Hee me revives; leades me the way,
Which righteousnesse doth take,
For His name sake.

Yea, though I should through valleys stray
Of death's dark shade, I will

Noe whitt feare ill.

For Thou, deere Lord, Thou me besett'st, Thy rodd and thy staff be

To comfort me:

Before me thou a table sett'st,

Even when foes' envious eye

Doth it espy.

Thou oil'st my head, Thou fill'st my cupp; Nay more, Thou endlesse Good,

Shalt give me food.

To Thee, I say ascended up,
Where Thou, the Lord of all
Dost hold thy hall.

MY PILGRIMAGE.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of ioye, (immortal diet!)

My bottle of saluation,

My gowne of glory, hope's true gage ;—
And thus I take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,

While my soule, like peaceful palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heauen:

Other balm will not be giuen.

Over the silver mountains,

Where spring the nectar-fountains,

Of what an easy quick access,
My blessed Lord, art Thou! how suddenly
May our requests thy ear invade !

To shew that state dislikes not easiness,

If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made:

Thou canst no more not hear, than Thou canst die.

Of what supreme almighty power

Is Thy great arm, which spans the east and west,
And tacks the centre to the sphere !

By it do all things live their measured hour:
We cannot ask the thing which is not there,
Blaming the shallowness of our request!

Of what immeasurable love

Art Thou possess'd, who when Thou couldst not die
Wert fain to take our flesh and curse,

And for our sakes in person sin reprove;
That by destroying that which tied Thy purse
Thou might'st make way for liberality!

Since then these three wait on Thy throne,
Ease, Power, and Love; I value Prayer so,
That were I to leave all but one,

Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues, all should go:
I and dear Prayer would together dwell,
And quickly gain, for each inch lost, an ell.

ON THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD.

RICHARD BAXTER.

My Lord hath taught me how to want
A place wherein to put my head.
While He is mine, I'll be content
To beg or lack my daily bread.

Heaven is my roof, earth is my floor,

Thy love can keep me dry and warm; Christ and Thy bounty are my store, Thy angels guard me from all harm.

Must I forsake the soil and air

Where first I drew my vital breath ? That way may be as near and fair Thence I may come to Thee by death.

All countries are my Father's lands—
Thy Sun, Thy Love doth shine on all ;
We may in all lift up pure hands,
And with acceptance on Thee call.

What if in prison I must dwell—

May I not there converse with Thee? Save me from sin, Thy wrath, and hell, Call me Thy child, and I am free.

No walls or bars can keep Thee out;
None can confine a holy soul;
The streets of heaven it walks about,
None can its liberty control.

THE CHURCH OF ROME SINCE THE REFORMATION. 283

CHAPTER XIII.

HYMNS OF THE CHURCH OF ROME SINCE THE REFORMATION.

WHEN the great stream of Church history was parted in two at the Reformation, and Christian life burst the barriers of the middle ages, and made for itself a new channel, no doubt some portion of the living waters still continued to flow in the old river bed. The Reformation did not draw all the life out of the Church of Rome; and although, as we believe, after Luther's time, the great chorus of sacred song is to be heard among the Reformed Churches, many a true psalm ascended from the midst of the unreformed communities-many, doubtless, more than human history has ever recorded. Yet these voices are solitary; they rise alone in a dead silence which comprehends them not, or too often are hushed in a storm of opposing sound, neither sacred nor melodious. While the hymns of Luther and Gerhard, the Wesleys and Cowper, are responded to by the hearts and voices of tens of thousands, Michael Angelo's sonnets are the possession only of a choice circle, and Madame Guion sang the sweetest of her hymns in the Bastille. The great Italian belongs, indeed, in spirit rather to the Reformation than to the Church of Rome. In his later years, when his Platonism found a basis for its

sublimest visions in the doctrine of the Cross; when, in his own words, his soul had been remodelled, or “born anew," through the influence of Vittoria Colonna, friend of the martyr Valdes, his faith seems to have been as simple as that of Luther. The architect of St Peter's-poet, painter, sculptor-gifted with that central force of genius from which every special talent seemed to radiate, writes thus in his later years,—

Despite Thy promises, O Lord, 't would seem
Too much to hope that even love like Thine
Can overlook my countless wanderings;
And yet Thy blood helps me to comprehend
That if Thy pangs for us were measureless,
No less, beyond all measure, is Thy grace.

*

SONNET XLIX.

From a vexatious heavy load set free,
Eternal Lord! and from the world unloosed,
Wearied to Thee I turn, like a frail bark,

'Scaped from fierce storms, into a placid sea.
The thorns, the nails, the one and the other hand,
Together with Thine aspect, meek, benign,
And mangled, pledge the grace to mourning souls
Of deep repentance and salvation's hope.
View not my sins in the condemning light
Of justice strict: avert Thine awful ear,
Nor stretch forth on me Thine avenging arm.
May Thy blood wash my guilt and sins away;
As age creeps on, may it abound the more
With timely aid, and full forgiveness!

* From the Life of Michael Angelo Buonarotti. By John S. Harford, Esq.