HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEPING.

Oh! if thou mark'st what's done amiss,
What soul so pure can see thy bliss?

But with thee sweet Mercy stands,
Sealing pardons, working fear.
Wait, my soul, wait on his hands;

Wait, mine eye; oh! wait, mine ear:
If he his eye or tongue affords,
Watch all his looks, catch all his words.

As a watchman waits for day,

And looks for light, and looks again :
When the night grows old and gray,

To be relieved he calls amain:
So look, so wait, so long, mine eyes,
To see my Lord, my sun, arise.

Wait, ye saints, wait on our Lord,

For from his tongue sweet mercy flows;
Wait on his cross, wait on his word;
Upon that tree redemption grows :

He will redeem his Israel

From sin and wrath, from death and hell.

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I shall now give two stanzas of his version of the 127th Psalm.

If God build not the house, and lay

The groundwork sure-whoever build,

It cannot stand one stormy day.

If God be not the city's shield,

If he be not their bars and wall,

In vain is watch-tower, men, and all.

Though then thou wak'st when others rest,

Though rising thou prevent'st the sun,
Though with lean care thou daily feast,

Thy labour's lost, and thou undone;
But God his child will feed and keep,

And draw the curtains to his sleep.

Compare this with a version of the same portion by Dr. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, who, no

great poet, has written some good verse. about the same age as Phineas Fletcher.

Except the Lord the house sustain,

The builder's labour is in vain ;
Except the city he defend,
And to the dwellers safety send,
In vain are sentinels prepared,
Or armed watchmen for the guard.

You vainly with the early light
Arise, or sit up late at night

To find support, and daily eat

Your bread with sorrow earned and sweat ;
When God, who his beloved keeps,

This plenty gives with quiet sleeps.

He was

What difference do we find? That the former has the more poetic touch, the latter the greater truth. The former has just lost the one precious thing in the psalm; the latter has kept it: that care is as useless as painful, for God gives us while we sleep, and not while we labour.

CHAPTER XII.

WITHER, HERRICK, AND QUARLES.

GEORGE WITHER, born in 1588, therefore about the same age as Giles Fletcher, was a very different sort of writer indeed. There could hardly be a greater contrast. Fancy, and all her motley train, were scarcely known to Wither, save by the hearing of the ears.

He became an eager Puritan towards the close of his life, but his poetry chiefly belongs to the earlier part of it. Throughout it is distinguished by a certain straightforward simplicity of good English thought and English word. His hymns remind me, in the form of their speech, of Gascoigne. I shall quote but little; for, although there is a sweet calm and a great justice of reflection and feeling, there is hardly anything of that warming glow, that rousing force, that impressive weight in his verse, which is the chief virtue of the lofty rhyme.

The best in a volume of ninety Hymns and Songs of the Church, is, I think, The Author's Hymn at the close, of which I give three stanzas. They manifest the simplicity and truth of the man, reflecting in their very tone his faithful, contented, trustful nature.

By thy grace, those passions, troubles,
And those wants that me opprest,
Have appeared as water-bubbles,

Or as dreams, and things in jest:
For, thy leisure still attending,
I with pleasure saw their ending.

Those afflictions and those terrors,
Which to others grim appear,
Did but show me where my errors
And my imperfections were;
But distrustful could not make me
Of thy love, nor fright nor shake me.

Those base hopes that would possess me,
And those thoughts of vain repute
Which do now and then oppress me,

Do not, Lord, to me impute;

And though part they will not from me,
Let them never overcome me.

He has written another similar volume, but much larger, and of a somewhat extraordinary character. It consists of no fewer than two hundred and thirtythree hymns, mostly long, upon an incredible variety of subjects, comprehending one for every season of nature and of the church, and one for every occurrence in life of which the author could think as likely to confront man or woman. Of these subjects I quote a few of the more remarkable, but even from them my reader can have little conception of the variety in the book: A Hymn whilst we are washing; In a clear starry Night; A Hymn for a Housewarming; After a great Frost or Snow; For one whose Beauty is much praised; For one upbraided with Deformity; For a Widower or a Widow deli

GEORGE WITHER.

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vered from a troublesome Yokefellow; For a Cripple; For a Failor; For a Poet.

Here is a portion of one which I hope may be helpful to some of my readers.

WHEN WE CANNOT SLEEP.

What ails my heart, that in my breast
It thus unquiet lies;

And that it now of needful rest

Deprives my tired eyes?

Let not vain hopes, griefs, doubts, or fears,
Distemper so my mind;

But cast on God thy thoughtful cares,
And comfort thou shalt find.

In vain that soul attempteth ought,

And spends her thoughts in vain,
Who by or in herself hath sought
Desiréd peace to gain.

On thee, O Lord, on thee therefore,
My musings now I place;

Thy free remission I implore,

And thy refreshing grace.

Forgive thou me, that when my mind
Oppressed began to be,

I sought elsewhere my peace to find,
Before I came to thee.

And, gracious God, vouchsafe to grant,

Unworthy though I am,

The needful rest which now I want,
That I may praise thy name.

Before examining the volume, one would say that no man could write so many hymns without frequent