now he makes me feel his wrath, not as an individual sinner, but as a transgressor against him and the whole family of his creatures, whose wrong I have ever sought, when I supposed it might be for my pri vate advantage. Why should I expect mercy who have never shewn it? I have trampled upon mercy; and now slighted, abused, rejected mercy calls incessantly for vengeance.'

"After a short pause, which no one attempted to interrupt, as the horror which his last expressions, uttered with terrible energy and evident distress, had silenced every one, he turned to the doctor, and began, Why do you thus plead with me? I tell you, I have been the enemy of the human race; and would have plundered you or the best friend I have upon earth. Why do you not join to torment me? Ah! you already have a powerful avenger; your God has declared himself on your side. He has taken up your cause, and pours down his fury upon me. If this is only the anticipation, what will be the reality? O misery without end, and suffering interminable.'" pp. 234-237.

"The physician having interrupted him, to remind him that length of time was not necessary for repentance, and that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he replied,

"I have trodden that blood under foot; if it is found upon me, it must be as a curse, not a blessing. I have had the benefit of it offered me, but I have rejected it with unceasing hardness and impenitence. Oh, the golden opportunity that has been refused, and is now lost for ever! Is not that hell enough of itself? What need be added to it? Then to bear the wrath of God for ever!-a fire burning but not consuming; to be the sport and companion of devils-to dwell with everlasting buruings!'

"The debility which had gradually increased upon him for several preceding months, and by which he had been brought to a state bordering upon dissolution, seemed overcome by the impulse which the agitation of his mind communicated to his body. He experienced a temporary increase of strength, a morbid revival, under which he displayed an energy and activity of thought equal to what he had exerted at any former period of his life. The effect of this was only to exhaust the little corporeal power that remained, and accelerate his death." pp. 239, 240.

"In the delirium which prevailed during the last few hours of his temporal existence, the same awful expectations of futurity harassed his disturbed mind, and he alluded with fearful dismay to many circumstances, besides those before referred to, but particularly to the widow and orphans. During one of these, he suddenly raised himself upon his bed, and, uttering a piercing shreik, he fell backward and expired." pp. 243, 244.

Sacred Specimens selected from the

Early English Poets; with prefatory Verses. By the Rev. J. MITFORD. London. 1827.8s. 6d.

THE taste and the productions of the present age, in the article of poetry, are, we presume, to say the very least, quite equal to those of any former period of English history. During the latter part of the last half century, poetry was at a deplorably low ebb amongst

us:

those of our poets, who brightened our literary horizon from the days of Charles the Second to those of George the First, had passed off the stage of life; and, with a few exceptions, had left no successors to share their renown. What our national poetry was even in the boyhood of the present generation, may be inferred from the fact, that such a versifier as Hayley was at the head of the profession, and few of the professors aspired to any higher excellence than to imitate with success the Popes and Drydens of a former age.

But a most hopeful revolution has since taken place; the mere metrical jingle of versification is no longer considered as constituting poetry; and one prominent quality, in particular, has been introduced into our productions in this line-a quality which is good or bad as respects its object, we mean emotion, which raises our best modern poetry far above the level of that of the last age. Cowper, and Southey, and Scott, and Byron, and Moore, differing as they do in all other respects, have yet all been more or less, some of them preeminently, poets of emotion; and this is the great secret by which two at least of them have obtained a popularity of no hopeful character for morals, or the happiness of mankind.

The earlier ages of English verse had also their respective schools. Such individuals, indeed, as Shakspeare and Milton were of no school: they

were cast in their own moulds, and had no equals in their own, or in subsequent times; but the mass of their predecessors, contemporaries, and successors belonged to well defined schools of poetry; of which the Cowley school, the school of conceits and jejune witticisms, was for many years the most applauded. But a better school had preceded it; for in some of the poets of the days of Elizabeth, there is to be found a tenderness and simplicity which are the true language of nature, and therefore will still find an echo in the human breast, when the peculiarities of any particular school of art have ceased to be admired.

Much attention has of late been devoted by the literary public to the writings of some of our almost obsolete poets; but unhappily those whose writings were chiefly of a sacred cast have not hitherto received their due share of attention, Nor is this to be wondered at; for though there are many admirable specimens of poetry to be found among them, few of them would merit to be reprinted in detail, and the surviving copies of their works are so extremely rare, that even in our best public libraries it is difficult to find a respectable collection. Mr. Mitford, who, in the work before us, has given "sacred specimens" from more than fifty poets, beginning with Barnabe Googe in 1565, and ending with the Countess of Winchelsea in 1713, states, that no where but in the library of Mr. Heber, which, as respects ancient English poetry, is matchless, could he find a collection of writers suited to his purpose. In selecting from almost innumerable volumes the gems before us, he has done good service to the lovers both of old English literature and sacred poetry; and especially to the latter, who will find in his little volume a large number of specimens of this species of literature, freed from the incumbrance of "baser matter," and many of them gleaned from the pages of authors whose CHRIST, OBSERV. No. 305,

general writings were very far from being "sacred." It is a high tribute which the men of this world have been constrained to pay to religion, that some even of its most licentious writers have occasionally written poems of a religious kind, which have cast into the shade some of their other productions as much by their literary as by their moral preeminence. Our own age has not been destitute of illustrations of this remark.

It would be impracticable, and not very interesting if practicable, to attempt an analytical review of a work consisting of detached poems from numerous authors; we think therefore we shall best consult the wishes of our readers, and do the best justice to the volume before us, by devoting a few pages to simple extracts; which will present a general view of the character of the sacred poetry of a variety of our older writers, many of whose names are scarcely known even to the reading part of the public. A few pages will serve to give to our readers, by Mr. Mitford's assistance, some specimens of their writings, and thus save them the labour and difficulty of consulting numerous volumes, some of which are of very rare and costly occurrence. We will not undertake to say that every extract is after the highest order of poetry; though some of them merit a share even of this praise; and the less polished specimens present, from their rarity and curiosity, sufficient of interest to entitle them to a few columns of a religious miscellany. We shall find the best reward for our pains in selecting them, if our readers, by these "sacred specimens," shall feel their hearts more elevated in praise and gratitude to Him from whom springs all that is truly beautiful or sublime, as well as good; who gave to his rational creatures an imagination to be purified, exalted, and devoted to his service, as well as an intellect to understand what that service is, and 2 Q

affections of soul to render our submission to it" perfect freedom; and who, in his own inspired records, has shewn us, that it is not only innocent, but laudable, to consecrate the powers of taste and fancy to His glory, by himself condescending to use the language of poetry, and the most splendid and impressive imagery, in his revelation of mercy to a sinful world.

"6 From the Psalms of David, translated into Verse, by Sir Philip Sidney, born 1554, died 1586, and finished by his sister the Countess of Pembroke. Part of Psalm cxix.

"By what correcting line May a young man make straight his crooked way?

By level of thy lore divine.

Sith then with such good cause

My heart thee seeks, O Lord, I seeking pray

Let me not wander from thy laws.

Thy speeches have I hid Close locked up in the casket of my heart; Fearing to do what they forbid. But this cannot suffice:

Thou wisest Lord, who ever blessed art, Yet make me in thy statutes wise.

Then shall my lips declare The sacred laws that from thy mouth proceed,

And teach all nations what they are:
For what thou dost decree

To my conceit far more delight doth breed,

Than worlds of wealth, if worlds might be." pp. 6, 9, 10.

"From the Works of Edward Spenser,

1553-1598.

Part of an Hymn of heavenly Love. "Oblessed well of love! O flower of grace! O glorious morning-star! O lamp of light! Most lively image of the Father's face, Eternal King of glory, Lord of might, Meek Lamb of God, before all worlds behight,

How can we thee requite for all this good? Or who 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 pain: Aye me! what can us less than that behove?

Had he required life for us again,
Had it been wrong to ask his own with
gain?

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;

"From Hymns and Songs of the Church, by George Wither. 1588-1677.”

Hymn on St. John Baptist's Day.
"Because the world might not pretend
It knew not of thy coming day,
Thou didst, oh Christ, before thee send
A cryer to prepare thy way:

Thy kingdom was the bliss he brought,
Repentance was the way he taught.
And that his voice might not alone
Inform us what we should believe,
His life declar'd what must be done,
If thee we purpose to receive:
His life our pattern therefore make,
That we the course he took may take."
pp. 37, 47.

"From the Temple, sacred Poems and private Ejaculations, by Mr. George Herbert. 1633.

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 musick you had skill:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled; who but he?
He scarce allow'd me half 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, made 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."
pp. 61, 64, 65.

By Giles

"From Christ's Victory.' Fletcher. 1610. “Christ is a path, if any be misled; He is a robe, if any naked be: If any chance to hunger, he is bread; If any be a bondman, he is free; If any be but weak, how strong is he! To dead men, life he is; to sick men, health;

To blind men, sight; and to the needy, wealth;

A pleasure without loss,-a treasure without stealth."

p. 68.

"From the Muse's Sacrifice, or Divine Meditations. By John Davies, of Hereford. 1612."

"Happy that soul that on a sea of tears Sails in Faith's ship, by Hope's securest Cape,

Unto the port of Peace; and with her bears

Good workes that make the worker wracke

escape.

If in the way, a calm the course prolongs, It holds us but to griefe, resembling joy; While pleasure, with her charming syren

finds;

In earth, the sav'rie floures, the mettal'd mines,

The wholesome herbs, the hautie pleasant trees,

The silver streams, the beasts of sundry kiuds,

The bounded roares and fishes of the seas; All these for teaching man the Lord did frame,

To do his will whose glorie shines in them." pp. 82, 84.

"From Habington's 'Castara.' 1635. "Paucitatem dierum meorum nuncia mihi.-DAVID.

"Tell me, O great all-knowing God!
What period

Hast thou unto my days assign'd?
Like some old leafless tree, shall I
Wither away; or violently

Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the wind?
Here where I first drew vital breath
Shall I meet death?

And find in the same vault a room
Where my forefathers' ashes sleep?
Or shall I die, where none shall weep
My timeless fate, and my cold earth

entomb?"

O God, what love

Was this in thee,

That should thee move

To die for me!" pp. 115, 120.

"From Poems, by Francis Beaumont, Gent. 1615.

On the Life of Man.

"Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind which chafes the flood,
Or bubbles that on water stood:
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies:
The dew dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot."p. 162.
"From Poems, by John Cleveland. 1658.
Mount of Olives.

"Sweet sacred hill! on whose fair brow My Saviour sate, shall I allow

Language to love,

And idolize some shade, or grove,
Neglecting thee? Such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please,
Is the braines fit,

And meere disease.

Cotswold and Coopers both have met
With learned swaines, and echo yet
Their pipes and wit;
But thou sleep'st in a deep neglect,
Untouch'd by any; and what need
The sheepe bleate thee a silly lay
That heard'st both reede
And sheepward play?

Yet, if poets mind thee well,
They shall find thou art their hill,
And fountaine too,

Their Lord with thee had most to doe;
He wept once, walkt whole nights on thee,
And from thence his (sufferings ended)
Unto gloorie

Was attended.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; Mydays, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have she w'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!
He that hath found some fledged bird's
nest, may know

At first sight if the bird be flown ; But what fair well 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 theams,

And into glory peep." pp. 173, 174. "From Epigrams, by Richard Flecknoe. 1669,

In contemplation of our blessed Saviour

crucified. "O God! and would'st 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, What wond'ring at it 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!" p. 191. "From the Works of Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667.

Ode on the Shortness of Life
"Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air;
Now it outruns thy following eye;
Use all persuasions now, and try
If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No track is left behind.

Fool, 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou!
Of all the time thou'st shot away
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?
Our life is carried with too strong a tide,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years;
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride,
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see,
Who never thinks his end too near,
But says to fame, Thou art mine heir,
That man extends life's natural brevity:
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Nestor in a day."

pp. 194, 198.