JEREMY TAYLOR. THE great Jeremy Taylor, though little known as a poet, wrote hymns and other lyrical pieces, well deserving notice. It is true that they are not so remarkable as his prose, for felicity of diction, but they are full of rich and noble thoughts, fitted to improve the heart. He was born in 1613, and died, bishop of Down and Connor, in 1667. THE WISE MEN COMING TO WORSHIP JESUS. A COMET dangling in the air, Presaged the ruin both of death and sin; The King of glory, and the Sun Till they appear In this blest infant King's propitious eye, Great God! they gave to Thee Myrrh, frankincense, and gold; But, Lord, with what shall we Present ourselves before thy Majesty, Whom Thou redeemest when we were sold? We've nothing but ourselves, and scarce that neither; Vile dirt and clay; Yet it is soft, and may Impression take. Accept it, Lord, and say, this Thou hadst rather; Stamp it, and on this sordid metal make Thy holy image, and it shall outshine IMMANUEL. How good a God have we! who for our sake, To save us from the burning lake, Did change the order of creation : At first He made Man like Himself in his own image; now The heavens bow, Eternity took the measure of a span; And said, "Let us make ourselves like man; And not from man the woman take, Hallelujah, we adore His name, whose goodness hath no store. O F HEAVEN. O BEAUTEOUS God, uncircumscribed treasure Of an eternal pleasure, Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where Thou preparest a glorious place Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit, That build his hopes upon thy merit, And loves Thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or eyes, Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity? Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper-stone; There the eye O' th' chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase, And above all, thy holy face, Makes an eternal charity. When Thou thy jewels up dost bind-that day Remember us we pray, That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There Thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face, And our soul, In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enrol, That we may praise Thee to eternity. Allelujah. SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE. SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE was born in Lancashire, in 1618. He was a Roman Catholic, but zealously served the king during the whole of the civil war, much to the injury of his fortune. Besides several poetical translations from Seneca and others, he was the author of a volume of "Miscellanies," which contain passages of considerable beauty. He died almost in poverty, in 1702. CONSCIENCE. INFERNAL Cerberus! whose griping fangs, On hearts corrupted by impure desire; A peal of horror ere thou givest the sting; "To all temptations is that soul set free HENRY MORE. HENRY MORE was born at Grantham, in Lincolnshire, in 1614. He was educated at Eton, and afterwards removed to Cambridge, where he studied philosophy. He obtained a fellowship, and was presented to a prebend in the church of Gloucester. He died in 1687. His principal works are, "The Mystery of Godliness," "Mystery of Iniquity," "Philosophical Collections." These in his day were eminently popular. They are little suited to the taste of the modern reader, though enlivened with gleams of fancy, and bursts of poetic feeling. THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION. SING aloud, his praise rehearse He the boundless heavens has spread, All the vital orbs has kned: He that on Olympus high Tends his flock with watchful eye; And this eye has multiplied, 'Midst each flock for to reside. Thus as round about they stray, Toucheth each with outstretched ray; In due order as they move, Music that the heart of Jove Moves to joy and sportful love, Fills the listening sailors' ears, God is good, is wise, is strong, All things, back from whence they sprung: As the thankful rivers pay What they borrowed of the sea. Now myself I do resign; Take me whole, I all am thine. Let not lust Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing, Bear a part, O wisdom's sons! Lo! from far I you salute, Sweetly warbling on my lute. With the Mountains of the Moon, From whence muddy Nile doth run; Or, wherever else you won, Breathing in one vital air :- |