And wondering Israel, with the sight afeared,
Blinded with seeing, durst not touch the same,
But like a wood of shaking leaves became.

On this, dread Justice, she, the living Law,
Bowing herself with a majestic awe,
All heaven, to hear her speech, did into silence draw.1

Of the greatness of man's hope of Victory :

.

LXXVI.

What hath man done that man shall not undo,
Since God to him is grown so near akin.
Did his sin slay him? he shall slay his foe:
Hath he lost all? he all again shall win.

Is sin his master? he shall master sin.

Too hard of soul with sin the field to try?
The only way to conquer was to fly.

But thus long death hath lived, and now death's self shall die.

Of the Nativity of Christ :

LXXXII.

The angels caroll'd loud their song of praise ;
The cursed oracles were strucken dumb;

To see their Shepherd the poor shepherds press;
To see their King the kingly sophies come;
And, them to guide unto his Master's home,
A star comes dancing up the orient,
That springs for joy over the starry tent,

Where gold, to make their Prince a crown, they all present.

The second Book, entitled Christ's Triumph on Earth, gives in an imaginative and rather fanciful form the story of the Temptation. The Tempter first appears in the guise of a good old hermit; and both in this part of the account and in the pictures which follow of the Den of Despair, of the False Angel of Presumption, and of the Garden of Vain Glory, there is no lack of poetical power even where there is some offence against religions taste.

The third Book, Christ's Triumph over Death, is the story of Christ's sufferings and death. The following are two stanzas upon the Hosannas of the multitude :

1 G. Fletcher's Poems, Anderson's British Poets, vol. iv.

XXXII

It was but now their sounding clamours sang,
'Blessed is He that comes from the most High!'
And all the mountains with 'Hosanna!' rung;
And now, 'Away with him-away!' they cry,
And nothing can be heard but 'Crucify !'

It was but now, the crown itself they save,
The golden name of king unto Him gave;
And now no king, but only Cæsar they will have.

XXXIII

It was but now they gathered blooming may,
And of his arms disrob'd the branching tree,
To strew with boughs and blossoms all Thy way;
And now the branchless trunk a cross for Thee,
And may, dismayed, the coronet must be :

It was but now they were so kind to throw

Their own best garments where Thy feet should go ; And now Thyself they strip, and bleeding wounds they show.

The fourth Book, Christ's Triumph after Death, is of the Resurrection, the Ascension, the Bliss of Heaven, and the Beatific Vision of God.

The following is by Thomas Pestel, a chaplain to Charles I. I borrow it from Professor Palgrave's Treasury of Sacred Song:

A PSALM FOR SUNDAY NIGHT.

O sing the glories of our Lord;
His grace and truth resound,
And His stupendous acts record,
Whose mercies have no bound.

He made the all-informing light
And hosts of angels fair;

'Tis he with shadows clothes the night,
He clouds and clears the air.

Those restless skies with stars enchased,

He on firm hinges set;

The wave-embraced sea He placed

His hanging cabinet.

We in His summer sunshine stand,
And by His favour grow;

We gather what His bounteous hand
Is pleased to bestow.

When He contracts His hand, we mourn,
And all our strength is vain;

To former dust in death we turn,
Till He inspire again.1

It would perhaps scarcely have been expected that no devotional poetry of the seventeenth century should be more touching in depth of religious feeling than that which comes from the pen of the distinguished dramatist Ben Jonson (1574-1637). His powers were indeed great enough for any form of composition, and he fitly succeeded Shakespeare as second only to him. But his strong and passionate temper was under insufficient restraint. His faults were all of the intemperate kind. They were blended nevertheless with much that was admirable, with a keen perception of what is good and beautiful, with an eager desire to contribute towards a reformation of manners, with tenderness and generosity. There is no wonder that there should be vigour and impetuosity of religious feeling in the verses which express contrition for misdoing in the past, and a true desire to live nearer to God in time to come. The following is part of his 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 [that] minds ill bent

Rarely repent,
Until they meet

Their punishment.

1 From F. T. Palgrave's Treasury of Sacred Song, No. 89.

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

Under His cross.

Such also is his prayerful cry to the blessed Trinity 'the gladdest light dark man can think upon' to receive his sacrifice of a troubled spirit. It begins :

O holy, blessed, glorious Trinity
Of persons, still one God in unity,
The faithful man's believed mystery,
Help, help to lift

Myself up to Thee, harrowed, torn, and bruis'd
By sin and Satan, and my flesh misus'd;
As my heart lies in pieces, all confus'd,
O take my gift!

There is also something very genuine in his answer to those who interpreted as 'melancholy' the deep emotion of his soul.

Good and great God! can I not think of Thee

But it must straight my melancholy be?

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 ought 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 stoopst to me.
Dwell, dwell here still! O, being everywhere,
How can I doubt to find Thee ever here?'

"The following verses are from An Hymn on the Nativity of my Saviour:

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

1 B. Jonson's Poems, Anderson's British Poets, vol. iv.

The angel so did sound it :
And like the ravish'd shepherds said,
Who saw the light and were afraid,

Yet search'd, 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.

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 the story?

Lastly, I must quote the metaphor by which he illustrates life having its value not in length but in beauty. It occurs in the middle of an ode to two noble friends cut off in the prime of youth :—

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk does make men better be;

Or standing long, an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere :
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Patrick Hannay, member of an old landed Scotch family, appears to have been born about 1590. He took a Master of Arts degree, followed King James to England on his accession to the English Crown, served as a soldier under the King of Bohemia, wrote a court elegy on the death of Queen Anne of Denmark in 1619, and in 1622 published his collected poems, the longest of which is Philomela. Between 1639 and 1646, he was returned to the Scotch Parliament as Commissioner for the burgh of Wigtown. The following is from his sonnets and songs:—