Is it interpreted in me disease,

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?
O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show;
And judge me after, if I dare pretend
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.
As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me,
First, midst, and last, converted One and Three
My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state,
My judge, my witness, and my advocate.
Where have I been this while exiled from Thee,
And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me?
Dwell, dwell here still! O, being everywhere,
How can I doubt to find Thee ever here?

I know my state, both full of shame and scorn,
Conceived in sin, and unto labour born,
Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,
And destined unto judgment, after all.

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground
Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound;
Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death,
With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath
Of discontent; or that these prayers be
For weariness of life, not love of Thee.*

Gifford justly pronounces this an admirable prayer; solemn, pious, and scriptural.' But the close is a compromise of all the earnest piety that has gone before, and seems to betray the irresolution of a man who, even in his most devout moments, is haunted by the consideration of what the world will think of his religious sentiments. To be afraid to complain lest it should be thought' to proceed from discontent, is inconsistent with the appeal he makes throughout to that Being who knows all hearts, and is invoked to bear witness to his sincerity. A manuscript note upon this piece by my friend Leigh Hunt will be read with interest. This effusion, which is affecting, and seems to come out of real feelings, marks a curious state of scepticism in the age around him. His contemporaries, it would seem, were not simply freethinkers, but took all such resorts to heaven as proofs of melancholy and sickness. Perhaps they had some right, however, to think that jovial and confident Ben was not most inclined to be devout when he was in good health. After all, the verses look more like Donne's than his,' The reader of these poems must frequently have detected similar resemblances. There was a constant intercourse between the two Doets, who frequently communicated their productions

Underwoods.

CONSISTING OF DIVERS POEMS.*

Cineri, gloria sera venit.-MARTIAL.

TO THE READER.

WITH the same leave the ancients called that kind of body Sylva, or "Yλn, in which there were works of divers nature and matter congested; as the multitude call timber-trees promiscuously growing, a Wood, or Forest, so I am bold to entitle these lesser poems, of later growth, by this of Underwood, out of the analogy they hold to the Forest in my former book, and no otherwise. BEN JONSON.

POEMS OF DEVOTION.

THE SINNER'S SACRIFICE.

TO THE HOLY TRINITY.

I. HOLY, blessed, glorious Trinity
0
Of persons, still one God, in Unity.
The faithful man's believèd Mystery,

Help, help to lift

Myself up to thee, harrowed, torn, and bruised
By sin and Satan; and my flesh misused,
As my heart lies in pieces, all confused,

O take my gift!

to each other; and one of Jonson's elegies, see post. p. 453, was published in Donne's collected works, having been found, probably, amongst his papers after his death.

The copy from which the text is printed is the second folio, and bears the date of 1640, without any publisher's name. This edition, which Gifford suspects was put to the press surreptitiously, is much enlarged beyond the collection designed by Jonson under the title Underwoods, and contains many pieces found among his papers, which he either did not intend to include, or had not revised and completed for publication. This circumstance will explain the imperfect condition in which some of the pieces appear. The folio of 1640 is negligently printed, and in that respect presents a striking contrast to the editions of the former poems published in Jonson's lifetime, which had the advantage of his own supervision.

II. All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice,

A broken heart, thou wert not wont despise,
But 'bove the fat of rams, or bulls, to prize
An offering meet

For thy acceptance. O, behold me right,
And take compassion on my grievous plight!
What odour can be, than a heart contrite,

To thee more sweet?

111. Eternal Father, God, who didst create
This all of nothing, gavest it form and fate,
And breath'st into it life and light, with state
To worship thee.

Eternal God, the Son, who not deniedst
To take our nature; becam'st man, and diedst,
To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and criedst,
'All's done in me!'

IV. Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding,
Father and Son; the Comforter, in breeding
Pure thoughts in man: with fiery zeal them feeding
For acts of grace.

Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity
Of persons, still one God in Unity;
Till I attain the longed-for mystery

Of seeing your face.

v. Beholding one in three, and three in one,
A Trinity, to shine in Union;

The gladdest light dark man can think upon;
O grant it me!
Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost, you three,
All co-eternal in your Majesty,

Distinct in persons, yet in Unity

One God to see.

VI. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier.
To hear, to meditate,* sweeten my desire
With grace, with love, with cherishing entire,
O, then how blest!

• Altered in Gifford's edition to mediate.'

UNDERWOODS.

Among thy saints elected to abide,
And with thy angels, placed side by side,
But in thy presence, truly glorified

Shall I there rest!

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

Hear me, O God!
A broken heart
Is my best part:
Use still thy rod,
That I may prove
Therein, thy love.

If thou hadst not
Been stern to me,
But left me free,
I had forgot
Myself and thee.

For, sin's so sweet,
As minds ill bent

Rarely repent,
Until they meet

Their punishment.

Who more can crave

Than thou hast done:

That gav'st a son,
To free a slave?

First made of nought;
With all since bought.

Sin, Death, and Hell,

His glorious name
Quite overcame ;
Yet I rebel,

And slight the same.

But, I'll come in,
Before my loss,
Me farther toss,
As sure to win

Under his Cross.

A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR.

I sing the birth was born to-night,
The Author both of life and light;

The angels so did sound it,
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God, th' Eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take,* The Word, which heaven and earth did make; Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no No,t

Both wills were in one stature;

And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on Him our nature.

What comfort by Him do we win,
Who made Himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of glory!

To see this Babe, all innocence,

A martyr born in our defence;

Can man forget this story?

That is, contain-a Latinism, Quem non capit.-G.

But wisest Fate says No,

This must not yet be so;

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,

That on the bitter cross

Must redeem our loss;

So both himself and us to glorify.

MILTON-Hymn on the Nativity.