If faithful souls be alike glorified As angels, then my father's soul doth see, That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride: How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried? Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn, Death, be not proud, though some have called thee For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die. In a poem called The Cross, full of fantastic conceits, we find the following remarkable lines, embodying the profoundest truth. 1 66 As perchance carvers do not faces make, But that away, which hid them there, do take : Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee, 'If they know us not by intuition, but by judging from circumstances and signs." 2 "With most willingness." 3 "Art proud." last six lines, the figure contained in them shows itself almost grand. As an individual specimen of the grotesque form holding a fine sense, regard for a moment the words, He was all gold when he lay down, but rose All tincture; which means, that, entirely good when he died, he was something yet greater when he rose, for he had gained the power of making others good: the tincture intended here was a substance whose touch would turn the basest metal into gold. Through his poems are scattered many fine passages; but not even his large influence on the better poets who followed is sufficient to justify our listening to him longer now. CHAPTER VIII. BISHOP HALL AND GEORGE SANDYS. JOSEPH HALL, born in 1574, a year after Dr. Donne, bishop, first of Exeter, next of Norwich, is best known by his satires. It is not for such that I can mention him the most honest satire can claim no place amongst religious poems. It is doubtful if satire ever did any good. Its very language is that of the halfbrute from which it is well named. Here are three poems, however, which the bishop wrote for his choir. ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER. Lord, what am I? What is my life? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing! My time, my flesh, my life, and I, Where am I, Lord? What is my trade? My sport sin too, my What end of sin? Down in a vale of death. Sin, my dear God offending; stay a puff of breath. Hell's horror never ending: Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss. What state? Attendance of each glorious sprite : Pass all the thoughts of powers create. How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above, FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY. Immortal babe, who this dear day Shine, happy star! Ye angels, sing Glory on high to heaven's king! Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch! See heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch! manger. Worship, ye sages of the east, The king of gods in meanness drest! O blessed maid, smile, and adore The God thy womb and arms 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. Leave, O my soul, this baser world below; |