1

If faithful souls be alike glorified

As angels, then my father's soul doth see,

And adds this even to full felicity,
That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride :
But if our minds to these souls be descried

By circumstances and by signs that be

Apparent in us—not immediately –
How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried ?

They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
And, style blasphemous, conjurors to call
On Jesu's name, and pharisaical

Dissemblers feign devotiön. Then turn,
O pensive soul, to God; for he knows best
Thy grief, for he put it into my breast.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest? our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery !

Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st3 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.

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,
And be his image, or not his, but he.

1

If they know us not by intuition, but by judging from circumstances and signs.” 2 “With most willingness.”

3 “Art proud.”

RESURRECTION.

123

One more, and we shall take our leave of Dr. Donne. It is called a fragment; but it seems to me complete. It will serve as a specimen of his best and at the same time of his most characteristic mode of presenting fine thoughts grotesquely attired.

RESURRECTION.

Sleep, sleep, old sun; thou canst not have re-past 1
As yet the wound thou took’st on Friday last.
Sleep then, and rest : the world may bear thy stay;
A better sun rose before thee to-day;
Who, not content to enlighten all that dwell
On the earth's face as thou, enlightened hell,
And made the dark fires languish in that vale,
As at thy presence here our fires grow pale ;
Whose body, having walked on earth and now
Hastening to heaven, would, that he might allow
Himself unto all stations and fill all,
For these three days become a mineral.
He was all gold when he lay down, but rose
All tincture ; and doth not alone dispose

;
Leaden and iron wills to good, but is
Of power to make even sinful flesh like his.
Had one of those, whose credulous piety
Thought that a soul one might discern and see
Go from a body, at this sepulchre been,
And issuing from the sheet this body seen,
He would have justly thought this body a soul,
If not of any man, yet of the whole.

What a strange mode of saying that he is our head, the captain of our salvation, the perfect humanity in which our life is hid! Yet it has its dignity. When one has got over the oddity of these

1 A strange use of the word; but it evidently means recovered, and has some analogy with the French repasser.

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? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing !

What is my life? A dream, a daily dying !
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy 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 ? Down in a vale of death.

What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending ;
My sport sin too, my stay a puff of breath.
What end of sin ? Hell's horror never ending :

My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place,
Help to make up my doleful 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 days, 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 fly?
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 blissful throne.

FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY.

Immortal babe, who this dear day
Didst change thine heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy Godhead veil,
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 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 Redeeiner's birth.

Leave, O my soul, this baser world below;
O leave this dolesul dungeön of woe;
And soar aloft to that supernal rest
That maketh all the saints and angels blest :

Lo, there the Godhead's radiant throne,
Like to ten thousand suns in one !