How then dare I, the novice of his art,
Presume to picture so divine a wight,

Or hope t'express her least perfection's part,
Whose beauty fills the heavens with her light,
And darks the earth with shadow of her sight?
Ah, gentle muse! thou art too weak and faint
The portrait of so heavenly hue to paint.

Let angels, which her goodly face behold
And see at will, her sovereign praises sing,
And those most sacred mysteries unfold
Of that fair love of mighty Heaven's King;
Enough is me t'admire so heavenly thing,
And, being thus with her huge love possessed,
In the only wonder of her self to rest.

But whoso may, thrice happy man him hold,
Of all on earth whom God so much doth grace,
And lets his own beloved to behold;

For in the view of her celestial face
All joy, all bliss, all happiness have place;
Ne ought on earth can want unto the wight
Who of her self can win the wishful sight.
For she, out of her secret treasury,
Plenty of riches forth on him will pour,
Even heavenly riches, which there hidden lie
Within the closet of her chastest bower,
The eternal portion of her precious dower,
Which mighty God hath given to her free,
And to all those which thereof worthy be.

None thereof worthy be but those whom she
Vouchsafeth to her presence to receive,
And letteth them her lovely face to see,
Whereof such wondrous pleasure they conceive,
And sweet contentment, that it doth bereave
Their soul of sense through infinite delight,
And them transport from flesh into the sprite;

In which they see such admirable things
As carries them into an extasy,
And hear such heavenly notes and carollings
Of God's high praise, that fills the brazen sky,
And feel such joy and pleasure inwardly,
That maketh them all worldly cares forget,
And only think on that before them set.

Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense
Or idle thought of earthly things remain,

But all that erst seemed sweet seems now offence,
And all that pleased erst now seems to pain:
Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain,
Is fixed all on that which now they see;

All other sights but feigned shadows be.

And that fair lamp which useth to inflame
The hearts of men with self-consuming fire
Thenceforth seems foul, and full of sinful blame ;
And all that pomp to which proud minds aspire
By name of honour, and so much desire,
Seems to them baseness, and all riches dross,
And all mirth sadness, and all lucre loss.

So full their eyes are of that glorious sight,
And senses fraught with such satiety,
That in nought else on earth they can delight
But in th' aspect of that felicity,

Which they have written in their inward eye,
On which they feed and in their fastened mind
All happy joy and full contentment find.

Ah then, my hungry soul! which long hast fed
On idle fancies of my foolish thought,

And, with false Beauty's flattering bait misled,
Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought,
Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought
But late repentance through thy folly's prief *,
Ah! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief;

And look at last up to that sovereign light
From whose pure beams all perfect Beauty springs,
That kindleth love in every godly sprite,
Even the Love of God, which loathing brings
Of this vile world and these gay seeming things;
With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed,
Thy straying thoughts henceforth for ever rest.
* Proof.

[RICHARD LUCAS, D.D., Prebendary of Westminster, was the author of a popular book entitled an 'Inquiry after Happiness,' from which the following extract is taken. He also published Practical Christianity,' and 'Sermons,' extending to five volumes. He lived in the early part of the last century. The following extract from the Preface to the 'Inquiry after Happiness,' is a charming illustration of the character of this amiable divine:

"It has pleased God that in a few years I should finish the more pleasant and delightful part of life, if sense were to be the judge and standard of pleasure; being confined (I will not say condemned), by well-nigh utter blindness, to retirement and solitude. In this state conversation has lost much of its former air and briskness. Business (wherein I could never pretend to any great address) gives me now more trouble than formerly, and that, too, without the usual despatch or success. Study (which is the only employment left me) is clogged with this weight and incumbrance, that all the assistance I can receive from without must be conveyed by another's sense, not my own; which it may easily be believed are instruments or organs as ill fitted, and as awkwardly managed by me, as wooden legs and hands by the maimed.

"In this case, should I affect to procure myself a decent funeral, and leave an honourable remembrance of me behind, should I struggle to rescue myself from that contempt to which this condition (wherein I may seem lost to the world and myself) exposes me, should I ambitiously affect to have my name march in the train of those All (though not all equally) great ones-Homer, Appius, Cn. Aufidius, Didymus, Walkup, Père Jean l'Aveugle, &c., all of them eminent for their service and usefulness, as for their affliction of the same kind with mine; even this might seem almost a commendable infirmity; for the last thing a mind

truly great and philosophical puts off is, the desire of glory. But this treatise oweth neither its conception nor birth to this principle; for, besides that I know my own insufficiency too well to flatter myself with the hopes of a romantic immortality from any performance of mine, in this ingenious and learned age, I must confess I never had a soul great enough to be acted on by the heroic heat which the love of fame and honour hath kindled in some. Ι have ever loved the security and contentment of privacy and retirement, almost to the guilt of singularity and affectation.

"But the truth is plainly this: the vigour and activity of my mind, the health and strength of my body (being now in the flower of my age) continuing unbroken under this affliction, I found that, if I did not provide some employment that might entertain it, it would weary out itself with fruitless desires of, and vain attempts after, its wonted objects; and so that strength and vivacity of nature, which should render my state more comfortable, would make it much more intolerable.

"I confess, my zeal for public good, by the propagation and endearment of divine truths, was less fervent in me than could well become the particular obligations of my profession, or the common ones which every Christian, in proportion to his talents, lies under. I was almost induced to believe, that this chastisement, which had removed me from the service of the altar, did at the same time discharge me from all duty owing to the public: but my good friend, Mr. Lamb, revived the dying sparks of a decaying zeal, and restored me to a proper sense of my duty in this point; for whether by design, or by providence governing chance, I know not (for he never seemed to address or design the discourse particularly to me), he had ever and anon in his mouth this excellent principle, that the life of man is to be esteemed by its usefulness and serviceableness in the world. A sober reflection upon this wrought me up to a resolution strong enough to contemn all the difficulties which the loss of my sight could represent to me in an enterprize of this nature. Thus you see on what principle I became engaged in this work: I thought it my duty to set myself some task, which might serve at once to divert my thoughts from a melancholy application on my misfortune, and entertain my mind with such a rational employment as might render me most easy to myself and most serviceable to the world. Being now abundantly convinced that I am not released from that duty I owe that body of which I am still a member, by being cut off from a great part of the pleasure and advantages of it; therefore, like one that truly loves his country, when no way else is left him, he fights for it on his stumps; so will I ever, in the remains of a broken body, express, at least, my affection for mankind, and breathe out my last gasp in their service."]

What dost thou mean by fortune? If mere chance, then to envy the lot of others, or murmur at thy own, is folly; if providence, then it is impiety; for whatever goodness, guided by unerring wisdom, doth, must be so well done that it cannot be mended; and whatever is merely in the power of a blind, giddy, and inconstant humour (which is the notion by which men choose to express fortune) can neither be prevented, fixed, or regulated. But what is it, secondly, thou dost put in the power of fortune? the understanding and liberty of men's minds; wisdom, temperance, industry, courage, and in one word, virtue? If thou dost not, she has no influence on thý happiness, she cannot prevent thy attainment of it, nor bereave thee of it when attained. If thou dost, thou dost enlarge the empire of fortune too far; let her rule and insult over soldiers, courtiers, lovers, factious demagogues and time-servers, but not over philosophers; let those who are her minions be her slaves; let her dispose of money, lands, farms, commissions, benefices, honours, graces, fame; nay, if you will, crowns and sceptres too; virtue, and appiness, and souls are too precious commodities to be the sport and traffic of Fortune. Solomon observed long ago, "Wisdom cries out, she uttereth her voice n the streets; she cries out in the chief place of concourse, in the openings of the gates; in the city she utters her words." Prov. i. Our Saviour in the great day of the feast, cried, saying, "If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink," John vii., which is an invitation of the same nature with that of the prophet-— "Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat, buy wine and milk without money, and without price."

Isaiah lv. This ever was, and ever will be true; a great fortune is not necessary for the attainment of faith, hope, or charity; and he that is endowed with these cannot be miserable: you may learn the whole system of divine and important truths; you may acquit yourself with all the beauty and enjoyments of virtue at a very cheap rate; and you may learn temperance, fortitude, justice, modesty, constancy, patience, contempt of the world, without the assistance of much more wealth than will serve to feed and clothe you: and canst thou not be content with these possessions? is not this a sort of merchandize to be preferred before that of fine gold.

I know the greater part of those who accuse their fortune of misery do at least pretend that their condition and circumstances of life are so incommodious, that they have not time to attend to the great interest of the soul, or at least not with that application which they should. Alas! thus not the mean only, but almost all talk, from the porter to the prince: the circumstances of one are too strait, too narrow; of another too full of trouble, because too full of state; one complains that he is withdrawn from his great end, by the many allurements and sensual temptations to which his rank and quality in the world expose him; another that he is daily fretted and indisposed by the little cross accidents and the rugged conversation which he is necessarily obliged to bear with; one complains of too much business, another of too little; the hurry and multitude of things distracts the one, infidel fears and anxious despondencies the other; one complains that his acquaintance and friends are too numerous, and intrench too far upon his precious hours; another is querulous, melancholy, and peevish, because he looks upon himself either for his meanness neglected, or for his misfortune deserted and forsaken; company is burdensome to the one, and solitude to the other. Thus all conditions are full of complaints, from him that trudges on his clouted shoe, to him who can scarce mention the manners or the fortunes of the multitude without some expressions of contumely and disdain. Thou fool! dost thou not see that all these complaints are idle contradictions? for shame, correct the wantonness of thy humour, and thou wilt soon correct thy fortune: learn to be happy in every state, and every place: learn to enjoy thyself, to know and value the wealth that is in thine own power, I mean wisdom and goodness: learn to assert the sovereignty and dignity of thy soul. Methinks that, if philosophy could not, pride and indignation might conquer fortune. It is beneath the dignity of a soul, that has but a grain of sense, to make chance, and winds, and waves, the arbitrary disposers of his happiness; or, what is worse, to depend upon some mushroom upstart, which a chance smile raised out of his turf and rottenness, to a condition of which his mean soul is so unequal that he himself fears and wonders at his own height. Oh, how I hug the memory of those honest heathens, who, in a ragged gown and homely cottage bade defiance to fortune, and laughed at those pains and hazards, the vanity and pride of men, not their misfortune, drove them to! Men may call this pride or spite in them; as the beggarly rabble doth usually envy the fortune it doth despair of but there were a great many of these who laid by envied greatness, to enjoy this quiet though generally despicable meanness: but let the contempt of the world be what it will in a heathen; let it be pride or peevishness, vain-glory, or any thing, rather than a reproach to Christians; what say you to the followers of our Lord and Master? “Then said Peter, silver and gold I have none," Acts iii. None? what hast thou then, thou poor disciple of a poor master? A true faith, a godlike charity, and unshaken hope: blessed art thou amongst men; nothing can make thee greater, nothing richer, nothing happier, but heaven. You see plainly, then, a man may be virtuous, though not wealthy; and that fortune, which prevents his being rich, cannot prevent his being happy.

This discourse will never down; this is not calculated for this age: philosophy must be a little more mannerly, and religion a little more genteel and complaisant than formerly, ere it can be adapted and accommodated to the present state of things. Go on then, let us try how far it will be necessary to condescend. You cannot be happy; why? because you are not rich; go then to God, and beg you may be rich; I have not the face to put up such arrogant and intemperate requests to God; it is plain, then, it is not necessary to be rich in order to be happy: for whatever is necessary to this thou mayest with good assurance beg of God. But thy desires are more humble and modest; thou aimest at nothing but what is very necessary; a fairer house, another servant, a dish or two of meat more for thy friends, a coach for thy convenience or ease, and a few hundred pounds apiece more for thy children: O heavenly ingredients of a rational pleasure! O divine instruments of human happiness! O the humble and mortified requests of modest souls! Well, if these things be so necessary, and these desires be so decent and virtuous, if thou canst not be happy, and consequently must be miserable, without them-put up a bill, represent thy condition in it; such a one wants a more commodious house, more servants, more dishes, &c., and desires the prayers of the congregation for support under this affliction. You are profane: far be it from me ; I would only let thee see the wantonness of thy desires. If thou thinkest this would expose thee to public laughter, go to thy minister, unfold thy case to him, let him pray for thee; he is a good man, and his prayers will go far; you rally and ridicule me. Enter then into thy closet, shut thy door; thou mayest trust God, he pities and considers even human infirmities; I could even almost in my mind desire it of him; but I am ashamed to do it in a set and solemn prayer. I could almost make the petition in the gross, but I blush to think of descending to particulars. Well, then, I see plainly that wealth in any degree of it is so far from being necessary to our happiness, that it has so little of usefulness or conveniency in it, that, in thy conscience between God and thee, thou canst not think fit to complain of the want of it.

But this answer will never satisfy him who complains of want, or of being engaged in continual troubles, and tossed by the daily changes and revolutions of the world. I confess it will not: but I must tell such a one, if Solomon's observation be true, “The hand of the diligent maketh rich," Prov. x.; and that other, "Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings, he shall not stand before mean men," Prov. xxii.

Then his poverty is his crime as well as his calamity; he must redeem himself from this his punishment by industry and prayer. As to calamities, this must be acknowledged, that the mind of a good and great man, which stands firm upon its own basis, a good God, a good Saviour, and a good conscience, may remain unmoved, when the earth trembles, and the sea roars round about him. Chances indeed befall things temporal; but he leans not upon them. I may say farther, that he who, upon mature deliberation and upon necessary obligations of duty, engages himself in a just cause may be unfortunate, but he cannot be miserable; his sufferings carry a secret pleasure in them, and his misfortunes are full of hope and glory; if he consider, if he reflect, if he do not feed on vain and airy projects, and suffer himself to be unwarily transported by very irrational, though seemingly just passions. I must lastly add, that it is not the necessity of their affairs, nor the iniquity of times, which doth commonly involve and entangle men in public or private calamities, but some secret vanity, some blind impetuous passion, some ill-laid project, or some treacherous or dishonourable fear,