And He that lived from all transgressions clear,
Was plagued for all the sins that ever were.

Oh! could we but the thousandth part relate,

Of those afflictions which they made Him bear, Our hearts with passion would dissolve thereat, And we should sit and weep for ever here; Nor should we glad again hereafter be, But that we hope in glory Him to see.

For while upon the cross He pained hung,
And was with soul-tormentings also grieved
(Far more than can be told by any tongue,

Or in the hearts of mortals be conceived);
Those for whose sake He underwent such pain,
Rejoiced thereat, and held Him in disdain.

One offer'd to Him vinegar and gall;

A second did His pious works deride; To dicing for His robes did others fall;

And many mock'd Him, when to God He cried; Yet He, as they His pain still more procured, Still loved, and for their good the more endured.

But, though his matchless love immortal were,
It was a mortal body He had on,

That could no more than mortal bodies bear;
Their malice, therefore, did prevail thereon:
And lo, their utmost fury having tried,
This Lamb of God gave up the ghost, and died.

Whose death, though cruel, unrelenting man
Could view, without bewailing or affright;
The sun grew dark, the earth to quake began,
The temple veil did rend asunder quite;
Yea, hardest rocks therewith in pieces brake,
And graves did open, and the dead awake.

Oh, therefore, let us all that present be,
This innocent with moved souls embrace;
For this was our Redeemer, this was He,
Who thus for our unkindness used was;

EDWARD BENLOWES.

E'en He, the cursed Jews and Pilate slew,
Is He alone, of whom all this is true.

Our sins of spite were part of those that day,

Whose cruel whips and thorns did make Him smart,
Our lusts were those that tired Him in the way,

Our want of love was that which pierced His heart;
And still, when we forget, or slight His pain,

We crucify and torture Him again.

The Lord's Prayer.

Our Father, which in heaven art,
We sanctify Thy name:

Thy kingdom come: Thy will be done,

In heaven and earth the same:

Give us this day our daily bread:

And us forgive Thou so,

As we on them that us offend

Forgiveness do bestow:

Into temptation lead us not,

But us from evil free:

For Thine the kingdom, power, and praise,

Is, and shall ever be.*

107

EDWARD BENLOWES.

Edward Benlowes was born of an old and opulent family, at Brent Hall, Essex, in 1602. After passing through the curriculum at St John's College, Cambridge, he took a lengthened tour on the continent, and came home with a mind expanded

*The above is remarkable for its compactness. It contains only two words more than the prose of the authorised version. The same is the case with a metrical version composed by the late Dr Judson, in prison at Ava, and published in the tenth chapter of his Life.

and enriched beyond most of his contemporaries. His tastes were literary, and his dispositions generous; and he became the patron, not only of men of merit, like Quarles, but of indigent parasites and adventurers, who at last exhausted his resources, and involved him in responsibilities which even his ample heritage could not meet. The consequence was that, in his old age, he found himself the inmate of a debtor's prison; and the remaining eight years of his life he spent in Oxford, in the extreme of poverty. There he died, Dec. 18, 1676.

Shortly after the appearance of Beaumont's "Psyche," Benlowe published (1652) a poem on a similar subject-"Theophila, or Love's Sacrifice." Like a late author, who combined the agreeable vocations of bard and banker, Mr Benlowe spared no expense in introducing his work to the public; but it came forth embellished with engravings, some of them by Hollar, remarkably elaborate and beautiful, in a style of sumptuous typography, and prefaced by a long array of encomiums on the author. Perfect copies are now excessively rare, and it is partly as a matter of curiosity, that we quote a specimen from an author who, although so much extolled in his time, has been over-looked in almost every subsequent survey of our Christian literature. At the same time, if we do not greatly mistake, such stanzas as the following, indicate a considerable share of poetic taste and feeling:

Rural Retirement.

From public roads to private joy's our flight;
To view God's love we leave man's sight,
Rich in the purchase of a friend who gilds delight.

That sea-dividing Prince, whose sceptred rod
Wrought freedom to the Church of God,
Made in the Mount of Horeb forty days' abode.

EDWARD BENLOWES.

In wilderness the Baptist shin'd more clear;

In life's night starry souls appear:

They who themselves eclipse are to heaven's court more dear.

The low-built fortune harbours peace, when as

Ambitious high-roofed Babels pass

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Through storms: content with thankfulness each blessing has.

So fragrant violets, blushing strawberries,

Close-shrouded lurk from lofty eyes,

The emblem of sweet bliss, which low and hidden lies.

Though in rough shells our bodies kernell'd are,
Our roof is neat, and sweet our fare;
Banish'd are noisome vapours to the pent-up air.

No subtle poison in our cup we fear-
Goblets of gold such horrors bear;

No palace-furies haunt, O rich content! thy cheer.

When early Phosphor lights from eastern bed
The grey-ey'd morn, with blushes red;

When opal colours prank the orient tulip's head:

Then walk we forth, where twinkling spangles shew,

Entinselling like stars the dew;

Where buds like pearls, and where we leaves like em`ralds view.

Birds by grovets in feather'd garments sing

New ditties to the non-ag'd spring:

Oh! how those traceless minstrels cheer up everything!

While teeming earth flower'd satin wears, emboss'd
With trees, with bushes shagg'd, with most
Clear riv❜lets edged, by rocky winds each gently toss'd,

The branching standards of the chirping grove,
With rustling boughs, and streams that move

In murm'ring rage, seem Nature's concert tun'd by love.

Ourselves, here steal we from ourselves, by qualms
Of pleasure rais'd from new-coin'd psalms,

When skies are blue, earth green, and meadows flow with balms.

We there, on grassy tufted tapestries,

In guiltless shades, by full-hair'd trees,

Leaning unpillow'd heads view Nature's ants and bees:

Justly admiring more those agile ants,

Than castle-bearing elephants;
Where industry epitomiz'd no vigour wants.

More than at tusks of boars we wonder at

This moth's strange teeth. Legs of this gnat

Pass large-limb'd griffins. Then on bees we musing sate:

How colonies, realms' hope, they breed, proclaim

Their king, how nectar courts they frame,
How they, in waxen cells, record their princes' fame.

Thinking-which some deem idleness-to me

It seems life's heaven on earth to be; By observation God is seen in all we see.

Our books are heav'n above us, air and sea

Around, earth under; faith's our stay,

And grace our guide, the Word our light, and Christ our way.

Friend, view that rock, and think from rock's green wound How thirst-expelling streams did bound;

View streams, and think how Jordan did become dry ground.

View seas, and think how waves, like walls of glass,

Stood fix'd, while Hebrew troops did pass;

But clos'd the Pharian host in one confused mass.

These flow'rs we see to-day, like beauty brave,

At ev'n will be shut up, and have

Next week their death, then buried soon in stalks, their grave.

Beauty's a flower, fame puff, high state a gaze,

Pleasure a dance, and gold a blaze;

Greatness a load. These soon are lost in time's short maze.

Thoughts, dwell on this. Let's be our own death's head.

The glorious martyr lives though dead,

Sweet rose, in his own fadeless leaves enveloped.