For no crazed brain could ever yet propound,

Touching the soul, so vain and fond a thought; But some among these masters have been found,

Which in their schools the self-same thing have taught.

God, only wise, to punish pride of wit,

Among men's wits hath this confusion wrought;
As the proud tower whose points the clouds did hit,
By tongues' confusion was to ruin brought.

But Thou, which didst man's soul of nothing make,
And when to nothing it was fallen again,
"To make it new, the form of man didst take,

And God with God becamest a man with men."

Thou that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours,
So that she is by double title thine,
Thou only knowest her nature and her powers;
Her subtle form Thou only canst define.

To judge herself, she must herself transcend,
As greater circles comprehend the less;
But she wants power her own powers to extend,

As fettered men cannot their strength express.

But Thou bright morning star, Thou rising sun,
Which in these later times hast brought to light

Those mysteries, that since the world begun

Lay hid in darkness and eternal night,

Thou (like the sun) dost with an equal ray
Into the palace and the cottage shine;
And showest the soul both to the clerk and lay,
By the clear lamp of oracle divine.

This lamp through all the regions of my brain,

Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace,

As now methinks I do distinguish plain

Each subtle line of her immortal face.

The soul a substance and a spirit is,

Which God Himself doth in the body make,
Which makes the man; for every man from this

The nature of a man and name doth take.

And though this spirit be to the body knit

As an apt means her powers to exercise,
Which are life, motion, sense, and will and wit;
Yet she survives although the body dies.

THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL SHOWN FROM THE UNSATISFYING NATURE OF EARTHLY ENJOYMENTS.

Ar first her mother earth she holdeth dear,

And doth embrace the world, and worldly things;

She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,

And mounts not up with her celestial wings :

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth,

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?
Who ever ceased to wish when he had wealth?
Or having wisdom was not vexed in mind?

Then as a bee, which among weeds doth fall,

Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay,

She lights on that and this, and tasteth all;

But pleased with none, doth rise and soar away:

So when the soul finds here no true content,
And like Noah's dove can no sure footing take,
She doth return from whence she first was sent,

And flies to Him that first her wings did make.

THE WORTH OF THE SOUL.

OH! ignorant, poor man! what dost thou bear
Locked up within the casket of thy breast?
What jewels, and what riches, hast thou there?
What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest?

Look in thy soul, and thou shalt beauties find,

Like those which drowned Narcissus in the flood;

Honor and pleasure both are in thy mind,

And all that in the world is counted good.

Think of her worth, and think that God did mean
This worthy mind should worthy things embrace
Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean,
Nor her dishonor with thy passion base.

Kill not her quickening power with surfeitings;
Mar not her sense with sensuality;
Cast not her serious wit on idle things;
Make not her free-will slave to vanity.

And when thou thinkest of her eternity,

Think not that death against our nature is; Think it a birth, and when thou goest to die, Sing a like song as if thou wentest to bliss.

And thou, my soul, which turnest with curious eye, To view the beams of thine own form divine; Know that thou canst know nothing perfectly,

While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine.

Take heed of overweening, and compare

Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train;

Study the best and highest things that are,

But of thyself an humble thought retain.

Cast down thyself, and only strive to raise

The glory of thy Maker's sacred name,

Use all thy powers that blessed Power to praise,
Which gives the power to be, and use the same.

FRANCIS DAVISON

Was the son of William Davison, the unfortunate secretary of Queen Elizabeth. After travelling on the continent, he turned his attention to poetry, and in 1602 he published the first edition of the "Political Rhapsody." He was one of the authors of a version of " Selected Poems," and Mr. Wilmot gives the following specimens by him.

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII.

GOD, who the universe doth hold
In his fold,

Is my shepherd kind and heedful,
Is my shepherd, and doth keep
Me his sheep,

Still supplied with all things needful.

He feeds me in fields which bin1

Fresh and green,

Mottled with Spring's flowery painting,
Through which creep, with murmuring crooks,
Crystal brooks,

To refresh my spirits fainting.

When my soul from heaven's way

Went astray,

With earth's vanities seduced,

For his namesake, kindly He,
Wandering me

To his holy fold reduced.2

1 Be

2 Reduced, led back.

Yea, though I stray through Death's vale,
Where his pale

Shades did on each side enfold me,
Dreadless, having Thee for guide,
Should I bide,

For thy rod and staff uphold me.

Thou my board with messes large
Dost surcharge;

My bowls full of wine thou pourest,
And before mine enemies'

Envious eyes,

Balm upon mine head thou showerest.

Neither dures thy bounteous grace
For a space,

But it knows nor bound, nor measure;
So my days, to my life's end,

Shall I spend

In thy courts with heavenly pleasure.

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXXXVI.

SAVE my soul which Thou didst cherish
Until now, now like to perish,

Save Thy servant that hath none
Help, nor hope, but Thee alone!

After Thy sweet-wonted fashion,
Shower down mercy and compassion,
On me, sinful wretch, that cry
Unto Thee incessantly.

Send, O send, relieving gladness,
To my soul oppressed with sadness,
Which, from clog of earth set free,
Winged with zeal springs up to Thee.