, 
 
 The  strong  persuasion,  the  confirm’d  belief. 
 
 Of  all  the  comforts  of  a  soul  the  chief; 
 
 That  God’s  continual  will,  and  work  to  save. 
 Teach,  and  inspire,  attend  us  to  the  grave : 
 
 That  they,  who  in  his  faith  and  love  abide, 
 
 Find  in  his  Spirit  an  immediate  guide: 
 
 This  is  no  more  a  fancy,  or  a  whim, 
 
 Than  that  we  live,  and  move,  and  are  in  Him ; 
 Let  Nature,  or  let  Scripture,  be  the  ground, 
 Here  is  the  seat  of  true  religion  found. 
 
 An  earthly  life,  as  life  itself  explains, 
 
 The  air  and  spirit  of  this  world  maintains  ; 
 
 As  plainly  does  an  heavenly  life  declare, 
 
 An  heavenly  spirit,  and  an  holy  air. 
 
 What  truth  more  plainly  does  the  gospel  teach 
 What  doctrine  all  its  missionaries  preach, 
 
 Than  this,  that  every  good  desire  and  thought, 
 
 Is  in  us  by  the  Holy  Spirit  wrought? 
 
 For  this  the  working  faith  prepares  the  mind, 
 Hope  is  expectant,  charity  resign’d: 
 
 From  this  blest  guide  the  moment  we  depart, 
 What  is  there  ’eft  to  sanctify  the  heart  ? 
 
 Reason  and  morals?  And  where  live  they  most 
 In  Christian  comfort,  or  in  Stoic  boast? 
 
 Reason  may  paint  unpractised  truth  exact, 
 
 And  morals  rigidly  maintain — no  fact : 
 
 This  is  the  power  that  raises  them  to  worth, 
 That  calls  their  ripening  excellencies  forth. 
 
 Not  ask  for  this? — May  Heaven  forbid  the  vain, 
 The  sad  repose! — What  virtue  can  remain? 
 
 What  virtue  wanting,  if,  within  the  breast, 
 
 This  faith,  productive  of  all  virtue,  rest, 
 
 That  God  is  always  present  to  impart 
 1 1  is  light  and  Spirit  to  the  willing  heart? 
 
CHATTERTON. 
 
 421 
 
 He,  who  can  say,  my  willing  heart  began 
 To  learn  this  lesson,  may  be  christen’d  man ; 
 Before,  a  son  of  elements  and  earth ; 
 
 But  now,  a  creature  of  another  birth; 
 
 Whose  true  regenerated  soul  revives, 
 
 And  life  from  Him,  that  ever  lives,  derives ; 
 
 Freed  by  compendious  faith  from  all  the  pangs 
 Of  long  fetch’d  motives,  and  perplex’d  harangues; 
 One  word  of  promise  steadfastly  embraced, 
 
 His  heart  is  fix’d,  its  whole  dependence  placed: 
 The  hope  is  raised,  that  cannot  but  succeed, 
 
 And  found  infallibility  indeed: 
 
 Then  flows  the  love  that  no  distinction  knows 
 Of  system,  sect,  or  party,  friends,  or  foes ; 
 
 Nor  loves  by  halves;  but,  faithful  to  its  call, 
 Stretches  its  whole  benevolence  to  all; 
 
 Its  universal  wish,  the  angelic  scene, 
 
 That  God  within  the  heart  of  man  may  reign; 
 
 The  true  beginning  to  the  final  whole, 
 
 Of  heaven,  and  heavenly  life,  within  the  soul 
 
 THOMAS  CHATTERTON.  ' 
 
 Born  1752.  Died  1770. 
 
 Author  of  certain  antiquated  Poems  in  the  name  of  Rowley ,  a 
 Priest  of  the  fifteenth  century ;  and  others  in  modern  English  far 
 inferior. 
 
 The  Resignation. 
 
 [Written,  it  is  said,  not  long  before  the  unhappy  Author  com¬ 
 mitted  suicide.] 
 
 O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
 
 Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys; 
 
 To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I  fly, 
 
 Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 
 
422 
 
 CIIATTERTON. 
 
 The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 
 
 The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 
 
 Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill— 
 But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 
 
 O  teach  me  in  the  trying  hour, 
 
 When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear, 
 
 To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power, 
 Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 
 
 If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  Thee, 
 Encroaching,  sought  a  boundless  sway, 
 Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 
 
 And  mercy  look  the  cause  away. 
 
 Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain 
 Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess? 
 Shake  otf  the  melancholy  chain, 
 
 For  God  created  all  to  bless. 
 
 But  ah  !  my  breast  is  human  still ; 
 
 The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 
 
 My  languid  vitals’  feeble  rill, 
 
 The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 
 
 But  yet,  with  fortitude  resign’d, 
 
 I’ll  thank  the’  inflicter  of  the  blow; 
 Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind, 
 
 Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 
 
 The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 
 
 Which  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals, 
 
 Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light 
 Which  God,  my  east,  my  sun,  reveals. 
 
HAMILTON. 
 
 423 
 
 WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 
 
 Born  1704.  Died  1754. 
 
 Commonly  called  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  Author  of  Miscellaneous 
 
 Verses. 
 
 On  a  Dial. 
 
 Once  at  a  potent  leader’s  voice  it  stay’d, 
 
 Once  it  went  back  when  a  good  monarch  pray’d : 
 Mortals,  howe’er  we  grieve,  howe’er  deplore, . 
 The  flying  shadow  shall  return  no  more. 
 
 On  an  ObelisJc. 
 
 View  all  around,  the  works  of  Power  Divine, 
 Inquire,  explore,  admire,  extol,  resign ; 
 
 This  is  the  whole  of  human  kind  below; 
 
 ’Tis  only  given  beyond  the  grave  to  know. 
 
 A  Soliloquy. 
 
 [Written  in  1746,  after  the  failure  of  the  Pretender’s  expedition, 
 in  which  Hamilton  was  unfortunately  concerned.} 
 
 Mysterious  inmate  of  this  breast, 
 
 Enkindled  by  thy  flame; 
 
 By  thee  my  being’s  best  express’d, 
 
 For  what  thou  art  I  am : 
 
 With  thee  I  claim  celestial  birth, 
 
 A  spark  of  heaven’s  own  ray; 
 
 Without  thee  sink  to  vilest  earth, 
 
 Inanimated  clay. 
 
424 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Now  in  this  sad  and  dismal  hour 
 Of  multiply’d  distress, 
 
 Has  any  former  thought  the  power 
 To  make  thy  sorrows  less? 
 
 When  all  around  thee  cruel  snares 
 Threaten  thy  destin’d  breath, 
 
 And  every  sharp  reflection  bears 
 Want,  exile,  chains,  or  death ; — 
 
 Can  aught  that  pass’d  in  youth’s  fond  reign 
 Thy  pleasing  vein  restore? 
 
 Lives  beauty’s  gay  and  festive  train 
 In  memory's  soft  store? 
 
 Or  does  the  Muse?  ’Tis  said  her  art 
 Can  fiercest  pangs  appease ; 
 
 Can  she  to  thy  poor  trembling  heart 
 Now  speak  the  words  of  peace? 
 
 Yet  she  was  wont  at  early  dawn 
 To  whisper  thy  repose, 
 
 /  Nor  was  her  friendly  aid  withdrawn 
 At  grateful  evening’s  close. 
 
 Friendship,  ’tis  true,  its  sacred  might 
 May  mitigate  thy  doom  ; 
 
 As  lightning,  shot  across  the  night, 
 
 A  moment  gilds  the  gloom. 
 
 O  God  !  thy  providence  alone 
 Can  work  a  wonder  here, 
 
 Can  change  to  gladness  every  moan, 
 
 And  banish  all  my  fear. 
 
 Thy  arm,  all-powerful  to  save, 
 
 May  every  doubt  destroy; 
 
 And,  from  the  horrors  of  the  grave, 
 
 New  raise  to  life  and  joy. 
 
 From  this,  as  from  a  copious  spring, 
 
 Pure  consolation  flows ; 
 
SMART. 
 
 425 
 
 Makes  the  faint  heart  midst  sufferings  sing, 
 And  midst  despair  repose. 
 
 Yet  from  its  creature,  gracious  Heaven, 
 Most  merciful  and  just, 
 
 Asks  but,  for  life  and  safety  given, 
 
 Our  faith  and  humble  trust. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 
 
 Born  1722.  Died  1770. 
 
 Principal  Works : — On  the  Divine  Attributes  (very  elaborate 
 pieces  in  blank  verse,  but  ponderous  and  unattractive),  Miscella¬ 
 nies ,  (of  considerable  variety  and  merit.)  Nothing  from  the  hand 
 of  Smart,  however,  can  be  compared  with  the  following  stanzas, 
 said  to  have  been  indented  by  him,  with  the  end  of  a  key,  on  the 
 wainscot  of  a  room,  in  which  he  was  confined  as  a  maniac,  and 
 debarred  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  There  is  an  affecting  in¬ 
 coherency  in  the  thought  and  images,  which  glance  like  spectres 
 through  the  author’s  mind,  as  a  disordered  medium ;  but  the  fre¬ 
 quent  felicity  of  phrase  and  general  splendour  of  conception,  must 
 strike  every  reader  of  taste  as  evidence  of  that  “  fine  madness,” 
 which  is  said  to  reign  in  the  intellect  of  every  true  poet.  The  last 
 stanza  alone  might  give  immortality  to  any  name ;  it  is  a  most  per¬ 
 fect  specimen  of  the  sublime.  The  poem,  of  which  this  is  an  in¬ 
 terlude,  describes  the  Royal  Psalmist  and  the  themes  which  he  was 
 wont  to  sing  to  the  Harp  of  Zion. 
 
 David. 
 
 Sublime, — invention  ever-young, 
 
 Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue, 
 
 To  God  the’  eternal  theme ; 
 
 Notes  from  your  exaltations  caught, 
 Unrivall’d  royalty  of  thought, 
 
 O’er  meaner  thoughts  supreme. 
 
 His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
 Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce, 
 For  all  the  pangs  that  rage : 
 
426 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 Blest  light  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
 
 The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 
 
 The’  Abishag  of  his  age. 
 
 He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
 Of  all  things, — that  stupendous  force, 
 
 On  which  all  strength  depends; 
 brom  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes, 
 All  period,  power  and  enterprise 
 Commences,  reigns  and  ends. 
 
 The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  lie  made, 
 The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 
 
 ^  Dale,  champaign,  grove  and  hill ; 
 
 The  multitudinous  abyss, 
 
 Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss ; 
 
 And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 
 
 “  Tell  them,  I  am,”  Jehovah  said 
 1  o  Moses,  while  earth  heard  in  dread ; 
 
 And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
 
 At. once,  above,  beneath,  around, 
 
 All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 
 lieplied,  “  O  Lord,  Thou  Art.” 
 
 SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 
 
 Born  1709.  Died  1784. 
 
 Principal  Works : — The  English  Dictionary,  Rambler,  Idler, 
 Lives  of  the  Poets,  &c.  &c. 
 
 On  the  death  of  Mr.  Robert  Level ,  a  practise)'  in  Physic. 
 
 Condemn’d  to  Hope’s  delusive  mine, 
 
 As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
 
 By  sudden  blasts  or  slow  decline, 
 
 Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 
 
JOHNSON. 
 
 427 
 
 Well-tried  tliro’  many  a  varying  year, 
 
 See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend, 
 
 Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 
 
 Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 
 
 Yet  still  he  fills  affection’s  eye, 
 
 Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind; 
 
 Nor,  letter’d  Arrogance!  deny 
 Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined, 
 
 When  fainting  Nature  call’d  for  aid. 
 
 And  hovering  death  prepared  the  blow, 
 
 His  vigorous  remedy  display’d 
 The  power  of  art,  without  the  show. 
 
 Jn  misery’s  darkest  cavern  known, 
 
 His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 
 
 Where  hopeless  anguish  pour’d  the  groan, 
 And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 
 
 No  summons  mock’d  by  chill  delay, 
 
 No  petty  gain  disdain’d  by  pride, 
 
 The  modest  wants  of  every  day, 
 
 The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 
 
 His  virtues  walk’d  their  narrow  round, 
 
 Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 
 
 And  sure  the’  eternal  Master  found 
 The  single  talent  well  employ’d. 
 
 The  busy  day,  the. peaceful  night, 
 
 Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 
 
 His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 
 Though  now  his  eightieth  year  drew  nigh. 
 
 Then,  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain, 
 
 No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
 
 Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 
 
 And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 
 
 *- 
 
428 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 The  Ant  :—A  Simile  from  Proverbs  vi.  6 — 14. 
 
 Turn  on  the  prudent  Ant  thy  heedful  eyes, 
 Observe  her  labours,  sluggard,  and  be  wise  : 
 
 No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice, 
 
 Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice ; 
 
 Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away, 
 
 To  snatch  the  blessings  of  the  plenteous  day; 
 When  fruitful  summer  loads  the  teeming  plain, 
 She  crops  the  harvest,  and  she  stores  the  grain. 
 
 How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 
 Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers; 
 While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  enclose, 
 
 And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose  ? 
 
 Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 
 
 Year  chases  year  with  unremitted  flight, 
 
 Till  want  now  following,  fraudulent  and  slow, 
 Shall  spring  to  seize  thee  like  an  ambush’d  foe. 
 
 Close  of  the  Vanity  of  Human  wishes. 
 
 Where  then  shall  hope  and  fear  their  objects  find, 
 Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 
 Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 
 
 Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
 
 Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
 
 No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 
 Inquirer,  cease,  petitions  yet  remain, 
 
 Which  heaven  may  hear,  nor  deem  religion  vain. 
 Still  raise,  for  good,  the  supplicating  voice, 
 
 But  leave  to  heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice ; 
 Safe  in  his  power,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
 The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer. 
 
 Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest, 
 
 Secure  whate’er  He  gives  He  gives  the  best : 
 
 Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
 
 And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
 
 Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind, 
 Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resign’d; 
 
WESLEY. 
 
 429 
 
 For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill, 
 
 For  patience,  sovereign  o’er  transmuted  ill ; 
 
 For  faith  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 
 
 Counts  death  kind  nature’s  signal  for  retreat; 
 
 These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  ordain, 
 These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  power  to  gain ; 
 With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
 
 And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 
 
 SAMUEL  WESLEY,  Jun. 
 
 Born  1692.  Died  1739. 
 
 Author  of  the  Battle  of  the  Sexes,  Tales,  and  other  Poems. 
 
 Epitaph  on  an  Infant. 
 
 Beneath,  a  sleeping  infant  lies, 
 
 To  earth  whose  ashes  lent, 
 
 More  glorious  shall  hereafter  rise, 
 Though  not  more  innocent. 
 
 When  the  arch-angel’s  trump  shall  blow, 
 And  souls  and  bodies  join, 
 
 What  crowds  will  wish,  their  lives  below 
 Had  been  as  short  as  thine ! 
 
 The  Resurrection. 
 
 The  Sun  of  Righteousness  appears, 
 
 To  set  in  blood  no  more  ! 
 
 Adore  the  healer  of  your  fears, 
 
 Your  rising  Sun  adore. 
 
 The  Saints,  when  He  resign’d  his  breath, 
 Unclosed  their  sleeping  eyes, 
 
430 
 
 WESLEY. 
 
 He  breaks  again  the  bonds  of  Death, 
 Again  the  dead  arise. 
 
 Alone  the  dreadful  race  He  ran, 
 
 Alone  the  wine-press  trod; 
 
 He  died  and  sutfer’d  as  a  man, 
 
 He  rises  as  a  God ! 
 
 In  vain  the  stone,  the  watch,  the  seal, 
 Forbid  an  early  rise, 
 
 To  Him  who  breaks  the  gates  of  Hell, 
 And  opens  Paradise. 
 
 CHARLES  WESLEY. 
 
 Born  1708.  Died  1788. 
 
 Author  of  a  great  number  of  the  best  Hymns  in  the  English,  or 
 any  other  language. 
 
 The  English  Martyrs. 
 
 [Written  after  walking  over  Smithfield.] 
 
 IIail,  holy  Martyrs,  glorious  names, 
 
 Who  nobly  here  for  Jesus  stood, 
 
 Rejoiced,  and  clapp’d  your  hands  in  flames, 
 And  dared  to  seal  the  truth  with  blood ! 
 
 Strong  in  the  Lord,  divinely  strong, 
 Tortures  and  death  ye  here  defied ; 
 
 Dsemons  and  men,  a  gazing  throng, 
 
 Ye  braved,  and  more  than  conquering  died. 
 
 Finish’d  your  course,  and  fought  your  fight, 
 Hence  did  your  mounting  souls  aspire, 
 Starting  from  flesh  they  took  their  flight, 
 Borne  upward  on  a  car  of  fire. 
 
WESLEY. 
 
 431 
 
 Where  earth  and  hell  no  more  molest, 
 Ye  now  have  join’d  the  heavenly  host, 
 Enter’d  into  your  Father’s  rest, 
 
 And  found  the  life  which  here  ye  lost. 
 
 Father,  if  now  thy  breath  revives 
 In  us  the  pure  primaeval  flame, 
 
 Thy  power,  which  animates  our  lives, 
 Can  make  us  in  our  deaths  the  same; 
 
 Can  out  of  weakness  make  us  strong, 
 Arming  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
 
 Loosing  the  stammering  infant’s  tongue, 
 And  perfecting  in  babes  thy  praise. 
 
 Come,  holy,  holy,  holy  Lord, 
 
 The  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit  come ! 
 
 Be  mindful  of  thy  changeless  word, 
 
 And  make  the  faithful  soul  thy  home. 
 
 Arm  of  the  Lord,  awake,  awake; 
 
 In  us  thy  glorious  self  reveal; 
 
 Let  us  thy  sevenfold  gifts  partake, 
 
 Let  us  thy  mighty  working  feel. 
 
 Near  us,  assisting  Jesu,  stand, 
 
 Give  us  the  opening  heaven  to  see, 
 
 Thee  to  behold  at  God’s  right  hand, 
 
 And  yield  our  parting  souls  to  Thee. 
 
432 
 
 GAMBOLD. 
 
 / 
 
 JOHN  GAMBOLD. 
 
 Born  1711.  Died  1771. 
 
 Author  of  Ignatius,  a  Tragedy,  various  minor  Poems,  and  many 
 Hymns  in  the  Moravian  Brethren's  Collection. 
 
 The  Mystery  of  Life . 
 
 So  many  years  I’ve  seen  the  sun, 
 
 And  call’d  these  eyes  and  hands  my  own, 
 
 A  thousand  little  acts  I’ve  done, 
 
 And  childhood  have,  and  manhood  known: 
 O  what  is  life !  and  this  dull  round 
 To  tread,  why  was  a  spirit  bound? 
 
 So  many  airy  draughts  and  lines, 
 
 And  warm  excursions  of  the  mind, 
 
 Have  fill’d  my  soul  with  great  designs, 
 
 While  practice  grovell’d  far  behind  : 
 
 O  what,  is  thought !  and  where  withdraw 
 The  glories  which  my  fancy  saw? 
 
 So  many  tender  joys  and  woes 
 
 Have  on  my  quivering  soul  had  power; 
 Plain  life  with  heightening  passions  rose, 
 
 The  boast  or  burden  of  their  hour  : 
 
 O  what  is  all  we  feel !  why  fled 
 Those  pains  and  pleasures  o’er  my  head? 
 
 So  many  human  souls  divine, 
 
 So  at  one  interview  display’d, 
 
 Some  oft  and  freely  mix’d  with  mine, 
 
 In  lasting  bonds  my  heart  have  laid  •. 
 
 O  what  is  friendship!  why  impress’d 
 On  my  weak,  wretched,  dying  breast? 
 
GAMBOLD. 
 
 433 
 
 So  many  wondrous  gleams  of  light, 
 
 And  gentle  ardours  from  above, 
 
 Have  made  me  sit,  like  seraph  bright, 
 
 Some  moments  on  a  throne  of  love: 
 
 O  what  is  virtue !  why  had  I, 
 
 Who  am  so  low,  a  taste  so  high? 
 
 Ere  long,  when  sovereign  wisdom  wills, 
 
 My  soul  an  unknown  path  shall  tread, 
 
 And  strangely  leave,  who  strangely  fills 
 This  frame,  and  waft  me  to  the  dead: 
 
 O  what  is  death  !  ’tis  life’s  last  shore, 
 
 Where  vanities  are  vain  no  more; 
 
 Where  all  pursuits  their  goal  obtain, 
 
 And  life  is  all  retouch’d  again ; 
 
 Where  in  their  bright  result  shall  rise 
 Thoughts,  virtues,  friendships,  griefs  and  joys. 
 
 I 
 
 On  Listening  to  the  vibrations  of  a  Clock . 
 
 Instructive  sound!  I’m  now  convinced  by  thee, 
 Time  in  its  womb  may  bear  infinity, 
 
 How  the  past  moment  dies,  and  throbs  no  more! 
 What  worlds  of  parts  compose  the  rolling  hour  ! 
 The  least  ol  these  a  serious  care  demands; 
 
 Lor  though  they’re  little,  yet  they’re  golden  sands: 
 By  some  great  deeds  distinguish’d  all  in  heaven, 
 For  the  same  end  to  me  by  number  given; 
 
 Cease,  man,  to  lavish  sums  thou  ne’er  hast  told, 
 Angels,  though  deathless,  dare  not  be  so  bold ! 
 
 Epitaph  on  Himself. 
 
 Ask  not,  who  ended  here  his  span? 
 
 His  name,  reproach  and  praise,  was  man. 
 Did  no  great  deeds  adorn  his  course? 
 
 No  deed  of  his,  but  show’d  him  worse  : 
 
 T 
 
 32 
 
434 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 One  thing  was  great,  which  God  supplied, 
 He  suffer’d  human  life — and  died. 
 
 What  points  of  knowledge  did  he  gain  ? 
 That  life  was  sacred  all — and  vain : 
 
 Sacred  how  high,  and  vain  how  low, 
 
 He  knew  not  here,  but  died  to  know. 
 
 OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Bohn  1729.  Died  1774. 
 
 Author  of  the  Deserted  Village ,  The  Traveller ,  and  other  Poems, 
 of  unrivalled  popularity. 
 
 The  Country  Clergyman. 
 
 Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
 And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
 There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
 The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 
 
 A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
 
 And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year; 
 
 Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
 
 Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wish’d  to  change  his  place  ; 
 Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
 
 T5y  doctrines  fashion’d  to  the  varying  hour ; 
 
 Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn’d  to  prize, 
 
 More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
 
 His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
 
 He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain: 
 The  long  remember’d  beggar  was  his  guest, 
 
 Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
 
 The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
 
 Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow’d  ; 
 The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
 
 Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk’d  the  night  away; 
 
GOLDSMITH. 
 
 435 
 
 Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
 Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how  fields  were  won. 
 Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn’d  to  glow, 
 And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe : 
 
 Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
 
 H  is  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 
 
 Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
 
 And  even  his  failings  lean’d  to  virtue’s  side; 
 
 But  in  his  duty  prompt,  at  every  call, 
 
 He  watch’d  and  wept,  he  pray’d  and  felt  for  all. 
 
 And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
 
 To  tempt  its  new-fledg’d  offspring  to  the  skies, 
 
 He  try’d  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay 
 Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
 
 Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
 
 And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay’d, 
 
 The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  control, 
 Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
 
 Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
 And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper’d  praise. 
 
 At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
 
 His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place ; 
 
 Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway, 
 
 And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain’d  to  pray. 
 
 The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
 
 With  ready  zeal  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
 
 Even  children  follow’d  with  endearing  wile, 
 
 And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile; 
 His  ready  smile  a  parent’s  warmth  express’d, 
 
 Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress’d; 
 To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
 
 But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven  : 
 
 As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
 
 Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
 Tho’  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
 Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 
 
436 
 
 EKINS. 
 
 GEOFFREY  EKINS, 
 
 On  the  Birth  of  his  first  Child ,  1766. 
 
 Exhausted  by  her  painful  throes, 
 
 Let  Nature  take  her  due  repose; 
 
 Sweet,  dearest  Anna,  be  thy  sleep, 
 
 While  I  my  joyful  vigils  keep: 
 
 O  be  thy  joys  sincere  as  mine, 
 
 For  sure  my  pangs  have  equall’d  thine  ! 
 
 Sleep  on,  and  waking  thou  shalt  see 
 All  that  delights  thy  soul  in  me, 
 
 — Friend,  Husband,  and  ah  !  name  more  dear, 
 The  Father  of  thy  new-born  care ; 
 
 As  thou  on  her  thine  eyes  shalt  cast, 
 
 Thank  God  for  all  thy  dangers  past ! 
 
 He,  for  no  trivial  cause  ordains 
 That  joys  like  these  succeed  thy  pains. 
 
 But  by  this  sacred  pledge  demands 
 A  Parent’s  duty  at  thy  hands; 
 
 While  thou  thine  infant-charge  shalt  rear, 
 
 My  love  shall  lighten  every  care. 
 
 Since  first,  before  the  hallow’d  shrine, 
 
 I  call’d  my  dearest  Anna  mine, 
 
 Ne’er  did  my  soul  such  rapture  move, 
 
 Nor  glow’d  my  heart  with  equal  love; 
 
 Some  charm  must  in  this  infant  lie, 
 
 That  binds  us  by  a  closer  tie. 
 
 My  partial  eyes  with  pleasure  trace 
 Thy  features  in  its  smiling  face, 
 
 And  if  kind  Heaven  in  mercy  hears 
 The  fondness  of  a  Father’s  prayers, 
 
 In  her  may  I  those  graces  see, 
 
 Those  virtues  which  I  love  in  thee. 
 
HART. 
 
 437 
 
 JOSEPH  HART. 
 
 Born  1712.  Died  1768. 
 
 Author  of  a  volume  of  Hymns,  some  of  which  have  frequently 
 been  reprinted. 
 
 Gethsemane . 
 
 Jesus,  while  He  dwelt  below, 
 
 As  divine  historians  say, 
 
 To  a  place  would  often  go; 
 
 Near  to  Kedron’s  brook  it  Jay; 
 
 In  this  place  He  loved  to  be; 
 
 And  ’twas  named  Gethsemane. 
 
 ’Twas  a  garden,  as  we  read, 
 
 At  the  foot  of  Olivet, 
 
 Low  and  proper  to  be  made 
 The  Redeemer’s  lone  retreat: 
 
 When  from  noise  He  would  be  free, 
 Then  he  sought  Gethsemane. 
 
 Thither,  by  their  Master  brought. 
 
 His  disciples  likewise  came; 
 
 There  the  heavenly  truths  He  taught 
 Often  set  their  hearts  on  flame ; 
 Therefore  they,  as  well  as  He, 
 Visited  Gethsemane. 
 
 Oft  conversing  here  they  sat; 
 
 Or  might  join  with  Christ  in  prayer; 
 Oh  !  what  blest  devotion  that, 
 
 When  the  Lord  himself  is  there  ! 
 
 All  things  thus  did  there  agree 
 To  endear  Gethsemane. 
 
 Full  of  love  to  man’s  lost  race, 
 
 On  the  conflict  much  He  thought; 
 This  He  knew  the  destined  place, 
 And  He  loved  the  sacred  spot; 
 
43  S 
 
 HART. 
 
 Therefore  Jesus  chose  to  be 
 Often  in  Gethsemane. 
 
 Came  at  length  the  dreadful  night; 
 Vengeance,  with  its  iron  rod, 
 
 Stood,  and  with  collected  might, 
 
 Bruised  the  harmless  Lamb  of  God ; 
 
 See,  my  soul,  thy  Saviour  see, 
 
 Prostrate  in  Gethsemane. 
 
 View  Him  in  that  Olive-press, 
 
 Wrung  with  anguish,  whelm’d  with  blood 
 Hear  Him  pray  in  his  distress, 
 
 With  strong  cries  and  tears,  to  God  : 
 Then  reflect  what  sin  must  be. 
 
 Gazing  on  Gethsemane. 
 
 Gloomy  garden,  on  thy  beds, 
 
 Wash'd  by  Kedron’s  water-pool. 
 
 Grow  most  rank  and  bitter  weeds; 
 
 Think  on  these,  my  soul,  my  soul  ! 
 Wouldst  thou  sin’s  dominion  flee, 
 
 Call  to  mind  Gethsemane. 
 
 Eden,  from  each  flowery  bed, 
 
 Did  for  man  short  sweetness  breathe ; 
 Soon,  by  Satan’s  counsel  led, 
 
 Man  wrought  sin,  and  sin  wrought  death 
 But  of  life,  the  healing  tree 
 Grows  in  rich  Gethsemane. 
 
 Hither,  Lord,  Thou  didst  resort, 
 
 Oft  times  with  thy  little  train; 
 
 Here  wouldst  keep  thy  private  court: 
 
 Oh  !  confer  that  grace  again: 
 
 Lord,  resort  with  worthless  me. 
 
 Oft  times  to  Gethsemane. 
 
 True,  I  can’t  deserve  to  share 
 In  a  favour  so  divine; 
 
 But  since  sin  first  fix’d  Thee  there. 
 
 None  have  greater  sins  than  mine; 
 
BROWNE. 
 
 439 
 
 And  to  this  my  woeful  plea, 
 
 Witness  thou,  Getlisemane  !— 
 
 Sins  against  a  holy  God, 
 
 Sins  against  his  righteous  laws, 
 
 Sins  against  his  love,  his  blood, 
 
 Sins  against  his  name  and  cause, — 
 Sins  immense  as  is  the  sea: 
 
 —Hide  me,  O  Getlisemane  ! 
 
 Saviour  all  the  stone  remove 
 From  my  flinty,  frozen  heart; 
 
 Thaw  it  with  the  beams  of  love, 
 
 Pierce  it  with  thy  mercy’s  dart : 
 Wound  the  heart  that  wounded  Thee; 
 Break  it  in  Gethsemane. 
 
 MOSES  BROWNE. 
 
 \uthor  of  Piscatory  Eclogues,  Sunday  Thoughts ,  the  Universe,  and 
 other  Poems.  He  belongs  to  the  eighteenth  century. 
 
 To  the  River  Lea . 
 
 Sweet  stream,  where  most  my  haunts  delight, 
 Whose  scenes  to  solemn  thoughts  invite, 
 
 May  my  calm  life  resemble  Thee, 
 
 Such  pleasure  give,  so  useful  be. 
 
 As  passing  straws,  and  buoyant  leaves, 
 
 Thy  yielding  surface  but  receives, 
 
 While  pearls,  that  lure  the  searching  eye, 
 Deep-treasured  in  thy  bosom  lie; 
 
 _ May  trifles  such  reception  find, 
 
 Float  lightly-transient  o’er  my  mind, 
 
 While  weightier  thoughts  admission  win, 
 
 Sink  its  whole  depths,  and  rest  within. 
 
440 
 
 BROWNE. 
 
 As  the  large  face  the  heavens  expose 
 Thy  pure  reflecting  mirror  shows, 
 
 Yet  paints,  in  small  terrestrial  scenes, 
 
 Some  bordering  flowers  or  pendent  greens; 
 
 — So,  with  resemblances  divine. 
 
 My  copying  life  direct  to  shine; 
 
 While  Earth’s  faint  forms,  grown  distant,  less, 
 Their  fewer  images  express. 
 
 Teach  me  thy  constancy ;  to  force 
 O  er  bars  and  straits  a  stubborn  course ; 
 
 Nut  idly  in  suspension  held, 
 
 Thy  path  not  changed,  though  oft  repell’d: 
 Thy  patience  teach  my  ruffled  soul, 
 
 When  like  thy  waves  its  motions  roll, 
 
 Though  vex’d  to  foam,  when  passions  fray, 
 
 In  gentle  smiles  to  glide  away. 
 
 Teach  me  thy  rule  of  temperate  bliss, 
 Well-pleased  thy  flowery  banks  to  kiss. 
 
 Yet  by  no  sweets  allured  aside, 
 
 Till  ocean  stops  thy  restless  tide : 
 
 To  me  a  pattern  wise  dispense, 
 
 Meekly  to  taste  the  charms  of  sense  ; 
 
 Still  pressing  to  my  wish’d  abode, 
 
 Nor  fix’d,  till  at  my  centre — God. 
 
 Consecrated  Suffering. 
 
 I riendshtp  !  I  thought  thee  once  a  pleasing  thing, 
 When  childhood  flatter’d  me  with  golden  dreams; 
 T oo  rash  I  trusted  to  thy  waxen  wing 
 Against  affliction’s  melting  beams  : 
 
 I  knew  not  till  I  fell,  how  light,  how  vain, 
 
 W ere  all  thy  boasted  mighty  powers; 
 
 Fair  promiser  in  happy  hours, 
 
 I3ut  flying  from  our  pain. 
 
 Y  hen  Youth  allured  me  from  my  mother’s  knee 
 Jo  sports,  companions,  and  unthinking  days, 
 
 I  thought  the  sun  and  seasons  made  for  me ; 
 
 — Smoothly  we  enter  life’s  delusive  maze ; 
 
BROWNE. 
 
 By  inexperience  led,  and  hope  deceived, 
 
 I  trusted  ere  my  heart  inquired ; 
 
 So  soon  is  what  we  wish  admired, 
 
 And  what  we  love  believed. 
 
 But  Heavenly  care,  that  did  my  good  intend. 
 Stripp’d  me  of  these,  to  bring  me  better  joys ; 
 Removing  worldly  prospects,  substance,  friend, 
 And  gave  itself  in  change  for  earthly  toys  : 
 
 Ah!  my  dear  God!  how  little  did  1  know, 
 When  their  mourn’d  loss  first  fix’d  my  smart, 
 Thou  didst  but  rend  them  from  my  heart, 
 
 That  Thou  might’st  more  bestow. 
 
 The  Surrender  of  the  Heart. 
 
 [From  the  German  of  Martin  Luther.} 
 
 Act  but  the  gentle  Infant’s  part, 
 
 Give  up  to  love  thy  willing  heart; 
 
 No  fondest  parent’s  melting  breast 
 Yearns,  like  thy  God’s,  to  make  thee  bless’d 
 Taught  its  dear  mother  soon  to  know, 
 
 The  tenderest  babe  its  love  can  show; 
 
 Bid  thy  base  servile  fear  retire, 
 
 This  task  no  labour  will  require. 
 
 The  Sovereign  Father,  good  and  kind, 
 
 Wants  to  behold  his  child  resign’d; 
 
 Wants  but  thy  yielded  heart — no  more — 
 With  his  large  gifts  of  grace  to  store  : 
 
 He  to  thy  soul  no  anguish  brings, 
 
 From  thy  own  stubborn  will  it  springs; 
 
 But  crucify  that  cruel  foe, 
 
 Nor  pain,  nor  care  thy  breast  shall  know. 
 
 Shake  from  thy  soul,  o’erwhelm’d,  oppress’d 
 The’  encumbering  load  that  galls  thy  rest, 
 That  wastes  thy  strength  in  bondage  vain ; 
 — With  courage  break  the’  inthraliing  chain 
 
 t  3 
 
442 
 
 JAGO. 
 
 Let  prayer  exert  its  conquering  power, 
 Cry  in  the  tempted,  trembling  hour, 
 
 “  My  God,  my  Father,  save  thy  son!” 
 ’Tis  heard,  and  all  thy  fears  are  gone. 
 
 RICHARD  JAGO. 
 
 Born  1715.  Died  1781. 
 
 Author  of  Edge  Hill ,  and  Miscellaneous  Poems. 
 
 The  Swallows. 
 
 PART  I. 
 
 Ere  yellow  autumn  from  our  plains  retired, 
 
 And  gave  to  wintry  storms  the  varied  year, 
 
 The  Swallow-race,  with  prescient  gift  inspired, 
 
 To  southern  climes  prepared  their  course  to  steer. 
 
 On  Damon’s  roof  a  large  assembly  sate, 
 
 His  roof  a  refuge  to  the  feather’d  kind  ; 
 
 With  serious  look  he  mark’d  the  grave  debate, 
 
 And  to  his  Delia  thus  address’d  his  mind. 
 
 “  Observe  yon  twittering  flock,  my  gentle  maid! 
 Observe,  and  read  the  wondrous  ways  of  heaven ; 
 With  us  through  summer’s  genial  reign  they  stay’d, 
 And  food  and  sunshine  to  their  wants  were  given. 
 
 “  But  now,  by  secret  instinct  taught,  they  know 
 The  near  approach  of  elemental  strife, 
 
 Of  blustering  tempests,  and  of  chilling  snow, 
 
 With  every  pang  and  scourge  of  tender  life. 
 
 “  Thus  warn’d,  they  meditate  a  speedy  flight, 
 
 For  this  even  now  they  plume  the  vigorous  wing; 
 For  this,  each  other  to  the  toil  excite, 
 
 And  prove  their  strength  in  many  a  sportive  ring. 
 
JAGO* 
 
 443 
 
 a  sorrow  loads  their  breast,  or  dims  theii  eje. 
 
 To  quit  their  wonted  haunts,  or  native  home; 
 
 Nor  fear  they  launching  on  the  boundless  sky. 
 
 In  search  of  future  settlements  to  roam, 
 
 “  They  feel  a  power,  an  impulse  all  divine. 
 
 That  warns  them  hence;  they  feel  it  and  obey; 
 
 To  this  direction  all  their  cares  resign, 
 
 Unknown  their  destined  stage,  un mark’d  their  way, 
 
 “  See,  Delia,  on  my  roof,  your  guests  to-day, 
 To-morrow  on  my  roof  your  guests  no  more ; 
 
 Ere  yet  *tis  night,  with  haste  they  wing  away  ; 
 To-morrow  lands  them  on  some  happier  shore. 
 
 “  So  youthful  joys  fly  like  the  summer  gale  ; 
 
 So  threats  the  winter  of  inclement  age  ; 
 
 Life’s  busy  plot  a  short  fantastic  tale, 
 
 And  Nature’s  changing  scenes  the  shifting  stage. 
 
 «  And  does  no  friendly  Power  to  man  dispense 
 The  joyful  tidings  of  some  lovelier  clime  ? 
 
 Find  we  no  guide  in  gracious  Providence  . 
 
 Beyond  the  gloomy  grave,  and  short-lived  time . 
 
 a  yeS)  yes,  the  sacred  Oracles  we  hear, 
 
 That  point  the  path  to  realms  of  endless  joy  ; 
 
 That  bid  our  trembling  hearts  no  danger  tear, 
 
 Though  clouds  surround,  and  angry  skies  annoy. 
 
 a  Then  let  us  wisely  for  our  flight  prepare, 
 
 Nor  deem  this  stormy  world  our  fix’d  abode; 
 
 Obey  the  call,  and  trust  our  Leader’s  care  ^ 
 
 To  smooth  the  rough,  and  light  the  darksome  road. 
 
 PART  IT. 
 
 At  length  the  Winter’s  howling  blasts  are  o’er; 
 Array’d  in  smiles,  the  beauteous  spring  returns ; 
 Now  fuell’d  hearths  attractive  blaze  no  more, 
 
 And  every  breast  with  genial  fervour  burns. 
 
444 
 
 JAGO. 
 
 Again  the  daisies  peep,  the  violets  blow, 
 
 Again  the  vocal  tenants  of  the  grove, 
 
 (horgot  the  pattering  hail  and  driving  snow,) 
 Renew  the  lay  of  melody  and  love. 
 
 u  And  see’  my  I^el ia,  see  o’er  yonder  stream, 
 
 W  hile,  on  the  bank,  the  lambs  in  gambols  play, 
 Alike  attracted  by  the  sunny  gleam, 
 
 Again  the  swallows  take  their  wonted  way. 
 
 “  Welcome,  ye  gentle  tribes,  your  sports  pursue, 
 Welcome  again  to  Delia  and  to  me  ; 
 
 Your  peaceful  councils  on  my  roof  renew, 
 
 And  plan  new  settlements,  from  peril  free. 
 
 “  Again  I’ll  listen  to  your  grave  debates; 
 
 Again  I’ll  hear  your  twittering  songs  unfold 
 What  policy  directs  your  wandering  states, 
 
 W  hat  bounds  are  settled,  and  what  tribes  enroll’d. 
 
 11  Again  I’ll  hear  you  tell  of  distant  lands; 
 
 What  insect-nations  rise  from  Egypt’s  mud; 
 
 What  painted  swarms  subsist  on  Lybia’s  sands, 
 What  Ganges  yields,  and  what  Euphrates’  Hood. 
 
 “  Thrice  happy  race,  whom  Nature’s  call  invites 
 To  travel  o’er  her  realms  with  active  wing, 
 
 To  taste  her  varied  stores,  her  best  delights, 
 
 I  he  summer’s  radiance,  and  the  sweets  of  spring  ! 
 
 “  While  we  are  doom’d  to  bear  the  restless  change 
 Of  varying  seasons,  vapours  dank  and  dry; 
 lorbid  like  you  in  milder  climes  to  range, 
 
 When  wintry  storms  usurp  the  lowering  sky. 
 
 “  Yet,  when  yon  glorious  sun  shall  shine  no  more, 
 Our  spirits,  freed  from  sin’s  tyrannic  sway, 
 
 On  lighter  pinions  borne  than  yours,  shall  soar 
 To  fairer  realms  of  everlasting  day.” 
 
SODDRIBGE. 
 
 445 
 
 PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 
 
 Born  1702.  Died  1751. 
 
 Author  of  many 
 Works ; 
 
 well  known  and  highly  esteemed  Theological 
 also  a  considerable  number  ot  Hymns. 
 
 God  the  Guide  of  his  People. 
 
 Let  Jacob  to  his  Maker  sing, 
 
 And  praise  his  great  redeeming  King; 
 fail’d  by  a  new  and  glorious  name, 
 
 Let  Israel  now  bis  God  proclaim. 
 
 He  knows  our  souls  in  all  their  fears. 
 
 And  wipes  away  our  falling  tears ; 
 
 Forms  trembling  voices  to  a  song, 
 
 And  bids  the  feeble  heart  be  strong. 
 
 Then  let  the  rivers  swell  around, 
 
 And  rising  floods  o’erflow  the  ground ; 
 Rivers  and  floods,  and  seas  divide. 
 
 And  homage  pay  to  Israel’s  Guide. 
 
 Then  let  the  fires  their  rage  display, 
 
 And  flashing  terrors  bar  the  way ; 
 
 Unburn’d,  unsinged  He  leads  them  through. 
 And  makes  the  flames  refreshing  too. 
 
 The  fires  but  on  their  bonds  shall  prey, 
 
 The  floods  but  wash  their  stains  away; 
 
 And  grace  divine  new  trophies  raise, 
 Amidst  the  deluge  and  the  blaze. 
 
446> 
 
 DODDRIDGE. 
 
 Dedication  to  God. 
 
 Now  to  that  sovereign  grace. 
 
 Whence  all  our  comforts  spring, 
 
 Let  the  whole  new-begotten  race 
 Their  cheerful  praises  bring. 
 
 His  will  first  made  the  choice ; 
 
 His  word  the  change  hath  wrought ; 
 
 In  Him  our  Father  we  rejoice, 
 
 As  by  his  Spirit  taught. 
 
 Lord,  may  this  matchless  love, 
 
 Which  thy  own  children  see, 
 
 Make  us,  from  all  thy  creatures,  prove 
 As  good  first-fruits  to  Thee. 
 
 Sacred  to  Thee  alone, 
 
 Be  all  these  powers  of  mine; 
 
 Then  in  the  noblest  sense  my  own. 
 When  most  entirely  thine. 
 
 Confidence  in  God. 
 
 So  firm  the  saint’s  foundations  stand. 
 His  hopes  can  ne’er  remove, 
 Sustain’d  by  God’s  Almighty  hand. 
 And  shelter’d  in  his  love. 
 
 The  olive  and  the  fig  may  fail. 
 
 The  vines  their  fruit  deny; 
 
 Famine  through  all  the  fields  prevail. 
 And  flocks  and  herds  may  die: _ 
 
 God  is  the  treasure  of  his  soul; 
 
 A  source  of  sacred  joy, 
 
 Which  no  afflictions  can  control. 
 
 Nor  death  itself  destroy. 
 
BEATTIE. 
 
 44  v 
 
 Lord,  may  we  feel  thy  cheering  beams, 
 And  taste  thy  saints’  repose ; 
 
 We  will  not  mourn  the  perish’d  streams. 
 While  such  a  fountain  flows. 
 
 JAMES  BEATTIE. 
 
 Born  1735.  Died  1803. 
 
 Author  of  The  Minstrel ,  and  other  Poems. 
 
 The  Hermit 
 
 At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
 
 And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove; 
 
 When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
 
 And  nought  but  the  nightingale’s  song  in  the  grove : 
 *Twas  then,  by  the  cave  of  a  mountain  afar. 
 
 While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  Hermit  began ; 
 No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
 
 He  thought  as  a  Sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  Man. 
 
 “  Ah  why,  all  abandon’d  to  darkness  and  woe. 
 
 Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall? 
 
 For  Spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow. 
 
 And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthral. 
 
 But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay. 
 
 Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn; 
 O  soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away; 
 Full  quickly  they  pass— but  they  never  return. 
 
 “  Now  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  ol  the  sky, 
 
 The  moon  half-extinguish’d  her  crescent  displays: 
 
 But  lately  I  mark’d,  when  majestic  on  high 
 She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
 
US 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 Itoll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
 The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour  again  ; 
 
 But  man’s  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew! 
 
 Ah  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain! 
 
 “  ’Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more; 
 
 J  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you ; 
 For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 
 Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew. 
 Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn; 
 
 Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 
 
 But  when  shall  Spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ! 
 
 O  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ! 
 
 **  ’Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betray’d; 
 That  leads,  to  bewilder;  arid  dazzles,  to  blind  ; 
 
 My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to 
 shade, 
 
 Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind ; 
 
 4  O  pity,  great  Father  of  light,’  then  I  cry’d ; 
 
 4  Thy  creature  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  Thee  ! 
 Bo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride; 
 
 From  doubt  and  from  darkness  Thou  only  canst  free.’ 
 
 “  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away. 
 
 No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn, 
 
 So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray. 
 
 The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
 
 See,  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 
 And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden’s  first  bloom ! 
 
 On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are  blend¬ 
 ing, 
 
 And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb.” 
 
COWPER. 
 
 449 
 
 WILLIAM  COWPER. 
 Born  1731.  Died  1800. 
 
 Author  of  The  Task,  Table  Talk ,  Progress  of  Error,  & c.  &c. 
 
 The  Poet. 
 
 Nature,  exerting  an  unwearied  power, 
 
 Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  every  flower; 
 
 Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  field,  and  leads 
 The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads : 
 
 She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 
 With  music,  modulating  all  their  notes; 
 
 And  charms  the  woodland  scenes  and  wilds  unknown, 
 With  artless  airs  and  concerts  of  her  own  : 
 
 But  seldom  (as  if  fearful  of  expense) 
 
 Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet’s  just  pretence — 
 
 Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought, 
 
 Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought; 
 
 Fancy,  that  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky, 
 
 Brings  colours,  dipp’d  in  Heaven,  that  never  die; 
 
 A  soul  exalted  above  earth,  a  mind 
 Skill’d  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind ; 
 
 And,  as  the  sun  in  rising  beauty  dress’d, 
 
 Looks  to  the  westward  from  the  dappled  east. 
 
 And  marks,  whatever  clouds  may  interpose, 
 
 Ere  yet  its  race  begins,  its  glorious  close; 
 
 An  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal, 
 
 Or  ere  the  wheels  of  verse  begin  to  roll, 
 
 Like  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 
 On  every  scene  and  subject  it  surveys: 
 
 Thus  graced,  the  man  asserts  a  poet’s  name. 
 
 And  the  world  cheerfully  admits  the  claim, 
 pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 
 A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground! 
 
 The  flowers  would  spring  where’er  she  deign’d  to  stray, 
 And  every  muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 
 
450 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Virtue  indeed  meets  many  a  rhyming  friend. 
 
 And  many  a  compliment  politely  penn’d; 
 
 But,  unattired  in  that  becoming  vest, 
 
 Religion  weaves  for  her,  and  half  undress’d, 
 Stands. in  the  desert,  shivering  and  forlorn, 
 
 A  wintry  figure,  like  a  wither’d  thorn. 
 
 The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped; 
 Hackney’d  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread, 
 Satire  has  long  since  done  his  best ;  and  curs’d 
 And  loathsome  Ribaldry  has  done  his  worst; 
 Fancy  has  sported  all  her  powers  away 
 In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children’s  play; 
 
 And  ’tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
 Whate’er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
 ’Twere  new  indeed  to  see  a  bard  all  fire, 
 
 Touch’d  with  a  coal  from  heaven,  assume  the  lyre, 
 And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung, 
 
 With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue, 
 
 That  He,  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above, 
 Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  is  Love. 
 
 The  Cant  of  Infidelity. 
 
 “  Adieu,”  Vinosa  cries,  ere  yet  lie  sips 
 The  purple  bumper  trembling  at  his  lips, 
 
 “  Adieu  to  all  morality  !  if  grace 
 
 Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  case. 
 
 The  Christian  hope  is — Waiter,  draw  the  cork — 
 
 If  I  mistake  not — Blockhead!  with  a  fork  ! 
 
 Without  good  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 
 
 Mere  folly  and  delusion — Sir,  your  toast. 
 
 My  firm  persuasion  is,  at  least  sometimes, 
 
 That  Heaven  will  weigh  man’s  virtues  and  his  crimes 
 With  nice  attention,  in  a  righteous  scale, 
 
 And  save  or  damn  as  these  or  those  prevail. 
 
 I  plant  my  foot  upon  this  ground  of  trust, 
 
 And  silence  every  fear  with — God  is  just. 
 
 But  if  perchance  on  some  dull  drizzling  day 
 A  thought  intrude,  that  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
 
COWPEIG 
 
 451 
 
 If  thus  the’  important  cause  is  to  be  tried, 
 
 Suppose  the  beam  should  dip  on  the  wrong  side ; 
 
 I  soon  recover  from  these  needless  frights. 
 
 And,  God  is  merciful — sets  all  to  rights. 
 
 Thus  between  justice,  as  my  prime  support, 
 
 And  mercy,  fled  to  as  the  last  resort, 
 
 I  glide  and  steal  along  with  Heaven  in  view, 
 
 And— pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you.” 
 
 “  I  never  will  believe,”  the  Colonel  cries, 
 
 “  The  sanguinary  schemes  that  some  devise, 
 
 Who  make  the  good  Creator  on  their  plan 
 A  being  of  less  equity  than  man. 
 
 If  appetite,  or  what  divines  call  lust, 
 
 Which  men  comply  with,  e’en  because  they  must, 
 
 Be  punish’d  with  perdition,  who  is  pure? 
 
 Then  theirs,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mine,  is  sure. 
 
 If  sentence  of  eternal  pain  belong 
 To  every  sudden  slip  and  transient  wrong, 
 
 Then  Heaven  enjoins  the  fallible  and  frail 
 A  hopeless  task,  and  damns  them  if  they  fail. 
 
 My  creed  (whatever  some  creed-makers  mean 
 By  Athanasian  nonsense,  or  Nicene) — 
 
 My  creed  is,  he  is  safe  that  does  his  best, 
 
 And  death’s  a  doom  sufficient  for  the  rest.” 
 
 “  Right,”  says  an  Ensign ;  “  and,  for  ought  I  see, 
 Your  faith  and  mine  substantially  agree; 
 
 The  best  of  every  man’s  performance  here  v 
 Is  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  sphere.  _ 
 
 A  lawyer’s  dealings  should  be  just  and  fair, 
 
 Honesty  shines  with  great  advantage  there: 
 
 Fasting  and  prayer  sit  well  upon  a  priest, 
 
 A  decent  caution  and  reserve  at  least : 
 
 A  soldier’s  best  is  courage  in  the  field, 
 
 With  nothing  here  that  wants  to  be  conceal’d ; 
 Manly  deportment,  gallant,  easy,  gay ; 
 
 A  hand  as  liberal  as  the  light  of  day. 
 
 The  soldier  thus  endow’d,  who  never  shrinks, 
 
 Nor  closets  up  his  thoughts,  whate’er  he  thinks, 
 Who  scorns  to  do  an  injury  by  stealth, 
 
 Must  go  to  Heaven — and  I  must  drink  his  health. 
 
452 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Sir  Smug,”  he  cries,  (for  lowest  at  the  board, 
 
 Just  made  fifth  chaplain  of  his  patron  lord, 
 
 His  shoulders  witnessing,  by  many  a  shrug, 
 
 How  much  his  feelings  suffer’d,  sat  Sir  Smug) 
 
 “  Your  office  is  to  winnow  false  from  true; 
 
 Come,  prophet,  drink,  and  tell  us  what  think  you?” 
 
 Sighing  and  smiling  as  he  takes  his  glass. 
 
 Which  they  that  woo  preferment  rarely  pass, 
 
 “  Fallible  man,”  the  church-bred  youth  replies, 
 
 “  Is  still  found  fallible,  however  wise; 
 
 And  differing  judgments  serve  but  to  declare, 
 
 That  truth  lies  somewhere,  if  we  knew  but  where. 
 Of  all  it  ever  was  my  lot  to  read, 
 
 Of  critics  now  alive,  or  long  since  dead, 
 
 The  book  of  all  the  world  that  charm’d  me  most 
 Was — welladay!  the  title-page  was  lost; 
 
 The  writer  well  remarks,  a  heart  that  knows 
 To  take  with  gratitude  what  Heaven  bestows, 
 
 With  prudence  always  ready  at  our  call, 
 
 To  guide  our  use  of  it,  is  all  in  all. 
 
 Doubtless  it  is — To  which,  of  my  own  store, 
 
 I  superadd  a  few  essentials  more  ; 
 
 But  these,  excuse  the  liberty  I  take, 
 
 I  waive  just  now,  for  conversation’s  sake.” — 
 
 “  Spoke  like  an  oracle,”  they  all  exclaim, 
 
 And  add  Right  Reverend  to  Smug’s  honour’d  name. 
 
 Conviction  and  Pardon. 
 
 If  ever  thou  hast  felt  another’s  pain, 
 
 If  ever  when  he  sigh’d  hast  sigh’d  again, 
 
 If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  the  tear, 
 
 That  pity  had  engender’d,  drop  one  here. 
 
 This  man  was  happy — had  the  World’s  good  word, 
 And  with  it  every  joy  it  can  afford; 
 
 Friendship  and  love  seem’d  tenderly  at  strife, 
 Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life: 
 Politely  learn’d,  and  of  a  gentle  race. 
 
 Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace, 
 
COWPER. 
 
 453 
 
 And,  whether  at  the  toilette  of  the  fair 
 He  laugh’d  and  trifled,  made  him  welcome  there, 
 
 Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shared, 
 
 Ensured  him  mute  attention  and  regard. 
 
 Alas,  how  changed !  Expressive  of  his  mind, 
 
 His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclined; 
 Those  awful  syllables,  hell,  death,  and  sin, 
 
 Though  whisper’d,  plainly  tell  what  works  within; 
 That  Conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
 And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart; 
 Forsaking,  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 
 
 He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends. 
 Hard  task!  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 
 
 And  harder  still  as  learn’d  beneath  despair; 
 
 His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmark’d  away, 
 
 A  dark  importance  saddens  every  day; 
 
 He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplex’d, 
 
 And  cries,  “  Perhaps  Eternity  strikes  next;” 
 
 Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 
 
 And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear: 
 
 His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  powers  disarms, 
 
 Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms : 
 God’s  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 
 
 Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 
 
 Seems,  as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 
 Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own. 
 
 Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad, 
 
 Say  man’s  a  worm,  and  power  belongs  to  God. 
 
 As  when  a  felon,  whom  his  country’s  laws 
 Have  justly  doom’d  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
 Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears, 
 
 The  shameful  close  of  all  his  mispent  years; 
 
 If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
 
 A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreadful  morn, 
 
 Upon  liis  dungeon-walls  the  lightnings  play, 
 
 The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away; 
 
 The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies, 
 
 Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies : 
 
 If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 
 
 When  Hope,  long  lingering,  at  last  yields  the  ghost, 
 
454 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 
 
 He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear; 
 
 A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 
 
 And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 
 
 Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 
 The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 
 
 Invades,  possesses,  and  o’erwhelms  the  soul 
 Of  him  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole. 
 ’Tis  heaven,  all  heaven,  descending  on  the  wings 
 Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  of  kings  ; 
 
 ’Tis  more — ’tis  God  diffused  through  every  part, 
 
 ’Tis  God  himself  triumphant  in  his  heart. 
 
 O  welcome  nowT  the  sun’s  once  hated  light, 
 
 His  noonday  beams  were  never  half  so  bright ! 
 
 Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  called  to’  employ 
 Their  hours,  their  days,  in  listening  to  his  joy; 
 Unconscious  nature,  all  that  he  surveys, 
 
 Rocks,  groves,  and  streams,  must  join  him  in  his  praise. 
 
 The  Christian  Freeman . 
 
 He  is  the  freeman,  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
 And  all  are  slaves  beside.  There’s  not  a  chain 
 That  hellish  foes  confederate  for  his  harm, 
 
 Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off, 
 
 With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
 He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
 Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compared 
 With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
 Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
 
 His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
 
 And  the  resplendent  rivers.  His  to’  enjoy 
 With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
 
 But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 
 
 Can  lift  to  Heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 
 
 And  smiling  say — “  My  Father  made  them  all!” 
 Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 
 
 And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 
 
 Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 
 
COWPER. 
 
 Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 
 With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love, 
 That  plann’d,  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world 
 So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man? 
 
 Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 
 The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 
 In  senseless  riot;  but  ye  will  not  find 
 In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 
 
 A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeach’d 
 Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man’s  wrong 
 Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father’s  work. 
 
 And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 
 
 He  is  indeed  a  freeman.  Free  by  birth 
 Of  no  mean  city ;  plann’d  or  ere  the  hills 
 Were  built,  the  fountains  open’d,  or  the  sea 
 With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 
 
 His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state; 
 
 And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 
 
 So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 
 Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less : 
 
 For  he  has  wings,  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 
 
 Nor  penury,  can  cripple  or  confine. 
 
 No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 
 With  ease,  and  is  at  large.  The’  oppressor  holds 
 His  body  bound,  but  knows  not  what  a  range 
 His  spirit  takes  unconscious  of  a  chain; 
 
 And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 
 
 Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 
 
456 
 
 CECIL. 
 
 RICHARD  CECIL. 
 
 Born  1748.  Died  1810. 
 
 Author  of  various  admirable  Religious  Treatises. 
 
 On  the  Death  of  an  Infant  at  Day-break. 
 
 “  Let  me  go,  for  the  day  breaketh.” — Genesis  xxxii.  26. 
 
 “  Cease  then  longer  to  detain  me, 
 
 Fondest  mother,  drown’d  in  woe ; 
 
 Now  thy  kind  caresses  pain  me ; 
 
 Morn  advances, — let  me  go. 
 
 “  See  yon  orient  streak  appearing, 
 
 Harbinger  of  endless  day ! 
 
 Hark !  a  voice,  the  darkness  cheering, 
 
 Calls  my  new-born  soul  away. 
 
 “  Lately  launch’d,  a  trembling  stranger, 
 
 On  the  wide  world’s  boisterous  flood, 
 Pierced  with  sorrows,  toss’d  with  danger, 
 Gladly  I  return  to  God, 
 
 f:  Now  my  cries  shall  cease  to  grieve  thee ; 
 Now  my  aching  heart  find  rest; 
 
 Kinder  arms  than  thine  receive  me, 
 
 Softer  pillows  than  thy  breast. 
 
 “  Weep  not  o’er  these  eyes  that  languish, 
 Upward  turning  to  their  home; 
 
 Raptured,  they’ll  forget  all  anguish, 
 
 While  they  watch  to  see  thee  come. 
 
 “  There,  my  mother,  pleasures  centre ; 
 
 — Weeping,  parting,  care  and  woe 
 Ne’er  our  Father’s  house  can  enter:  — 
 
 Day  is  breaking, — -let  me  go. 
 
PORTEUS. 
 
 457 
 
 “  As,  amidst  this  holy  dawning, 
 
 Silent  glides  away  my  breath, 
 
 To  an  everlasting  morning, — 
 
 Gently  close  mine  eyes  in  death. 
 
 “  Blessing  endless,  richest  blessing, 
 Pour  in  streams  upon  thy  heart ! 
 (Though  no  language  yet  possessing,) 
 Breathes  my  spirit  e’er  we  part. 
 
 “  Yet  to  leave  thee  sorrowing  pains  me ; 
 — Hark,  again  the  voice  I  hear: 
 
 Now  thy  love  no  more  detains  me ; 
 
 — Follow  me,  my  mother  dear.” 
 
 BEILBY  PORTEUS. 
 
 Born  1731.  Died  1808. 
 
 Natural  and  violent  Death. 
 
 [From  “  Death,”  a  Prize  Poem.] 
 
 "■■■  -  Man  went  to  till  the  ground 
 From  whence  he  rose ;  sentenced  indeed  to  toil 
 As  to  a  punishment,  yet  (even  in  wrath, 
 
 So  merciful  is  Heaven)  this  toil  became 
 The  solace  of  his  woes,  the  sweet  employ 
 Of  many  a  live-long  hour,  and  surest  guard 
 Against  disease  and  death.  Death,  tho’  denounced, 
 Was  yet  a  distant  ill,  by  feeble  arm 
 Of  age,  his  sole  support,  led  slowly  on. 
 
 Not  then,  as  since,  the  short-lived  sons  of  men 
 Flock’d  to  his  realms  in  countless  multitudes; 
 
 Scarce  in  the  course  of  twice  five  hundred  years. 
 
 One  solitary  ghost  went  shivering  down 
 To  his  unpeopled  shore.  In  sober  state, 
 
 u 
 
 32 
 
458 
 
 PORTEUS. 
 
 Through  the  sequester’d  vale  of  rural  life, 
 
 The  venerable  patriarch  guileless  held 
 
 The  tenour  of  his  way ;  labour  prepared 
 
 His  simple  fare,  and  temperance  ruled  his  board. 
 
 Tired  with  his  daily  toil,  at  early  eve 
 He  sunk  to  sudden  rest;  gentle  and  pure 
 As  breath  of  evening  zephyr,  and  as  sweet, 
 
 Were  all  his  slumbers ;  with  the  sun  he  rose, 
 
 Alert  and  vigorous  as  he,  to  run 
 
 His  destined  course.  Thus  nerved  with  giant  strength 
 He  stemm’d  the  tide  of  time,  and  stood  the  shock 
 Of  ages  rolling  harmless  o’er  his  head. 
 
 At  life’s  meridian  point  arrived,  he  stood, 
 
 And,  looking  round,  saw  all  the  valleys  fill’d 
 With  nations  from  his  loins;  full-well  content 
 To  leave  his  race  thus  scatter’d  o’er  the  earth, 
 
 Along  the  gentle  slope  of  life’s  decline 
 He  bent  his  gradual  way,  till,  full  of  years, 
 
 He  dropp’d  like  mellow  fruit  into  his  grave. 
 
 Such  in  the  infancy  of  time  was  man ; 
 
 So  calm  was  life,  so  impotent  was  death ! 
 
 O  had  he  but  preserved  these  few  remains, 
 
 The  shatter’d  fragments,  of  lost  happiness, 
 
 Snatch’d  by  the  hand  of  Heaven  from  the  sad  wreck 
 Of  innocence  primaeval ;  still  had  he  lived 
 In  ruin  great ;  tho’  fallen,  yet  not  forlorn  ; 
 
 Though  mortal,  yet  not  every  where  beset 
 With  death  in  every  shape !  But  he,  impatient 
 To  be  completely  wretched,  hastes  to  fill  up 
 The  measure  of  his  woes. — ’Twas  man  himself 
 Brought  death  into  the  world ;  and  man  himself 
 Gave  keenness  to  his  darts,  quicken’d  his  pace, 
 
 And  multiply’d  destruction  on  mankind. 
 
 First  Envy,  eldest  born  of  hell,  imbrued 
 Her  hands  in  blood,  and  taught  the  sons  of  men 
 To  make  a  death  which  nature  never  made, 
 
 And  God  abhorr’d ;  with  violence  rude  to  break 
 The  thread  of  life  ere  half  its  length  was  run, 
 
 And  rob  a  wretched  brother  of  his  being. 
 
 With  joy  Ambition  saw,  and  soon  improved 
 The  execrable  deed.  ’Twas  not  enough 
 
CARTER. 
 
 459 
 
 By  subtle  fraud  to  snatch  a  single  life, 
 
 Puny  impiety!  whole  kingdoms  fell 
 To  sate  the  lust  of  power:  more  horrid  still, 
 The  foulest  stain  and  scandal  of  our  nature, 
 Became  its  boast.  One  murder  made  a  villain  ; 
 Millions  a  hero.  Princes  were  privileged 
 To  kill,  and  numbers  sanctified  the  crime. 
 
 Ah  !  why  will  kings  forget  that  they  are  men? 
 And  men  that  they  are  brethren  ?  Why  delight 
 In  human  sacrifice  ?  .  Why  burst  the  ties 
 Of  nature,  that  should  knit  their  souls  together 
 In  one  soft  bond  of  amity  and  love? 
 
 Yet  still  they  breathe  destruction,  still  go  on 
 Inhumanly  ingenious  to  find  out 
 New  pains  for  life,  new  terrors  for  the  grave, 
 Artificers  of  death  !  Still  Monarchs  dream 
 Of  universal  empire  growing  up 
 From  universal  ruin.  Blast  the  design 
 Great  God  of  Hosts,  nor  let  thy  creatures  fall 
 Unpitied  victims  at  ambition’s  shrine! 
 
 ELIZABETH  CARTER. 
 
 Died  1806. 
 
 A  Night  Piece. 
 
 While  night  in  solemn  shade  invests  the  pole, 
 And  calm  reflection  sooths  the  pensive  soul, 
 While  reason  undisturb’d  asserts  her  sway, 
 And  life’s  deceitful  colours  fade  away  ; 
 
 To  Thee !  all-conscious  Presence  !  I  devote 
 This  peaceful  interval  of  sober  thought: 
 
 Here  all  my  better  faculties  confine  ; 
 
 And  be  this  hour  of  sacred  silence  thine  ! 
 
 If,  by  the  day’s  illusive  scenes  misled, 
 
 My  erring  soul  from  virtue’s  path  has  stray’d; 
 
 u  2 
 
460 
 
 CARTER. 
 
 Snared  by  example,  or  by  passion  warm’d, 
 
 Some  false  delight  my  giddy  sense  has  charm’d; 
 My  calmer  thoughts  the  wretched  choice  reprove, 
 And  my  best  hopes  are  centred  in  thy  love. 
 Deprived  of  this,  can  life  one  joy  atford? 
 
 Its  utmost  boast  a  vain  unmeaning  word. 
 
 But,  ah  !  how  oft  my  lawless  passions  rove. 
 
 And  break  those  awful  precepts  I  approve ! 
 Pursue  the  fatal  impulse  I  abhor, 
 
 And  violate  the  virtue  I  adore  ! 
 
 Oft  when  thy  better  Spirit’s  guardian  care 
 Warn’d  my  fond  soul  to  shun  the  tempting  snare, 
 My  stubborn  will  his  gentle  aid  repress’d, 
 
 And  check’d  the  rising  goodness  in  my  breast; 
 Mad  with  vain  hopes,  or  urged  by  false  desires, 
 Still’d  his  soft  voice,  and  quench’d  his  sacred  fires. 
 
 With  grief  oppress’d,  and  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
 Shouldst  thou  condemn,  I  own  thy  sentence  just. 
 But,  oh  !  thy  softer  titles  let  me  claim, 
 
 And  plead  my  cause  by  mercy’s  gentle  name. 
 Mercy  !  that  wipes  the  penitential  tear, 
 
 And  dissipates  the  horrors  of  despair; 
 
 From  righteous  justice  steals  the  vengeful  hour, 
 Softens  the  dreadful  attribute  of  power, 
 
 Disarms  the  wrath  of  an  offended  God, 
 
 And  seals  my  pardon  in  a  Saviour’s  blood! 
 
 All  powerful  Grace,  exert  thy  gentle  sway, 
 
 And  teach  my  rebel  passions  to  obey; 
 
 Lest  lurking  Folly,  with  insidious  art, 
 
 Regain  my  volatile  inconstant  heart! 
 
 Shall  every  high  resolve  Devotion  frames 
 Be  only  lifeless  sounds  and  specious  names? 
 
 Oh  rather,  while  thy  hopes  and  fears  control, 
 
 In  this  still  hour,  each  motion  of  my  soul, 
 
 Secure  its  safety,  by  a  sudden  doom, 
 
 And  be  the  soft  retreat  of  sleep  my  tomb! 
 
 Calm  let  me  slumber  in  that  dark  repose, 
 
 Till  the  last  morn  its  orient  beam  disclose  : 
 
 Then,  when  the  great  archangel’s  potent  sound 
 Shall  echo  through  creation’s  ample  round, 
 
 Waked  from  the  sleep  of  death,  with  joy  survey 
 The  opening  splendours  of  eternal  day. 
 
BARBAULD. 
 
 461 
 
 ANNA  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 
 
 Born  1743.  Died  1825. 
 
 Principal  Works : — Essays  and  Poems,  with  various  publications 
 for  children  and  youth,  of  great  beauty  and  excellence. 
 
 Address  to  the  Deity, 
 
 God  of  my  life,  and  author  of  my  days ! 
 
 Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise ; 
 
 And  trembling  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 
 That  hallow’d  name  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung. 
 
 Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 
 Than  hide  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 
 
 Worms,  angels,  men,  in  every  different  sphere, 
 
 Are  equal  all,  for  all  are  nothing  here. 
 
 All  Nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name, 
 
 Which  Nature’s  works,  thro’  all  her  parts,  proclaim. 
 I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 
 
 And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  thro’  my  soul ; 
 
 As  by  a  charm,  the  waves  of  grief  subside ; 
 Impetuous  passion  stops  her  headlong  tide: 
 
 At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease, 
 
 And  my  hush’d  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace, 
 
 Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies, 
 
 And  earth’s  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes, 
 
 Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  in  infinite, 
 
 And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 
 
 But  soon,  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke  ; 
 
 My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke; 
 
 With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
 
 And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
 
 But  He,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 
 Knowing  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
 
 His  Spirit,  ever  brooding  o’er  our  mind, 
 
 Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined; 
 
462 
 
 BARBAULD. 
 
 Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
 And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
 
 His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry, 
 
 His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye; 
 
 He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 
 
 And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
 
 Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give: 
 
 Accept  the  vow,  and  bid  the  suppliant  live: 
 
 From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free; 
 
 Still  every  wish  that  centres  not  in  Thee; 
 
 Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease. 
 
 And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 
 
 If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  pleasure  leads 
 By  living  waters,  and  thro’  flowery  meads. 
 
 When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil  and  serene, 
 
 And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene. 
 
 Oh  !  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare. 
 
 And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart — Beware ! 
 
 With  caution  let  me  hear  the  Syren’s  voice, 
 
 And  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart  rejoice. 
 
 If  friendless  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
 
 Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
 Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see, 
 
 And  with  strong  confidence,  lay  hold  on  Thee  ; 
 With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
 
 Resign’d  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live; 
 
 Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 
 
 While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 
 
 I  read  his  awful  name  emblazon’d  high 
 With  golden  letters  on  the’  illumined  sky. 
 
 Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
 Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree: 
 In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 
 I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees; 
 
 With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
 
 With  thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk; 
 
 In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power, 
 
 In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 
 
 Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
 
 'Ihy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  control. 
 
burns. 
 
 463 
 
 Thus  shall  I  rest  unmoved  by  all  alarms, 
 
 Secure  within  the  temple  ot  thine  arms, 
 
 From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
 And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  Thee. 
 
 Then,  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
 And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye  ; 
 When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
 I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state ; 
 Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
 With  decent  triumph  and  a  look  serene ; 
 
 Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
 
 And,  having  lived  to  Thee,  in  Thee  to  die. 
 
 ROBERT  BURNS. 
 
 Born  1759.  Died  1796. 
 
 Author  of  Poems,  principally  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  of  unrivalled 
 popularity  in  his  native  country,  and  scarcely  less  admired  wherever 
 his  language  is  understood.  Had  he  been  a  Christian  Poet, 
 
 “  How  had  he  blest  mankind  and  rescued  me!” 
 
 Religion  in  a  Cotlage. 
 
 Wi’  joy  unfeign’d  brithers  and  sisters  meet, 
 
 An’  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiers; 
 
 The  social  hours,  swift-wing’d,  unnoticed  fleet, 
 Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 
 The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopefu’  years ; 
 
 Anticipation  forward  points  the  view ; 
 
 The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  sheers, 
 
 Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the  new; 
 The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 
 
464 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Their  maister’s  an’  their  mistress’s  command, 
 
 The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey; 
 
 An’  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 
 
 An’  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play; 
 
 An’  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  .Lord  alway ! 
 
 An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an’  night! 
 
 Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 
 
 Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
 
 They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lordaright !” 
 
 *  *  *  ****** 
 
 The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 
 
 They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
 
 The  sire  turns  o’er  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 
 
 The  big  ha’-Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride : 
 
 His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 
 
 His  lyart  haifets  wearing  thin  an’  bare; 
 
 Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 
 
 He  wales  a  portion  wi’  judicious  care; 
 
 And  “ Let  us  worshij )  God!”  he  says,  wi’  solemn  air. 
 
 They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 
 
 They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
 
 Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 
 
 Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  o’  the  name  : 
 
 Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward  flame. 
 
 The  sweetest  far  o’  Scotia’s  holy  lays : 
 
 Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame, 
 
 The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
 
 Nae  unison  hae  they  wi’  our  Creator’s  praise. 
 
 The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 
 
 How  Abram  was  the  friend  o’  God  on  high  ; 
 
 Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
 With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny; 
 
 Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lye 
 
 Beneath  the  stroke  o’  Heaven’s  avenging  ire; 
 
 Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 
 
 Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
 
 Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 
 
BURNS 
 
 465 
 
 Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
 
 How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
 
 How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 
 Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head: 
 
 How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 
 
 The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
 
 How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
 
 Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand; 
 
 And  heard  great  Babylon’s  doom  pronounced  by 
 Heaven’s  command. 
 
 Then  kneeling  down  to  heaven’s  Eternal  King, 
 
 The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
 
 Hope  “  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,”(«) 
 That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days: 
 
 There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
 
 No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
 
 Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 
 
 In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
 
 While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 
 
 Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride. 
 
 In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
 
 When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
 Devotion’s  every  grace,  except  the  heart! 
 
 The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
 
 The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
 
 But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
 
 May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul; 
 
 And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 
 
 Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way; 
 
 The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
 
 The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
 
 And  proffer  up  to  heaven  the  warm  request. 
 
 That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clamorous  nest, 
 
 And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
 
 Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
 
 For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
 
 But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 
 
 [a)  Pope’s  Windsor  Forest. 
 
 u  3 
 
BURNS. 
 
 Lines  left  at  a  reverend  Friend's  house. 
 
 O  thou  dread  Power,  who  reign’st  above 
 I  know  Thou  wilt  me  hear; 
 
 When,  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 
 
 I  make  my  prayer  sincere. 
 
 The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke, 
 
 Long,  long,  be  pleased  to  spare  I 
 
 To  bless  his  little  filial  flock, 
 
 And  show  what  good  men  are. 
 
 She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
 With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
 
 O,  bless  her  with  a  mother’s  joys, 
 
 But  spare  a  mother’s  tears! 
 
 Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth. 
 In  manhood’s  dawning  blush  ! 
 
 Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 
 
 Up  to  a  parent’s  wish  ! 
 
 The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band, 
 
 With  earnest  tears,  I  pray, 
 
 Thou  know’st  the  snares  on  every  hand. 
 Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway ! 
 
 When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 
 O’er  life’s  rough  ocean  driven, 
 
 May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 
 
 A  family  in  Heaven ! 
 
grahame. 
 
 467 
 
 JAMES  GRAHAME. 
 
 Born  1765.  Died  1811. 
 
 Principal  Works  : — The  Sabbath,  Birds  of  Scotland,  British 
 Oeorgics,  &c. 
 
 A  Sabbath  Walk. 
 
 Delightful  is  this  loneliness ;  it  calms 
 My  heart:  pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms, 
 That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade. 
 Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks: 
 
 How  peaceful  every  sound  ! — the  ring-dove  s  plaint, 
 Moan’d  from  the  twilight  centre  of  the  grove, 
 
 While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 
 
 Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest, 
 And  from  the  root-sprigs  trills  her  ditty  clear,— 
 The  grasshopper’s  oft-pausing  chirp,  the  buzz, 
 Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee, 
 
 That  soon  as  loosed,  booms  with  full  twang  away, 
 The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal, 
 
 Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
 Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 
 A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
 The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 
 Watches  his  time  to  spring  ;  or,  from  above, 
 
 Some  feather’d  dam,  purveying  ’mong  the  boughs. 
 Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 
 Bears  off  the  prize: — Sad  emblem  of  man  s  lot . 
 He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf, 
 
 (Where  safe  and  happily  he  might  have  lurk  d; 
 Elate  upon  ambition’s  gaudy  wings, 
 
 Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and,  worse, 
 
 Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream ; 
 
 And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  ’scape, 
 
 Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a  little  while, 
 
 Mistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky  _ 
 
 For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 
 
468 
 
 GRAHAME. 
 
 Now,  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source 
 Among  the  hills ;  its  runnel  by  degrees 
 Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a  tinkle. 
 
 Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 
 
 Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble-shoots, 
 
 \\  ith  brier,  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray, 
 That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I  mount 
 Into  the  open  air:  grateful  the  breeze 
 I  hat  fans  my  throbbing  temples!  smiles  the  plain 
 Spread  wide  below :  how  sweet  the  placid  view ! 
 
 But  Oh!  more  sweet  the  thought,  heart-soothing 
 thought, 
 
 1  hat  thousands,  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 
 Of  toil,  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
 Ol  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale, 
 
 Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 
 
 And  blessing  Him,  who  gave  the  Sabbath  day. 
 
 Yes,  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb, 
 io  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 
 Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 
 The  coolness  ot  the  day’s  decline :  to  see 
 His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
 The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon, 
 
 Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 
 i  Again  I  turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
 I  he  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discern’d; 
 Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  with  ferny  leaves, 
 
 And  thinly  strew’d  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 
 
 ^  Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the  glens. 
 Each  mountain’s  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 
 Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
 The  Shepherd’s  shadow  thrown  athwart  the  chasm. 
 
 As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 
 
 How  deep  the  hush  !  the  torrent’s  channel,  dry, 
 Presents  a  stony  steep,  the  echo’s  haunt. 
 
 But  hark,  a  plaintive  sound  floating  along! 
 
 Tis  from  you  heath-roof’d  shielin  :  now  it  dies 
 A  way,  now  rises  full ;  it  is  the  song 
 W  hich  He, — who  listens  to  the  halleluiahs 
 Of  choiring  seraphim — delights  to  hear; 
 
 It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
 
GRAHAME. 
 
 469 
 
 Of  venerable  age, — of  guileless  youth, 
 
 In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
 Before  their  wicker  door :  Behold  the  man ! 
 
 The  grandsire  and  the  saint ;  his  silvery  locks 
 Beam  in  the  parting  ray ;  before  him  lies, 
 
 Upon  the  smooth-cropp’d  sward,  the  open  book. 
 His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever  new-delight ; 
 
 While,  heedless,  at  a  side,  the  lisping  boy 
 Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 
 
 The  Resurrection . 
 
 The  setting  orb  of  night  her  level  ray 
 Shed  o’er  the  land,  and,  on  the  dewy  sward, 
 
 The  lengthen’d  shadows  of  the  triple  cross 
 Were  laid  far  stretch’d, — when  in  the  east  arose. 
 Last  of  the  stars,  day’s  harbinger :  No  sound 
 '  Was  heard,  save  of  the  watching  soldier’s  foot : 
 Within  the  rock-barr’d  sepulchre,  the  gloom 
 Of  deepest  midnight  brooded  o’er  the  dead, 
 
 The  holy  One ;  but,  lo !  a  radiance  faint 
 Began  to  dawn  around  his  sacred  brow : 
 
 The  linen  vesture  seem’d  a  snowy  wreath, 
 Drifted  by  storms  into  a  mountain  cave : 
 
 Bright,  and  more  bright,  the  circling  halo  beam’d 
 Upon  that  face,  clothed  in  a  smile  benign, 
 Though  yet  exanimate.  Nor  long  the  reign 
 Of  death  ;  the  eyes,  that  wept  for  human  griefs. 
 Unclose,  and  look  around  with  conscious  joy ; 
 Yes ;  with  returning  life,  the  first  emotion 
 That  glow’d  in  Jesus’  breast  of  love,  was  joy 
 At  man’s  redemption,  now  complete;  at  death 
 Disarm’d ;  the  grave  transform’d  into  the  couch 
 Of  faith  ;  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 
 
 Majestical  He  rose ;  trembled  the  earth ; 
 
 The  ponderous  gate  of  stone  was  roll’d  away; 
 The  keepers  fell ;  the  angel,  awe-struck,  shrunk 
 Into  invisibility,  while  forth 
 The  Saviour  of  the  world  walk’d,  and  stood 
 Before  the  sepulchre,  and  view’d  the  clouds 
 Empurpled  glorious  by  the  rising  suri. 
 
470 
 
 GRAHAME. 
 
 The  Covenanters . 
 
 ■ - —  ■'  - O  blissful  day ! 
 
 When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills, 
 
 Far  other  times  our  fathers’  grandsires  knew, 
 
 A  virtuous  race,  to  godliness  devote. 
 
 What  though  the  sceptic’s  scorn  hath  dared  to  soil 
 The  record  of  their  fame!  What  though  the  men 
 Ot  worldly  minds  have  dared  to  stigmatize 
 The  sister-cause,  religion  and  the  law, 
 
 With  superstition’s  name  !  yet,  yet  their  deeds, 
 
 Their  constancy  in  torture,  and  in  death, — 
 
 These  on  tradition’s  tongue  still  live;  these  shall 
 On  history’s  honest  page  be  pictured  bright 
 To  latest  times.  Perhaps  some  bard,  whose  muse 
 Disdains  the  servile  strain  of  fashion’s  quire, 
 
 May  celebrate  their  unambitious  names. 
 
 "With  them  each  day  was  holy,  every  hour 
 
 They  stood  prepared  to  die,  a  people  doom’d 
 
 To  death: — old  men,  and  youths,  and  simple  maids. 
 
 With  them  each  day  was  holy ;  but  that  morn 
 
 On  which  the  angel  said,  See  where  the  Lord 
 
 Was  laid,  joyous  arose;  to  die  that  day 
 
 Was  bliss.  Long  ere  the  dawn,  by  devious  ways, 
 
 O’er  hills,  thro’  woods,  o’er  dreary  wastes,  they  sought 
 
 The  upland  moors,  where  rivers,  there  but  brooks, 
 
 Dispart  to  different  seas.  Fast  by  such  brooks, 
 
 A  little  glen  is  sometimes  scoop’d,  a  plat 
 
 With  green  sward  gay,  and  flowers  that  strangers  seem 
 
 Amid  the  heathery  wild,  that  all  around 
 
 Fatigues  the  eye:  in  solitudes  like  these 
 
 Thy  persecuted  children,  Scotia,  foil’d 
 
 A  tyrant’s  and  a  bigot’s  bloody  laws: 
 
 There,  leaning  on  his  spear,  (one  of  the  array, 
 
 Whose  gleam,  in  former  days,  had  scathed  the  rose 
 On  England’s  banner,  and  had  powerless  struck 
 The  infatuate  monarch  and  his  wavering  host,) 
 
 The  lyart  veteran  heard  the  word  of  God 
 By  Cameron  thunder’d,  or  by  Ren  wick  pour’d 
 In  gentle  stream  :  then  rose  the  song,  the  loud 
 
WHITE. 
 
 471 
 
 Acclaim  of  praise  ;  the  wheeling  plover  ceased 
 Her  plaint ;  the  solitary  place  was  glad, 
 
 And  on  the  distant  cairns,  the  watcher’s  ear  (a) 
 Caught  doubtfully  at  times  the  breeze-borne  note. 
 But  years  more  gloomy  follow’d;  and  no  more 
 The  assembled  people  dared,  in  face  of  day, 
 
 To  worship  God,  or  even  at  the  dead 
 Of  night,  save  when  the  wintry  storm  raved  fierce, 
 And  thunder  peals  compell’d  the  men  of  blood 
 To  couch  within  their  dens;  then  dauntlessly 
 The  scatter’d  few  would  meet,  in  some  deep  dell 
 By  rocks  o’er-canopied,  to  hear  the  voice, 
 
 Their  faithful  pastor’s  voice :  He,  by  the  gleam 
 Of  sheeted  lightning,  oped  the  sacred  book, 
 
 And  words  of  comfort  spake :  Over  their  souls 
 His  accents  soothing  came, — as  to  her  young 
 The  heathfovvl’s  plumes,  when,  at  the  close  of  eve, 
 She  gathers  in,  mournful,  her  brood  dispersed 
 By  murderous  sport,  and* o’er  the  remnant  spreads 
 Fondly  her  wings ;  close  nestling  ’neath  her  breast, 
 They,  cherish’d,  cower  amid  the  purple  blooms. 
 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
 
 Born  1785.  Died  1806. 
 
 Author  of  miscellaneous  Poems,  of  great  promise. 
 
 Music — (a  fragment .) 
 
 O  give  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 
 
 I  am  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
 Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 
 That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 
 
 (a)  Sentinels  were  placed  on  the  surrounding  hills,  to  give 
 warning  of  the  approach  of  the  military. 
 
472 
 
 WHITE. 
 
 Hark,  how  it  falls !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
 
 Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve, 
 
 When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
 
 As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave, 
 Mellow  and  many-voiced ;  where  every  close, 
 
 O’er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflows. 
 
 Oh!  I  am  wrapt  aloft.  My  spirit  soars 
 
 Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind: 
 
 Lo !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
 
 And  floating  pteans  fill  the  buoyant  wind  : 
 Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 
 Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs, — 
 
 *  *  *  ***** 
 
 The  end  of  Time—-(a  fragment.) 
 
 Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 
 
 I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay ; 
 
 I  heard  the  water’s  roar, 
 
 I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
 
 O  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 
 In  thine  eternal  cell, 
 
 Noting,  grey  chronicler!  the  silent  years; 
 
 I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete. 
 Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet, 
 
 The  universe  gave  way. 
 
 Farewell  to  the  Lyre . 
 
 [From  the  unfinished  Poem  of  the  Christiad.} 
 
 Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 
 With  self-rewarding  toil ; — thus  far  have  sung 
 Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
 
 The  lyre,  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung ; 
 And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  haye  hung 
 
TIGHE. 
 
 473 
 
 The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 
 
 On  the  dark  cypress !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
 With  Jesus’  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o’er, 
 
 Or  when  the  breeze  comes  by  moan  and  are  heard  no 
 more. 
 
 And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again, 
 
 Shall  I  no  more  re-animate  the  lay  ! 
 
 Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 
 
 Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 
 
 One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ! 
 
 One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 
 
 I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
 
 And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee ; 
 
 Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am 
 free. 
 
 ********* 
 
 MRS.  HENRY  TIGHE. 
 
 Born  1773.  Died  1810. 
 
 Author  of  Psyche,  and  a  few  minor  poems  of  peculiar  elegance 
 and  delicacy  in  style  and  sentiment. 
 
 On  receiving  a  Branch  of  Mezereon,  which  flowered  at 
 Woodstock.  December ,  1809. 
 
 Odours  of  spring,  my  sense  ye  charm 
 With  fragrance  premature ; 
 
 And,  mid  these  days  of  dark  alarm, 
 
 Almost  to  hope  allure. 
 
 Methinks  with  purpose  soft  ye  come 
 To  tell  of  brighter  hours, 
 
 Of  May’s  blue  skies,  abundant  bloom, 
 
 Her  sunny  gales  and  showers. 
 
474- 
 
 TIGHE. 
 
 Alas !  for  me  shall  May  in  vain 
 The  powers  of  life  restore ; 
 
 These  eyes  that  weep  and  watch  in  pain 
 Shall  see  her  charms  no  more. 
 
 No,  no,  this  anguish  cannot  last! 
 
 Beloved  friends,  adieu ! 
 
 The  bitterness  of  death  were  past, 
 
 Could  I  resign  but  you. 
 
 But  oh  !  in  every  mortal  pang 
 That  rends  my  soul  from  life, 
 
 That  soul,  which  seems  on  you  to  hang 
 Through  each  convulsive  strife, 
 
 Even  now,  with  agonizing  grasp 
 Of  terror  and  regret, 
 
 To  all  in  life  its  love  would  clasp 
 Clings  close  and  closer  yet. 
 
 Yet  why,  immortal,  vital  spark 
 Thus  mortally  oppress’d  ? 
 
 Look  up,  my  soul,  through  prospects  dark, 
 And  bid  thy  terrors  rest; 
 
 Forget,  forego  thy  earthly  part, 
 
 Thine  heavenly  being  trust: — 
 
 Ah,  vain  attempt !  my  coward  heart 
 Still  shuddering  clings  to  dust. 
 
 Oh  ye !  who  sooth  the  pangs  of  death 
 With  love’s  own  patient  care, 
 
 Still,  still  retain  this  fleeting  breath, 
 
 Still  pour  the  fervent  prayer:  — 
 
 And  ye,  whose  smile  must  greet  my  eye 
 No  more,  nor  voice  my  ear, 
 
 Who  breathe  for  me  the  tender  sigh, 
 
 And  shed  the  pitying  tear, — 
 
 Whose  kindness  (though  far  far  removed) 
 My  grateful  thoughts  perceive, 
 
 Pride  of  my  life,  esteem’d,  beloved, 
 
 My  last  sad  claim  receive ! 
 
KNOWLES 
 
 475 
 
 Oh  !  do  not  quite  your  friend  forget, 
 Forget  alone  her  faults; 
 
 And  speak  of  her  with  fond  regret 
 Who  asks  your  lingering  thoughts,  (a) 
 
 HERBERT  KNOWLES. 
 
 Born  1798.  Died  1817. 
 
 The  following  stanzas  ought  to  endear  the  memory  of  the  Author, 
 a  youth  of  great  promise,  whom  Dr.  Southey,  the  Rev.  James  Tate, 
 of  Richmond,  and  Dr.  Andrews,  Dean  of  Canterbury,  kindly  pa¬ 
 tronized,  and  were  preparing  to  appear  in  the  world  with  every  ad¬ 
 vantage  of  education  as  well  as  of  talents,  when  he  was  prematurely 
 cut  off  by  death.  Truly  he  built  “  a  monument  more  durable  than 
 brass,”  in  compiling  these  casual  lines,  with  little  prospect  of  pleas¬ 
 ing  any  body  but  himself  and  a  circle  of  partial  friends.  There  is 
 more  of  originality  in  them  than  can  easily  be  found  among  juvenile 
 productions. 
 
 It  is  good  to  be  here. 
 
 [Written  in  the  Church-yard  of  Richmond,  Yorkshire.] 
 
 Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here, 
 
 If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — hut  for  whom? 
 
 Nor  Elias,  nor  Moses  appear, 
 
 But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  the  gloom, 
 The  abode  of  the  dead,  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 
 
 (a)  This  was  the  last  poem  ever  composed  by  the  author,  who 
 expired  at  the  place  where  it  was  written,  after  six  years  of  pro¬ 
 tracted  malady,  on  the  24th  of  March,  1810,  in  the  thirty-seventh 
 year  of  her  age.  Her  fears  of  death  were  perfectly  removed  before 
 she  quitted  this  scene  of  trial  and  suffering ;  and  her  spirit  departed 
 to  a  better  state  of  existence,  confiding  with  heavenly  joy  in  the 
 acceptance  and  love  of  her  Redeemer. — Note  by  the  Husband  of  the 
 deceased,  in  his  edition  of  her  Poems. 
 
476 
 
 KNOWLES. 
 
 Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?  Ah  !  no ; 
 
 Affrighted  he  shrinketh  away; 
 
 For  see  !  they  would  pin  him  below 
 To  a  small  narrow  cave,  and  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
 
 To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 
 
 To  Beauty?  Ah!  no;  she  forgets 
 The  charms  which  she  wielded  before : 
 
 Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 
 The  skin  which,  but  yesterday,  fools  could  adore 
 For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it  wore. 
 
 Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 
 
 The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud? 
 
 Alas !  they  are  all  laid  aside, 
 
 And  here’s  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allow’d, 
 
 But  the  long  winding  sheet,  and  the  fringe  of  the 
 shroud. 
 
 To  Riches?  Alas!  ’tis  in  vain, 
 
 Who  hid  in  their  turns  have  been  hid ; 
 
 The  treasures  are  squander’d  again; 
 
 And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid, 
 
 But  the  tinsel  that  shone  on  the  dark  coffin  lid. 
 
 To  the  Pleasures  which  mirth  can  afford, 
 
 The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer? 
 
 Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board, 
 
 But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
 
 And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 
 
 Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love? 
 
 Ah  !  no ;  they  have  wither’d  and  died, 
 
 Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above, — 
 
 Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side, 
 Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 
 
 Unto  Sorrow?  The  dead  cannot  grieve, 
 
 Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 
 
 Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve  ; 
 
 Ah  !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love  or  fear ; 
 Peace,  peace,  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 
 
PARKED. 
 
 477 
 
 Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow? 
 
 Ah  !  no ;  for  his  empire  is  known, 
 
 And  here  there  are  trophies  enow; 
 
 Beneath  the  cold  dead,  and  around  the  dark  stone, 
 Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 
 
 The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
 
 And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise ; 
 
 The  second  to  Faith,  which  ensures  it  fulfill’d; 
 
 And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice, 
 
 Who  bequeath’d  us  them  both  when  He  rose  to  the 
 skies. 
 
 MARY  PARKEN. 
 
 The  Writer  of  the  following  stanzas  realized  all  the  blessedness 
 and  hopes  expressed  in  them,  in  life  and  in  death.  She  died  young, 
 about  the  year  1811. 
 
 To-morrow . 
 
 How  sweet  to  the  heart  is  the  thought  of  To-morrow, 
 When  Hope’s  fairy  pictures  bright  colours  display; 
 How  sweet,  when  we  can  from  futurity  borrow 
 A  balm  for  the  griefs  that  afflict  us  to-day. 
 
 When  wearisome  sickness  hath  taught  me  to  languish 
 For  health,  and  the  comforts  it  bears  on  its  wing, 
 
 Let  me  hope  (oh!  how  soon  will  it  lessen  my  anguish!) 
 That  To-morrow  will  ease  and  serenity  bring. 
 
 When  travelling  alone,  quite  forlorn,  unbefriended, 
 S.veet  the  hope,  that  To-morrow  my  wanderings  will 
 cease; 
 
 That  at  home,  then  with  care  sympathetic  attended, 
 
 I  shall  rest  unmolested,  and  slumber  in  peace. 
 
478 
 
 PARKENT. 
 
 Or,  when  from  the  friends  of  my  heart  long  divided, 
 The  fond  expectation  with  joy  how  replete! 
 
 That  from  far  distant  regions,  by  Providence  guided, 
 To-morrow  will  see  us  most  happily  meet. 
 
 When  six  days  of  labour  each  other  succeeding, 
 With  hurry  and  toil  have  my  spirits  oppress’d, 
 
 What  pleasure  to  think,  as  the  last  is  receding, 
 To-morrow  will  be  a  sweet  sabbath  of  rest. 
 
 And  when  the  vain  shadows  of  time  are  retiring, 
 When  life  is  fast  fleeting,  and  death  is  in  sight, 
 
 The  Christian  believing,  exulting,  expiring, 
 
 Beholds  a  To-morrow  of  endless  delight. 
 
 DANIEL  PARKEN. 
 
 Brother  to  the  Writer  of  the  foregoing  stanzas.  He  also  died 
 young  in  1812.  The  Editor  of  the  “  Christian  Poet  ”  has  already 
 borne  ardent  testimony  to  his  worth,  in  the  verses  to  “  the  Spirit 
 of  a  departed  Friend,”  prefixed  to  “  The  World  before  the  Flood.” 
 
 To  my  Father ; — on  his  Birth-day. 
 
 Hail  dawning  day!  hail  dear  returning  light! 
 Thus  ever  shine  in  gentL  glory  bright ; 
 
 Thus  blessing  all,  by  all  the  grateful  bless’d, 
 
 Sink  late  in  solemn  majesty  to  rest. 
 
 O  loved!  O  honour’d  in  my  inmost  heart, 
 
 1  boast  the  image  that  shall  ne’er  depart; 
 
 Time  but  secures  it;  each  encircling  day 
 Grows  up  around,  and  guards  it  from  decay ; 
 Unchanged  it  rests,  in  central  feelings  fast, 
 
 And,  though  it  yield  to  death,  shall  yield  the  last. 
 
 Oft  I  review  the  hours  when  Infant-glee 
 (Toss’d  in  thy  arms,  or  danced  upon  thy  knee, 
 
 Or  on  thy  shoulder  joyous  to  ascend,) 
 
 Claim’d  thee  as  playmate,  ere  it  knew  thee  friend. 
 
PAR  KEN. 
 
 479 
 
 '—All!  there  was  one— -yes,  flow,  lamenting  tear! 
 Flow  unrestrain’d,  for  grief  is  pious  here; 
 
 — Ah  !  there  was  one,  but  one,  who  shared  with  thee 
 The  pangs,  the  bliss  of  parent  sympathy; 
 
 Whose  angel-hand  redress’d  my  little  cares, 
 
 And  led  me,  thoughtless  mid  surrounding  snares; 
 Whose  flowery  fillet  drew  my  willing  youth. 
 
 Through  pleasure’s  mazes,  up  the  steep  of  truth ; 
 Eager  to  guide,  to  succour,  and  to  save, 
 
 Who  blamed,  and  wept,  the  follies  she  forgave; 
 
 Who  frowning  quell’d  the  heart’s  rebellious  strife, 
 
 And  smiled  the  faint  repentance  into  life; 
 
 Gentle,  not  weak;  and  firm,  but  not  severe; 
 
 Too  wise  for  folly,  and  too  kind  for  fear : 
 
 Oh !  how  she  shielded  from  the  infant-bed 
 The  shafts  of  sickness  on  her  own  dear  head; 
 
 Drew  from  reviving  lips  the’  envenom’d  breath, 
 
 And,  life  restoring,  drank  the  sighs  of  death  ! 
 
 WThat  selfish  fear  that  energy  could  bind  ? 
 
 What  earthly  tabernacle  hold  that  mind? 
 
 — Soon,  like  a  flame  beneath  the  incumbent  pyre, 
 
 That  smouldering  frets,  and  struggles  to  aspire, 
 
 And  gathering  strength  as  the  dull  heap  decays, 
 
 Seeks  its  bright  source  in  one  triumphant  blaze, — 
 The’  etherial  soul,  all  ardent  to  be  free, 
 
 Breaks  the  base  shackles  of  mortality, 
 
 Bursts  through  the  ruins,  and  victorious  flies, 
 
 Straight  and  spontaneous,  to  her  native  skies. 
 
 ’Twas  a  sad  hour  announced  thy  quick  release, 
 
 Seraph  of  goodness!  to  a  &orld  of  peace ; 
 
 The  chariot-cloud,  to  thee  so  heavenly  bright 
 On  us  lower’d  baleful  as  the’  Egyptian  night. 
 
 Dear  widow’d  Father!  my  soul’s  vacant  throne 
 Then  didst  thou  seek,  and  claim  it  for  thine  own; 
 And  mutual  grief,  with  kind  consoling  arts, 
 
 Wove  the  torn  fibres  of  our  bleeding  hearts. 
 
 With  thee  I’ve  trod  the  dark  and  devious  way, 
 W’here  thorns  perplex  the  path,  and  hide  the  day ; 
 Roam’d  o’er  the  wasted  heath  in  trouble’s  hour, 
 
 Mid  driving  tempest,  and  the  pelting  shower; 
 
480 
 
 WIGHTMAN. 
 
 Or,  travelling  onward,  climb’d  the  glittering  height, 
 Or  linger’d  through  the  valleys  of  delight: 
 
 Still  have  I  walk’d,  assiduous,  at  thy  side, 
 
 Each  joy  to  double,  and  each  care  divide. 
 
 Long  may  revolving  years  thy  life  renew, 
 
 And  earthly  bliss  around  thee  fall  like  dew; 
 
 Angels,  a  watchful  host,  thy  steps  enclose, 
 
 And  heavenly  peace  protect  thy  sweet  repose. 
 
 Oh !  may  thy  children  still,  with  steady  view, 
 The  bright  examples  of  their  course  pursue ; 
 
 One  band  unite  us  all !  one  love  constrain, 
 
 Unseen,  unfailing,  as  the’  electric  chain, 
 
 Twine  round  each  heart  on  earth,  and  upward  rise, 
 And  clasp  our  dear  forerunners  in  the  skies  : 
 
 There  may  we  meet  at  length,  as  saints  above, 
 
 And  bow  together  at  the  throne  of  love ! 
 
 THOMAS  HENDERSON  WIGHTMAN. 
 
 Died  1823. 
 
 Author  of  a  Poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  and 
 several  other  pieces. 
 
 A  Christmas  Hymn. 
 
 Hail,  brightest  day  in  History’s  page ! 
 When,  girt  for  mercy’s  embassage, 
 
 The  great  Sojourner  came  to  wear 
 Our  load,  and  travel  our  path  of  care. 
 
 He  left  the  glorious  realms  on  high, 
 
 The  blaze  of  unclouded  majesty; 
 
 To  crush  proud  Satan’s  rebel  crest, 
 
 From  Death  his  poisonous  dart  to  wrest ; — 
 
WIGHTMAN. 
 
 481 
 
 To  shed  around,  the  starry  light 
 Of  precepts  pure, — example  bright; — 
 
 To  drink  heaven’s  indignation-cup, — 
 
 His  innocent  blood  to  offer  up. 
 
 Nor  do  his  gracious  accents  cease 
 To  soothe  the  sufferer, — whisper  peace; 
 
 On  radiant  throne,  He  sits  reveal’d, 
 
 The  prostrate  sinner  to  save  and  shield. 
 
 See  nature,  how  serenely  dress’d ! 
 
 In  fields  of  snow, — a  saint-like  vest; 
 
 Thus  pure,  a  Saviour’s  touch  beneath, 
 
 Sin’s  darkest  robe  seems  as  snowy  wreath. 
 
 Now  winter’s  icy-sceptred  sway, 
 
 The  feather’d  warblers,  hush’d,  obey; 
 
 No  longer  from  green  arbour,  floats 
 The  silvery  swell  of  artless  notes : 
 
 But  this  is  man’s  glad  vernal  prime, 
 
 The  budding  of  a  spring  sublime ; 
 
 Hence  hope,  from  hearts  of  joy,  should  spring, 
 Heavenward  warbling  on  golden  wing. 
 
 Let  not  the  step  of  riot  rude, 
 
 On  Thought’s  pure  whispering  cell  intrude  ; 
 Nor  frantic  voice  of  reckless  glee, 
 
 Break  in  on  the  soul’s  festivity. 
 
 Sweet  roll’d  the  sounds  o’er  Bethlehem  once, 
 Of  angel-harps, — a  soft  response 
 Rung  from  earth’s  cliffs,  till  roused  from  sleep, 
 Dim  ages  chaunted  the  anthem  deep. 
 
 Nor  on  this  day  of  love  divine, 
 
 Shall  my  faint  lyre  untoucli’d  recline ; — 
 Resound  the  choral  song  again, 
 
 «  Glory  to  God,  good  will  to  men.” 
 
 x 
 
 32 
 
482 
 
 HUNTINGTON. 
 
 MRS.  SUSAN  HUNTINGTON. 
 Born  1791.  Died  1823. 
 
 Written  after  reading  Buchanan  s  Christian  Researches. 
 
 When  I  on  fancy’s  pinion  ride, 
 
 Far  o’er  the  ocean’s  rolling  tide, 
 
 To  India’s  burning  shore, 
 
 Where  the  chain’d  soul  in  thraldom  sleeps, 
 
 And  Satan  his  dark  empire  keeps, 
 
 My  eye  a  pitying  torrent  weeps, 
 
 Of  grief  unfelt  before. 
 
 There,  whelm’d  in  superstition’s  night, 
 
 Unknown  the  Gospel’s  cheering  light, 
 
 The  fetter’d  spirit  lies  ; 
 
 Left  to  dim  Nature’s  twinkling  ray, 
 
 Which  can  but  feeble  light  convey, 
 
 It  sinks,  to  doubt  and  sin  a  prey, 
 
 Nor  longs,  nor  seeks,  to  rise. 
 
 Yet  reason  there ,  a  Sovereign  owns, 
 
 But,  stupid,  bows  to  stocks  and  stones, 
 
 (A  path  she’s  ever  trode.) 
 
 Reason  reduced,  can  never  climb 
 To  truths  so  glorious,  so  divine, 
 
 As  in  the  sacred  Gospel  shine, 
 
 Without  the  aid  of  God. 
 
 And  say,  O  Christian !  can  you  view 
 The  wretched  Heathen’s  guilt  and  woe, 
 
 Nor  drop  one  pitying  tear? 
 
 Think — that,  though  sunk  in  sin  and  shame, 
 
 On  you  the  Indian  has  a  claim ; 
 
 He  bears  a  brothers  sacred  name: 
 
 Behold  him !  comfort,  cheer. 
 
HUNTINGTON. 
 
 483 
 
 Yes,  let  the  Gospel’s  gladdening  voice 
 His  realms  illume,  reform,  rejoice. 
 
 Go,  tell  him  Jesus  reigns: 
 
 Bid  him  forsake  his  impious  rites ; 
 
 Tell  him  that  God  his  love  invites; 
 
 Tell  him  in  mercy  He  delights, 
 
 And  waits  to  break  his  chains. 
 
 And  think,  how  high  your  joy  will  rise, 
 When,  throned  in  bliss  above  the  skies, 
 You  meet  the  ransomed  throng, 
 
 And  see,  with  song  of  holiest  fire, 
 
 The  Indian  foremost  in  the  choir ! 
 
 How  will  it  raise  your  rapture  higher, 
 And  swell  your  joyous  song? 
 
 On  the  Death  of  an  Infant  Son. 
 
 Ah  !  where  is  he,  with  the  eyes  so  blue, 
 
 And  the  shining  yellow  hair, 
 
 And  the  lofty  brow,  still  serenely  mild, 
 
 And  the  cheek  so  angel  fair? 
 
 Oh,  spirit  loved !  who,  like  vision  of  light, 
 
 Stole  across  my  path,  in  that  fearful  night 
 When  the  storm  was  high,  and  thy  sire  far  away, 
 
 And  smiled  through  the  darkness,— how  short  was  thy 
 
 stay!  .  .  . 
 
 Like  fleeting  cloud,  that  by  tempest  is  driven 
 
 Athwart  the  stormy  sky, 
 
 Or  dew-drop  that’s  wept,  at  close  of  even, 
 
 From  nature’s  humid  eye. 
 
 That  cheek  was  fair;  but  ’ tis  deadly  pale, 
 
 The  last  living  tint  has  fled  ; 
 
 And  the  cherish’d  form,  on  this  bosom  that  slept, 
 
 In  the  damp  tomb  rests  its  head. 
 
 Soon  was  finish’d  thine  errand  to  this  distant  shore, 
 And  thy  mission  of  love,  dearest  babe,  soon  was  o  ei. 
 In  my  soul’s  saddest  hour  of  distress  wert  thou  given, 
 To  assuage  the  deep  anguish,  then  vanish  to  heaven. 
 
 x  2 
 
484  BYRON. 
 
 Though  oblivion’s  dews  settle  fast  on  thee,  now; 
 
 There’s  one  heart  shall  forget  thee,  never ; 
 
 And  the  stroke  that  shall  end  all  my  sorrows  below, 
 Shall  unite  us  again  for  ever. 
 
 LORD  BYRON. 
 
 Born  1788.  Died  1824. 
 
 The  Destruction  of  the  Assyrians. 
 
 The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
 And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
 And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
 When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 
 
 Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
 That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  ; 
 Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
 That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither’d  and  strown. 
 
 For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
 And  breath’d  on  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass’d, 
 
 And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax’d  deadly  and  chill, 
 And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still! 
 
 And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
 
 But  through  it  there  roll’d  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 
 And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
 And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 
 
 And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
 
 With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail: 
 And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
 
 The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 485 
 
 And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
 
 And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
 
 And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
 Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 
 
 “  We  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion.” 
 
 Oh  !  weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel’s  stream, 
 Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream; 
 Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah’s  broken  shell; 
 
 Mourn — where  their  God  hath  dwelt,  the  godless  dwell ! 
 
 And  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet? 
 
 And  when  shall  Zion’s  songs  again  seem  sweet? 
 
 And  Judah’s  melody  once  more  rejoice 
 
 The  hearts  that  leap’d  before  its  heavenly  voice  ? 
 
 Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
 
 How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 
 
 The  wild  dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
 Mankind  their  country-— Israel  but  the  grave ! 
 
486 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 JANE  TAYLOR. 
 
 Bokn  1783.  Died  1824. 
 
 among  contemporaries)  has  never  been  appreciated  mg^to 
 he  in  the  polite  literature  of  the  a&e.  N  p  .  ...  •  apiinea- 
 excepting  the  greatest)  has  shown  more  exquisi  - _  ....  pew 
 
 lta7>Sa„  nature  d  ’  tta." 
 
 HfiiSSli 
 
 pise  such  writings,  but  it  is i  often  tne  mug!  ...  lest  that 
 
 and  the  scorn  that  cannot  appease  feartul  misgivings,  tea 
 
 which  is  hated  may  actually  be  true. 
 
 The  World  ill  the  Heart. 
 
 Are  there  not  portions  of  the  sacred  word, 
 
 So  often  preach’d  and  quoted,  read  and  heard, 
 That,  though  of  deepest  import,  and  design  d 
 With  joy  or  fear  to  penetrate  the  mind,  _ 
 
 They  pass  away  with  notice  cold  and  brief, 
 
 Like  drops  of  rain  upon  a  glossy  leaf? 
 
 Such  is  the  final  sentence,  on  that  day, 
 
 When  all  distinctions  shall  be  done  away 
 But  what  the  righteous  Judge  shall  bring  to  lig  it, 
 Between  the  left-hand  millions  and  the  right. 
 Here  in  his  word,  in  beams  of  light,  it  stands, 
 What  will  be  then  demanded  at  our  hancs ; 
 
TAYLOR. 
 
 48? 
 
 Clear  and  unclouded  now  the  page  appears, 
 
 As  even  then  illumed  by  blazing  spheres. 
 
 —The  question  is  not,  if  our  earthly  race 
 Was  once  enlighten’d  by  a  flash  of  grace; 
 
 If  we  sustain’d  a  place  on  Zion’s  hill, 
 
 And  call’d  him  Lord, — but  if  we  did  his  will. 
 
 What  if  the  stranger,  sick  and  captive  lie 
 Naked  and  hungry,  and  we  pass  them  by ! 
 
 Or  do  but  some  extorted  pittance  throw, 
 
 To  save  our  credit,  not  to  ease  their  woe ! 
 
 Or  strangers  to  the  charity  whence  springs 
 The  liberal  heart  devising  liberal  things, 
 
 We,  cumber’d  ever  with  our  own  pursuits, 
 
 To  others  leave  the  labour  and  its  fruits ; 
 
 Pleading  excuses  for  the  crumb  we  save, 
 
 For  want  of  faith  to  cast  it  on  the  wave ! 
 
 — Shall  we  go  forth  with  joy  to  meet  our  Lord, 
 
 Enter  his  kingdom,  reap  the  full  reward  ? 
 
 —Can  such  his  good,  his  faithful  servants  be, 
 
 Bless’d  of  the  Father? — Read  his  word  and  see. 
 
 What  if,  in  strange  defiance  of  that  rule, 
 
 Made  not  in  Moses'  but  the  Gospel  school, 
 
 Shining  as  clearly  as  the  light  of  heaven, 
 
 “  They  who  forgive  not,  shall  not  be  forgiven.” 
 
 We  live  in  anger,  hatred,  envy,  strife, 
 
 Still  firmly  hoping  for  eternal  life; 
 
 And  where  the  streams  of  Christian  love  should  flow, 
 The  root  of  bitterness  is  left  to  grow; 
 
 Resisting  evil,  indisposed  to  brook 
 A  word  of  insult  or  a  scornful  look; 
 
 And  speak  the  language  of  the  world  in  all 
 Except  the  challenge  and  the  leaden  ball! 
 
 What  if,  mistrustful  of  its  latent  worth, 
 
 We  hide  our  single  talent  in  the  earth ! 
 
 And  what  if  self  is  pamper’d  not  denied! 
 
 What  if  the  flesh  is  never  crucified! 
 
 What  if  the  world  be  hidden  in  the  heart, — 
 
 Will  it  be  “  Come,  ye  blessed!  ”  or  “  Depart  ?" 
 
 Who  then  shall  conquer?  who  maintain  the  fight? 
 Even  they  that  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight; 
 
 Who,  having  wash’d  their  robes  and  made  them  white, 
 
488 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Press  tow’rds  the  mark,  arid  see  the  promised  land. 
 Not  dim  and  distantly,  but  near  at  hand. 
 
 —We  are  but  marching  down  a  sloping  hill, 
 Without  a  moment’s  time  for  standing  still; 
 
 Where  every  step  accelerates  the  pace, 
 
 More  and  more  rapid  till  we  reach  the  base ; 
 
 And  then,  no  clinging  to  the  yielding  dust ! 
 
 An  ocean  rolls  below,  and  plunge  we  must. 
 
 What  plainer  language  labours  to  express, 
 
 Thus  metaphoric  is  allow’d  to  dress; 
 
 And  this  but  serves  on  naked  truth  to  throw 
 That  hazy,  indistinct,  and  distant  glow, 
 
 Through  which  we  wish  the  future  to  appear. 
 
 Not  as  it  is  indeed — true,  awful,  near. 
 
 And  yet,  amid  tire  hurry,  toil  and  strife, 
 
 The  claims,  the  urgencies,  the  whirl  of  life, — 
 
 The  soul — perhaps  in  silence  of  the  night — 
 
 Has  flashes — transient  intervals  of  light; 
 
 When  things  to  come,  without  a  shade  of  doubt, 
 
 In  terrible  reality  stand  out. 
 
 Those  lucid  aoments  suddenly  present 
 A  glance  of  truth  as  though  the  heavens  were  rent; 
 And  through  the  chasm  of  pure  celestial  light, 
 
 The  future  breaks  upon  the  startled  sight; 
 
 Life’s  vain  pursuits,  and  Time’s  advancing  pace, 
 Appear,  with  death-bed  clearness,  face  to  face; 
 
 And  Immortality’s  expanse  sublime, 
 
 In  just  proportion  to  the  speck  of  time: 
 
 While  Death,  uprising  from  the  silent  shades, 
 Shows  his  dark  outline  ere  the  vision  fades; 
 
 In  strong  relief  against  the  blazing  sky, 
 
 Appears  the  shadow  as  it  passes  by: 
 
 And,  though  o’ervvhelming  to  the  dazzled  brain, 
 These  are  the  moments  when  the  mind  is  sane; 
 
 Tor  then  a  hope  of  heaven,  a  Saviour’s  cross, 
 
 Seem  what  they  are,  and  all  things  else  but  loss. 
 Oh!  to  be  ready — ready  for  that  day, 
 
 Would  we  not  give  earth’s  fairest  toys  away? 
 
 Alas!  how  soon  its  interests  cloud  the  view, 
 
 Kush  in,  and  plunge  us  in  the  world  anew. 
 
TAYLOR. 
 
 489 
 
 The  quiet  chamber  where  the  Christian  sleeps, 
 And  where  from  year  to  year  he  prays  and  weeps ; 
 Whence,  in  the  midnight  watch  his  thoughts  arise 
 To  those  bright  mansions  where  his  treasure  lies, 
 — How  near  it  is  to  all  that  faith  can  see ! 
 
 How  short  and  peaceful  may  his  passage  be ! 
 
 One  beating  pulse, — one  feeble  struggle  o’er, 
 
 May  open  wide  the  everlasting  door. 
 
 Yes,  for  that  bliss  unspeakable,  unseen, 
 
 Is  ready,  and  the  veil  of  flesh  between 
 A  gentle  sigh  may  rend, — and  then  display 
 The  broad  full  splendour  of  an  endless  day. 
 
 — This  bright  conviction  elevates  his  mind; 
 
 He  presses  forward,  leaving  all  behind  : 
 
 Thus  from  his  throne  the  tyrant  foe  is  hurl’d, 
 
 — This  is  the  faith  that  overcomes  the  world. 
 
 Poetry  and  Reality. 
 
 — ’Tis  Sabbath  morning,  and  at  early  hour, 
 
 The  poet  seeks  his  own  sequester’d  bower; 
 
 The  shining  landscape  stretches  full  in  view; 
 
 All  heaven  is  glowing  with  unclouded  blue; 
 
 The  hills  lie  basking  in  the  sunny  beams, 
 
 Enrich’d  with  sprinkled  hamlets,  woods  and  streams  : 
 And  hark !  from  tower  and  steeple,  here  and  there, 
 The  cheerful  chime  bespeaks  the  hour  of  prayer. 
 
 The  poet’s  inmost  soul  responsive  swells 
 To  every  change  of  those  religious  bells ; 
 
 His  fine  eye  ranging  o’er  the  spacious  scene, 
 
 With  ecstacy  unutterably  keen ; 
 
 His  mind  exalted,  melted,  sooth’d,  and  free 
 From  earthly  tumult,  all  tranquillity; 
 
 — If  this  be  not  devotion,  what  can  be? 
 
 But  gentle  poet,  wherefore  not  repair 
 To  yonder  temple? — God  is  worshipp’d  there. 
 
 Nay,  wherefore  should  he? — wherefore  not  address 
 The  God  of  nature  in  that  green  recess, 
 
 x  3 
 
490 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Surrounded  by  his  works,  and  not  confined 
 To  rites  adapted  to  the  vulgar  mind? 
 
 There  he  can  sit,  and  thence  his  soul  may  rise, 
 Caught  up  in  contemplation  to  the  skies, 
 
 And  worship  nature’s  God  on  reasons  plan : 
 
 — It  is  delusion,  self-applauding  man  ! 
 
 The  God  of  nature  is  the  God  of  grace  ; 
 
 The  contrite  spirit  is  his  dwelling  place ; 
 
 And  thy  proud  offering,  made  by  reason’s  light, 
 Is  all  abomination  in  his  sight. 
 
 Indulgence  slumbers  in  the  arms  of  pride, 
 
 This  sin  with  that  in  closest  bonds  allied ; 
 
 And  he  is  still  an  epicure  in  kind, 
 
 Who  lives  on  pleasure,  though  it  be  refined. 
 
 ’Tis  true,  the  love  of  nature,  genuine  taste, 
 
 Hath  ever  minds  of  finest  texture  graced, 
 
 And  they  who  draw  no  soft  emotion  thence, 
 Possess  but  half  a  soul  and  want  a  sense : 
 
 Yes,  and  the  Christian  poet  feels  its  force 
 With  double  zest,  and  tastes  it  at  its  source. 
 —But  mark  our  fond  enthusiast  where  he  strays 
 In  pensive  musings  glide  his  tranquil  days; 
 
 In  nature’s  beauties,  not  content  to  find 
 The  bliss  subordinate  which  God  design’d, 
 
 It  is  his  very  end  and  chief  employ, 
 
 To  view,  invoke,  adore  it,  and  enjoy ; 
 
 He  deems  his  aim  and  happiness  well  placed, 
 Confounding  picturesque  with  moral  taste. 
 
 The  village  church,  in  reverend  trees  array’d, 
 His  favourite  haunt,— he  loves  the  holy  shade; 
 And  there  he  muses  many  an  eve  away, 
 
 Though  not  with  others  on  the  Sabbath  day: 
 Nor  cares  he  how  they  spend  the  sacred  hour, 
 But — how  much  ivy  grows  upon  the  tower ! 
 Yes,  the  deluded  poet  can  believe 
 The  soothing  influence  of  a  summer  eve, — 
 
 That  sacred  spot — the  train  of  tender  thought, 
 By  osier’d  grave  and  sculptured  marble  brought 
 The  twilight  gloom,  the  stillness  of  the  hour, 
 Poetic  musings  on  a  church-yard  flower; 
 
TAYLOR. 
 
 491 
 
 The  moonshine,  solitude,  and  all  the  rest, 
 
 Will  raise  devotion’s  flame  within  his  breast: 
 
 And  while  susceptive  of  the  magic  spell 
 Of  sacred  music,  and  the  sabbath-bell, 
 
 And  each  emotion  nature’s  form  inspires, 
 
 He  fancies  this  is  all  that  God  requires. 
 
 The  Gospel  preach’d  by  Jesus  to  the  poor 
 Simple,  sublime,  and  spiritual  and  pure, 
 
 Is  not  constructed,  and  was  ne’er  design'd, 
 
 To  please  the  morbid,  proud,  romantic  mind. 
 
 — He  shuns  the  world,  but  not  alone  its  toys, — 
 
 Its  active  duties,  and  its  better  joys; 
 
 ’Tis  true  he  weeps  for  crime, — at  least  his  Muse  ; 
 And  sighs  for  sorrows  that  he  never  views ; 
 
 Indulges  languid  wishes  that  mankind 
 Were  all  poetical,  and  all  refined; 
 
 Forms  lofty  schemes  the  flood  of  vice  to  stem, 
 
 — But  preaching  Jesus  is  not  one  of  them: 
 
 And  thus  in  waking  dreams  from  day  to  day, 
 
 He  wears  his  tranquil  harmless  life  away. 
 
 But  true  Benevolence  is  on  the  wing, 
 
 ’Tis  not  content  to  look  sublime  and  sing; 
 
 It  rises  energetic  to  perform 
 
 The  hardest  task,  or  face  the  rudest  storm. 
 
 Crossing  the  poet’s  sacred  haunt,  behold 
 One  form’d  in  other,  and  in  ruder  mould : 
 
 Rapid  his  pace, — and  see,  he  checks  it  not 
 To  gaze  or  muse  on  that  sequester’d  spot ; 
 Perchance  his  eye,  untutor’d,  only  sees, 
 
 In  that  fine  shade,  St.  Somethings  church  and  trees; 
 All  lost  on  him  its  magic,  all  in  vain 
 The  bright  reflection  on  the  Gothic  pane ; 
 
 Or,  should  he  feel  the  charm,  he  will  not  stay, 
 
 But  mounts  the  stile,  and  plods  his  onward  way, 
 
 “  I  wonder,  rustic  stranger!  who  thou  art!” 
 
 — I’ll  tell  thee,  gentle  bard,  with  all  my  heart: 
 
 A  poor  Itinerant — start  not  at  the  sound; 
 
 To  yonder  licensed  barn  his  course  is  bound, 
 
 To  christen’d  heathens,  upon  Christian  ground, 
 
 To  preach, — or,  if  you  will,  to  rant  and  roar 
 That  gospel-news  they  never  heard  before. 
 
492 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Two  distant  hamlets  this  same  day  have  heard 
 His  warning  voice,  and  now  he  seeks  the  third. 
 
 No  mitred  chariot  bears  him  round  his  see, 
 
 Despised  and  unattended  journeys  he; 
 
 And  want  and  weariness  from  day  to  day, 
 
 Have  sown  the  seeds  of  premature  decay : 
 
 There  is  a  flush  of  hectic,  on  his  cheeks, 
 
 There  is  a  deadly  gasping  when  he  speaks  : 
 
 **«**■*»* 
 
 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 
 
 _ A  brief  coarse  meal,  at  some  unseemly  board. 
 
 Snatch’d  as  the  hasty  intervals  afford  ; 
 
 Fresh  from  the  crowded  preaching  house,  to  meet 
 The  keen  night- vapour,  or  the  driving  sleet; 
 
 And  then  the  low,  damp  bed,  and  yet  the  best 
 The  homely  hamlet  yields  its  weary  guest : 
 
 And  more  than  all,  and  worse  than  all  to  bear, 
 Trials  of  cruel  mockings  every  where, 
 
 _ That  persecution,  which,  who  do  his  will, 
 
 And  love  their  Lord  in  truth  shall  suffer  still ; 
 
 Not  such  indeed  as  his  forefathers  saw, 
 
 (Thanks  to  the  sheltering  arm  of  righteous  law,) 
 But  scorn,  contempt,  and  scandal,  and  disgrace, 
 Which  hunt  his  followers  still  from  place  to  place; 
 
 _ Such  are  the  hardships  that  his  sickly  frame 
 
 Endures,  and  counts  it  joy  to  suffer  shame. 
 
 Yes,  and  he  reaps  the  fruit  of  all  his  toil, 
 
 He  sows  the  seed,  and  God  has  bless’d  the  soil : 
 He  sees  the  wicked  man  forsake  his  ways; 
 
 The  scoffing  tongue  has  learn’d  to  perfect  praise; 
 The  drunken  quits  his  revelry  and  strife, 
 
 And  meekly  listens  to  the  word  of  life ; 
 
 The  noisy  village,  wanton  and  profane, 
 
 Grows  neat  and  decent,  peace  and  order  reign  ; 
 
 At  length  wide  districts  hail  the  gospel  rays. 
 
 And  the  once  savage  peasant  kneels  and  prays; 
 Through  his  dark  bosom  shines  the  heavenly  light, 
 And  prejudice  grows  silent  at  the  sight. 
 
HEBER. 
 
 493 
 
 REGINALD  HEBER,  Bishop  of  Calcutta. 
 
 Died  1826. 
 
 Author  of  Palestine,  and  several  smaller  pieces  of  Christian  poetry. 
 
 The  followers  of  Christ-. 
 
 The  Son  of  God  is  gone  to  war, 
 
 A  kingly  crown  to  gain  ; 
 
 His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar; 
 
 Who  follows  in  his  train? 
 
 — Who  best  can  drink  his  cup  of  woe, 
 Triumphant  over  pain; 
 
 Who  boldest  bears  his  cross  below, — 
 
 He  follows  in  his  train. 
 
 The  martyr  first,  whose  eagle-eye 
 Could  pierce  beyond  the  grave; 
 
 Who  saw  his  Master  in  the  sky, 
 
 And  call’d  on  Him  to  save : 
 
 Like  Him,  with  pardon  on  his  tongue, 
 
 In  midst  of  mortal  pain, 
 
 He  pray’d  for  them  that  did  the  wrong: 
 
 —  Who  follows  in  his  train? 
 
 A  glorious  band,  the  chosen  few, 
 
 On  whom  the  Spirit  came, 
 
 Twelve  valiant  saints,  the  truth  they  knew, 
 And  braved  the  cross  and  flame: 
 
 They  met  the  tyrant’s  brandish’d  steel, 
 
 Tiie  lion’s  gory  mane; 
 
 They  bow’d  their  necks  the  death  to  feel: 
 
 . — Who  follows  in  their  train? 
 
 A  noble  army,  men  and  boys, 
 
 The  matron  and  the  maid, 
 
 Around  their  Saviour’s  throne  rejoice, 
 
 Jn  robes  of  light  array’d ; 
 
494 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 They  climb’d  the  dizzy  steep  of  heaven, 
 Through  peril,  toil  and  pain  : 
 
 Oh  !  God,  to  us  may  grace  be  given 
 To  follow  in  their  train. 
 
 ROBERT  POLLOK. 
 
 Born  1799.  Died  1827. 
 
 Principal  Work,—"  The  Course  of  Time;"  one  of  the  most  ex¬ 
 traordinary  productions  of  the  present  age;  and  the  early  death  of 
 the  Author  may  be  said  to  have  cut  off  one  of  its  highest  hopes  in 
 literature;  for  though  it  would  be  very  difficult,  according  to  es¬ 
 tablished  precedents,  to  justify  a  great  portion  of  the  plan,  the  inci¬ 
 dents  and  the  style  of  this  poem,  yet  its  excellencies  are  at  least  as 
 unexampled  in  their  peculiar  kind  as  its  crudities. 
 
 The  Christian  Poet. 
 
 One  of  this  mood  I  do  remember  well. 
 
 We  name  him  not,  what  now  are  earthly  names? 
 In  humble  dwelling  born,  retired,  remote; 
 
 In  rural  quietude,  ’mong  hills,  and  streams. 
 
 And  melancholy  deserts,  where  the  Sun 
 Saw,  as  he  passed,  a  shepherd  only,  here 
 And  there,  watching  his  little  flock,  or  heard 
 The  ploughman  talking  to  his  steers;  his  hopes, 
 His  morning  hopes,  awoke  before  him,  smiling. 
 Among  the  dews  and  holy  mountain  airs; 
 
 And  fancy  coloured  them  with  every  hue 
 Of  heavenly  loveliness.  But  soon  his  dreams 
 Of  childhood  fled  away,  those  rainbow  dreams, 
 So  innocent  and  fair,  that  withered  age, 
 
 Even  at  the  grave,  cleared  up  his  dusty  eye, 
 
 And  passing  all  between,  looked  fondly  back 
 Too  see  them  once  again,  ere  he  departed : 
 
POLLOK. 
 
 495 
 
 These  tied  away,  and  anxious  thought,  that  wished 
 To  go,  yet  whither  knew  not  well  to  go, 
 
 Possessed  his  soul,  and  held  it  still  a  while. 
 
 He  listened,  and  heard  from  far  the  voice  of  fame, 
 Heard  and  was  charmed ;  and  deep  and  sudden  vow 
 Of  resolution,  made  to  be  renowned; 
 
 And  deeper  vowed  again  to  keep  his  vow. 
 
 His  parents  saw,  his  parents  whom  God  made 
 Of  kindest  heart,  saw,  and  indulged  his  hope. 
 
 The  ancient  page  he  turned,  read  much,  thought  much, 
 And  with  old  bards  of  honourable  name 
 Measured  his  soul  severely;  and  looked  up 
 To  fame,  ambitious  of  no  second  place. 
 
 Hope  grew  from  inward  faith,  and  promised  fair. 
 
 And  out  before  him,  opened  many  a  path 
 Ascending,  where  the  laurel  highest  waved 
 Her  branch  of  endless  green.  He  stood  admiring, 
 But  stood,  admired,  not  long.  The  harp  he  seized, 
 The  harp  he  loved,  loved  better  than  his  life, 
 
 The  harp  which  uttered  deepest  notes,  and  held 
 The  ear  of  thought  a  captive  to  its  song. 
 
 He  searched  and  meditated  much,  and  whiles, 
 
 With  rapturous  hand,  in  secret,  touched  the  lyre, 
 Aiming  at  glorious  strains;  and  searched  again 
 For  theme  deserving  of  immortal  verse; 
 
 Chose  now,  and  now  refused,  unsatisfied; 
 
 Pleased,  then  displeased,  and  hesitating  still. 
 
 Thus  stood  his  mind,  when  round  him  came  a  cloud 
 Slowly  and  heavily  it  came,  a  cloud 
 Of  ills,  we  mention  not.  Enough  to  say, 
 
 ’Twas  cold,  and  dead,  impenetrable  gloom. 
 
 He  saw  its  dark  approach,  and  saw  his  hopes. 
 
 One  after  one,  put  out,  as  nearer  still 
 It  drew  his  soul;  but  fainted  not  at  first, 
 
 Fainted  not  soon.  He  knew  the  lot  of  man 
 Was  trouble,  and  prepared  to  bear  the  worst; 
 
 Endure  whate’er  should  come,  without  a  sigh 
 Endure,  and  drink,  even  to  the  very  dregs, 
 
 The  bitterest  cup  that  Time  could  measure  out ; 
 
 And,  having  done,  look  up,  and  ask  for  more. 
 
 Fie  called  philosophy,  and  with  his  heart 
 
496 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 lleasoned.  He  called  religion  too,  but  called 
 Reluctantly,  and  therefore  was  not  heard. 
 
 Ashamed  to  he  o’ermatched  by  earthly  woes, 
 
 He  sought,  and  sought,  with  eye  that  dimmed  apace, 
 
 To  find  some  avenue  to  light,  some  place 
 On  which  to  rest  a  hope ;  but  sought  in  vain. 
 
 Darker  and  darker  still  the  darkness  grew. 
 
 At  length  he  sunk,  and  Disappointment  stood  t 
 His  only  comforter,  and  mournfully 
 Told  all  was  past.  His  interest  in  life, 
 
 In  being,  ceased:  and  now  he  seemed  to  feel, 
 
 And  shuddered  as  he  felt,  his  powers  of  mind 
 Decaying  in  the  spring-time  of  his  day. 
 
 The  vigorous,  weak  became,  the  clear,  obscure. 
 Memory  gave  up  her  charge,  Decision  leelcd, 
 
 And  from  her  flight,  Fancy  returned,  returned 
 Because  she  found  no  nourishment  abroad. 
 
 The  blue  heavens  withered,  and  the  moon,  and  sun, 
 And  all  the  stars,  and  the  green  earth,  and  morn 
 And  evening,  withered;  and  the  eyes,  and  smiles. 
 
 And  faces,  of  all  men  and  women,  withered; 
 
 Withered  to  him  ;  and  all  the  universe, 
 
 Like  something  which  had  been,  appeared ;  but  now 
 Was  dead  and  mouldering  fast  away.  He  tried 
 No  more  to  hope,  wished  to  forget  his  vow, 
 
 Wished  to  forget  his  harp;  then  ceased  to  wish. 
 
 That  was  his  last.  Enjoyment  now  was  done. 
 
 He  had  no  hope,  no  wish,  and  scarce  a  fear. 
 
 Of  being  sensible,  and  sensible 
 Of  loss,  he  as  some  atom  seemed,  which  uocl 
 Had  made  superfluously,  and  needed  not 
 To  build  creation  with ;  but  back  again 
 To  nothing  threw,  and  left  it  in  the  void, 
 
 With  everlasting  sense  that  once  it  was. 
 
 Oh  !  who  can  tell  what  days,  what  nights,  he  spent, 
 Of  tideless,  waveless,  sailless,  shoreless  wo ! 
 
 And  who  can  tell  how  many,  glorious  once, 
 
 To  others  and  themselves  of  promise  full, 
 
 Conducted  to  this  pass  of  human  thought, 
 
 This  wilderness  of  intellectual  death, 
 
POLLOK. 
 
 497 
 
 Wasted  and  pined,  and  vanished  from  the  earth, 
 Leaving  no  vestige  of  memorial  there  ! 
 
 ^  It  was  not  so  with  him.  When  thus  he  lay, 
 Forlorn  of  heart,  withered  and  desolate, 
 
 As  leaf  of  Autumn,  which  the  wolfish  winds, 
 Selecting  from  its  falling  sisters,  chase, 
 
 Far  from  its  native  grove,  to  lifeless  wastes, 
 
 And  leave  it  there  alone  to  be  forgotten 
 Eternally,  God  passed  in  mercy  by, — 
 
 His  praise  be  ever  new! — and  on  him  breathed, 
 And  bade  him  live,  and  put  into  his  hands 
 A  holy  harp,  into  his  lips  a  song, 
 
 That  rolled  its  numbers  down  the  tide  of  Time : 
 Ambitious  now  but  little,  to  be  praised 
 Of  men  alone  ;  ambitious  most,  to  be 
 Approved  of  God,  the  Judge  of  all;  and  have 
 His  name  recorded  in  the  book  of  life. 
 
 A  Scene  of  early  Love . 
 
 It  was  an  eve  of  Autumn’s  holiest  mood. 
 
 The  corn  fields,  bathed  in  Cynthia’s  silver  light. 
 Stood  ready  for  the  reaper’s  gathering  hand  ; 
 
 And  all  the  Winds  slept  soundly.  Nature  seemed, 
 In  silent  contemplation,  to  adore 
 Its  Maker.  Now  and  then,  the  aged  leaf 
 Fell  from  its  fellows,  rustling  to  the  ground; 
 
 And,  as  it  fell,  bade  man  think  on  his  end. 
 
 On  vale  and  lake,  on  wood  and  mountain  high, 
 
 With  pensive  wing  outspread,  sat  heavenly  Thought, 
 Conversing  with  itself.  Vesper  looked  forth, 
 
 From  out  her  western  hermitage,  and  smiled; 
 
 And  up  the  east,  unclouded,  rode  the  Moon 
 With  all  her  stars,  gazing  on  earth  intense, 
 
 As  if  she  saw  some  wonder  walking  there. 
 
 Such  was  the  night,  so  lovely,  still,  serene, 
 
 When,  by  a  hermit  thorn  that  on  the  hill 
 Had  seen  a  hundred  flowery  ages  pass, 
 
 A  damsel  kneeled  to  offer  up  her  prayer, 
 
498 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 Her  prayer  nightly  offered,  nightly  heaid. 
 
 This  ancient  thorn  had  been  the  meeting  place 
 Of  love,  before  his  country’s  voice  had  called 
 The  ardent  youth  to  fields  ol  honour  far 
 Bevond  the  wave  :  and  hither  now  repaired, 
 
 Nightly,  the  maid,  by  God’s  all-seeing  eye 
 Seen  only,  while  she  sought  this  boon  alone: : 
 
 “  Her  lover’s  safety  and  his  quick  leturn. 
 
 In  holy,  humble  attitude  she  kneeled, 
 
 And  to  her  bosom,  fair  as  moonbeam,  pressed 
 One  hand,  the  other  lifted  up  to  heaven. 
 
 Her  eye,  Upturned,  bright  as  the  star  of  morn, 
 
 As  violet  meek,  excessive  ardour  streamed, 
 
 Wafting  away  her  earnest  heart  to  God.  _ 
 
 Her  voice,  scarce  uttered,  soft  as  Zephyr  sighs 
 On  morning  lily’s  cheek,  though  soft  and  low, 
 
 Yet  heard  in  heaven,  heard  at  the  mercy-seat. 
 
 A  tear-drop  wandered  on  her  lovely  lace. 
 
 It  was  a  tear  of  faith  and  holy  fear, 
 
 Pure  as  the  drops  that  hang  at  dawning-time, 
 
 On  vonder  willows  by  the  stream  of  life. 
 
 On  her  the  Moon  looked  steadfastly;  the  Stais, 
 
 ?hat  circle  nightly  round  the  eternal  Throne, 
 
 Glanced  down,  well  pleased;  and  Everlast.ng  Love 
 Gave  gracious  audience  to  her  prayer  s.ncere. 
 
 O  had  her  lover  seen  her  thus  alone, 
 
 Thus  holy,  wrestling  thus,  and  all  for  him . 
 
 Nor  did  he  not :  for  oft-times  1  roudence, 
 with  unexpected  joy  the  fervent  prayer 
 Of  faith  surprised.  Returned  from  long  delay, 
 
 With  glory  crowned  of  righteous  actions  won 
 The  sacred  thorn,  to  memory  dear,  fiist  sought 
 The  youth,  and  found  it  at  the  happy  hour, 
 
 Just  when  the  damsel  kneeled  herself  to  piay. 
 Wrapped  in  devotion,  pleading  with  her  God, 
 
 She  saw  him  not,  heard  not  his  foot  approach. 
 
 All  holy  images  seemed  too  impure 
 To  emblem  her  he  saw.  A  seraph  Reeled, 
 Beseeching  for  his  ward,  before  the  Ihrone, 
 
 Seemed  fittest,  pleased  him  best.  Sweet  was  the 
 
 thought ! 
 
POLLOK. 
 
 499 
 
 But  sweeter  still  the  kind  remembrance  came, 
 
 That  she  was  flesh  and  blood,  formed  for  himself, 
 
 The  plighted  partner  of  his  future  life. 
 
 And  as  they  met,  embraced,  and  sat,  embowered, 
 
 In  woody  chambers  of  the  starry  night, 
 
 Spirits  of  love  about  them  ministered, 
 
 And  God,  approving,  blessed  the  holy  joy! 
 
 The  Death  of  a  Mother. 
 
 Our  sighs  were  numerous,  and  profuse  our  tears, 
 
 For  she,  we  lost,  was  lovely,  and  we  loved 
 Her  much.  Fresh  in  our  memory,  as  fresh 
 As  yesterday,  is  yet  the  day  she  died. 
 
 It  was  an  April  day;  and  blithely  all 
 The  youth  of  nature  leaped  beneath  the  sun, 
 
 And  promised  glorious  manhood ;  and  our  hearts 
 Were  glad,  and  round  them  danced  the  lightsome 
 blood, 
 
 In  healthy  merriment,  when  tidings  came, 
 
 A  child  was  born  :  and  tidings  came  again, 
 
 That  she  who  gave  it  birth  was  sick  to  death. 
 
 So  swift  trode  sorrow  on  the  heels  of  joy ! 
 
 We  gathered  round  her  bed,  and  bent  our  knees 
 In  fervent  supplication  to  the  Throne 
 Of  Mercy,  and  perfumed  our  prayers  with  sighs 
 Sincere,  and  penitential  tears,  and  looks 
 Of  self-abasement ;  but  we  sought  to  stay 
 An  angel  on  the  earth,  a  spirit  ripe 
 For  heaven;  and  Mercy,  in' her  love,  refused, 
 
 Most  merciful,  as  oft,  when  seeming  least! 
 
 Most  gracious  when  she  seemed  the  most  to  frown  ! 
 The  room  I  well  remember,  and  the  bed 
 On  which  she  lay,  and  all  the  faces  too, 
 
 That  crowded  dark  and  mournfully  around. 
 
 Her  father  there  and  mother,  bending,  stood; 
 
 And  down  their  aged  cheeks  fell  many  drops 
 Of  bitterness.  Her  husband,  too,  was  there, 
 
 And  brothers,  and  they  wept ;  her  sisters,  too, 
 
 Did  weep  and  sorrow,  comfortless;  and  I, 
 
 Too,  wept,  though  not  to  weeping  given;  and  all 
 
500 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 Within  the  house  was  dolorous  and  sad. 
 
 This  I. remember  well;  but  better  still, 
 
 I  do  remember,  and  will  ne’er  forget, 
 
 The  dying  eye  !  That  eye  alone  was  bright, 
 
 And  brighter  grew,  as  nearer  death  approached; 
 
 As  I  have  seen  the  gentle  little  flower 
 Look  fairest  in  the  silver  beam  which  fell, 
 
 Reflected  from  the  thunder-cloud  that  soon 
 
 Came  down,  and  o’er  the  desert  scattered  far 
 
 And  wide  its  loveliness.  She  made  a  sign 
 
 -To  bring  her  babe — ’twas  brought,  and  by  her  placed. 
 
 She  looked  upon  its  face,  that  neither  smiled 
 
 Nor  wept,  nor  knew  who  gazed  upon  t;  and  laid 
 
 Her  hand  upon  its  little  breast,  and  sought 
 
 For  it,  with  look  that  seemed  to  penetrate 
 
 The  heavens,  unutterable  blessings,  such 
 
 As  God  to  dying  parents  only  granted, 
 
 For  infants  left  behind  them  in  the  world. 
 
 “  God  keep  my  child!”  we  heard  her  say,  and  heard 
 No  more.  The  Angel  of  the  Covenant 
 Was  come,  and  faithful  to  his  promise,  stood, 
 Prepared  to  walk  with  her  through  death’s  dark  vale. 
 And  now  her  eyes  grew  bright,  and  brighter  still, 
 
 Too  bright  for  ours  to  look  upon,  suffused 
 With  many  tears,  and  closed  without  a  cloud. 
 
 They  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goes 
 Not  down  behind  the  darkened  west,  not  hides 
 Obscured  among  the  tempests  of  the  sky, 
 
 Rut  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Printed  by  W.  Collins  &  Co. 
 Glasgow. 
 
Princeton 
 
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