Chorus

Heaven in earth! and God in man! Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth,

Welcome, tho' nor to gold, nor silk,
To more than Cæsar's birthright is;
Two sister seas of virgin's milk,

With many a rarely-tempered kiss,

That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other.

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome-tho' not to those gay flies,
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes-

But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be

Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband show'rs
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed,
We'll bring the first-born of her flowers,

To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring,

Each his pair of silver doves!
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,

Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

RICHARD CRASHAW.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

"

Milton is the most majestic of our poets. Therefore we admire him more when he is, as it were, pacing solemnly than when he is tripping on the light fantastic toe," as in L'Allegro and Il Penseroso (bad Italian-it should be pensieroso"!) and I do not think those two famous poems to be the best early lessons in poetry.

"

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

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: his

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." JOHN MILTON.

EPITAPH ON DENIS ROLLE

With all the gravity and religious feeling of this poem, there is an ingenuity, a wit; the mingling is very seventeenth-century.

His earthly part within this tomb doth rest,
Who kept a court of honour in his breast;
Birth, beauty, wit, and wisdom sat as Peers,
Till Death mistook his virtues for his years,
Or else Heaven envied Earth so rich a treasure,
Wherein too fine the ware, too scant the measure.
His mournful wife, her love to show in part,
This tomb built here; a better in her heart.
Sweet Babe, his hopeful heir (Heaven grant this
boon),

Live but so well; but Oh! die not so soon.
THOMAS FULLER.

THE GRASSHOPPER

"

"

The fancy here is charming. Note especially how Cowley makes the grasshopper landlord to the farmer. So many poets have praised the song of the grasshopper that one is almost sorry to remember that the "singing" is done with his legs rubbed together.

S.P.

HAPPY Insect, what can be

In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;

Ꭰ

'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymed.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee,
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough:
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;

Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect, happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and

sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous, and wise withal,

Epicurean animal !)

Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

THE PILGRIM

This is not poetical poetry. But it is steadfast, sturdy, resolute and trudging; and as the kind of song that the author of The Pilgrim's Progress did sing, it must interest

us.

He who would valiant be
'Gainst all disaster,

Let him in constancy
Follow the Master.

There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.

Who so beset him round
With dismal stories,

Do but themselves confound-
His strength the more is.
No foes shall stay his might,
Though he with giants fight:
He will make good his right
To be a pilgrim.

Since, Lord, Thou dost defend
Us with Thy Spirit,

We know we at the end
Shall life inherit.

Then fancies flee away!
I'll fear not what men say,
I'll labour night and day

To be a pilgrim.

JOHN BUNYAN.