At fifteen years of age, as has been already mentioned, a new world opened to his hopes, and, along with the peace of reconciliation, there flowed into his mind fresh elements of life and power. In the right of his Divine Representative, he now humbly ventured to regard himself as a child of God, and an heir of the promises; and all that was refined in his taste, or generous in his aspirations, received a proportional impulse from prospects so unspeakable, and a calling so divine. The very materials of poesy seemed to multiply without limit; for he had got the clue to the labyrinth, the key to creation's cipher. The stars sang, and he tried to make his brothers and sister understand the tune; it thundered, and he thought of the day when exhausted long-suffering "Shall rend the sky, and burn the sea, And fling His wrath abroad." He looked out on the surging rain-swept tide, on the spot where it had once put to flight Canute and his courtiers, and exclaimed "Let cares like a wild deluge come, And storms of sorrow fall, "There shall I bathe my weary soul Across my peaceful breast." Or, on some peaceful evening, he gazed across Southampton Water, to trees and meadows steeped in the sunshine, and remembered "There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain. SOUTHAMPTON. "There everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers: This heavenly land from ours." 297 He took his walk in the New Forest, and the gipsy outlaws made him thankful that he did not "Wander like an outcast race, Without a Father's love;" and the mournful notes and anxious gyrations of the turtle suggested "Just as we see the lonesome dove Bemoan her widowed state, Wandering she flies through all the grove, And mourns her loving mate; "Just so our thoughts, from thing to thing, In restless circles rove; Just so we droop and hang the wing, After the glorious Revolution, the little congregation at Southampton regained liberty of worship; and Isaac Watts, senior, was elected one of its two deacons. Here it was that, for the two and a half years after the completion of his academic course, Isaac Watts, junior, worshipped. At that period there were congregations which eschewed all psalmody, and in whose worship there was to be heard as little of the voice of melody as in a meeting-house of "Friends." But this was not the case in the congregation of the Rev. Nathaniel Robinson. They sang; but whether it was Sternhold's Psalms or Barton's, or some one's hymns, we do not know. However, the collection did not come up to the standard which the devotional feeling and poetic taste of the young student eraved, and, having hinted his discontent, he was challenged to produce something better. Accordingly, on a subsequent Lord's day, the service was concluded with the following stanzas: "Behold the glories of the Lamb "Let elders worship at His feet, "Those are the prayers of the saints, -Now to the Lamb that once was slain Salvation, glory, joy remain For ever on Thy head. "Thou hast redeem'd our souls with blood, Hast set the pris'ners free; Hast made us kings and priests to God, "The worlds of Nature and of Grace And bring the promised hour." Such is the tradition, and we have no reason to question its truth. But more remarkable than the composition of the hymn, is the alacrity with which it is said to have been received. The attempt was an innovation, and the poet was a prophet of their own country; but, to the devotional instincts of the worshippers, so welcome was this "new song," that they entreated the author to repeat the service-till, the series extending Sunday after Sunday, a sufficient number had been contributed to form the basis of a book. It was not, however, till 1707, and when the publication of his "Hora Lyrica" had given him some confidence in his THE HYMNS PUBLISHED. 299 powers, that Watts committed to the press his "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." For the copyright Mr Lawrence, the publisher, gave him ten pounds; and in less than ten years six editions had been sold. He then brought out what he deemed a more important contribution to the cause of public worship -"The Psalms of David Imitated in the Language of the New Testament," which he hoped would escape some of the objections urged against his Hymns. Their texture was the language of Inspiration; and they chiefly differed from the Hebrew Psalter by introducing "the name of Jesus" in those passages which refer to Messiah. Since the publication of the first of these volumes, a century and a half have passed away, and only twelve years fewer since the publication of the second; yet nothing has appeared to dim their lustre as yet, nothing threatens to supersede them. With their doctrinal fulness, their sacred fervour, their lyric grandeur, they stand alone-by dint of native sovereignty overtopping all their fellows. In particular features they may be occasionally surpassed. With his gushes of heart-sprung tenderness, and his exquisite execution, amidst the sacred choir of Britain, the nightingale would represent the bard of Olney; with his melody filling all the ethereal vault, and then, in its abrupt conclusion, leaving long silence in the expectant firmament, in the soaring grace and sudden close of Toplady there is what reminds us of "the lark singing at heaven's gate;" and when he " claps his wings of fire," there are empyrean heights to which Charles Wesley can ascend, defying aught to follow. But "they that wait upon the Lord shall mount up with wings as eagles." Visiting every pinnacle of revealed theology, and carrying up into the sunlight all the varieties of Christian experience, there is hardly a topic which exercises the understanding or the heart of the believer, to which Isaac Watts has not given a devotional aspect, and wedded it to immortal numbers. Rapt, yet adoring-sometimes up among the thunder-clouds, yet most reverential in his highest range-the "good matter" is "in a song," and the sweet singer is upborne on pinions which seem to be leaving earth altogether; but even from that triumphal car, and when nearest the home of the seraphim, we are comforted to find descending lowly lamentations and confessions of sin-new music, no doubt, but the words with which we have long been familiar in the house of our pilgrimage, and which must ever be welcome to men of like passions with ourselves. Of no uninspired compositions has the acceptance been so signal. They are naturalised through all the Anglo-Saxon world, and, next to Scripture itself, are the great vehicle of pious thought and feeling. In a letter from his friend, Dr Doddridge, we find that affectionate correspondent telling him, "On Wednesday last, I was preaching in a barn to a pretty large assembly of plain country people, in a village a few miles off. After a sermon from Heb. vi. 12, we sung one of your hymns (which, if I remember right, was the 140th of the second book); and in that part of the worship, I had the satisfaction to observe tears in the eyes of several of the auditory; and, after the service was over, some of them told me that they were not able to sing, so deeply were their minds affected with it; and the clerk, in particular, told me he could hardly utter the words of it. These were most of them poor people who work for their living."* A climbing-boy was once heard singing in a chimney— * In case there should be any of our readers who do not already know it, we may here transcribe the hymn : "Give me the wings of faith, to rise Within the veil, and see The saints above, how great their joys, "Once they were mourning here below, |