For still my Saviour-God shall be
At hand, though unperceived,
And I salvation nearer see

Than when I first believed.

HINE.

The Holy Scriptures.

OH Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart

Suck every letter, and a honey gain

Precious for any grief in any part,

To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving till it make A full eternity: thou art a mass

Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.

Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass

That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well

That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much? thou art heaven's lieger here, Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joy's handsel: heaven lies flat in thee,
Subject to every mounter's bended knee.

Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Under a third, that ten leaves off doth lie.
Then, as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian's destiny.
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss :
This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

GEORGE HERBERT.

The Physician Dies to make his
Patient Live.

WHEN I remember Christ our burden

bears,

I look for glory, but find misery;
I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;

I look that we should live, and find Him die;
I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry:
Thus what I look, I cannot find so well;
Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell;

These banks so narrow are, these streams so highly swell.

Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin;
Suffers for us-and our joys spring in this;
Suffers to death-here is his manhood seen;
Suffers to rise-and here his Godhead is:
For man, that could not by himself have ris',

Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise:
And lived, that could not die, in manhood dies,
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice.

A tree was first the instrument of strife, Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute; A tree is now the instrument of life,

Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit: Ah! fatal tree, and yet O blessed fruit! That death to Him, this life to us doth give; Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live.

Sweet Eden was the arbour of delight,

Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew; Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night, Where Christ a health of poison for us drew, Yet all our honey in that poison grew: So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, And Christ from bitter venom could again Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain.

A man was first the author of our fall, A Man is now the author of our rise: A garden was the place we perished all, A garden is the place He pays our price : And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile.

The dewy night had with her frosty shade
Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground
Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made
All for Himself, Himself dissolved found,
Sweat without heat, and bled without a
wound;

Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore,
Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore,
And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore.
GILES FLETCHER.

The Transfiguration. HAIL! King of glory, clad in robes of light,

Outshining all we here call bright!

Hail, light's divinest galaxy!

Hail, express image of the Deity!

Could now thy amorous spouse thy beauties view, How would her wounds all bleed anew!

Lovely thou art, all o'er and bright,

Thou Israel's glory, and thou Gentile's light.

But whence this brightness, whence this sudden day ?

Who did thee thus with light array ?

Did thy divinity dispense

To its consort a more liberal influence ?
Or did some curious angel's chymic art
The spirits of purest light impart,
Drawn from the native spring of day,
And wrought into an organized ray.

Howe'er 'twas done, 'tis glorious and divine;
Thou dost with radiant wonders shine:
The sun, with his bright company,

Are all gross meteors, if compared to thee:
Thou art the fountain whence their light does flow,
But to thy will thine own dost owe;

For (as at first) Thou didst but say,

"Let there be light," and straight sprang forth this wondrous day.

Let now the eastern princes come, and bring
Their tributary offering.

There needs no star to guide their flight;

They'll find Thee now, great King, by thine own light.

And thou, my soul, adore, love, and admire,

And follow this bright guide of fire.

Do thou thy hymns and praises bring,

Whilst angels, with veil'd faces, anthems sing.

JOHN NORRIS.

A

The Angel on Earth.

LITTLE child on a sunny day, Sat on a flowery bank at play; The gentle breath of the summer air Waved the curls of her golden hair, And ever her voice rang merrily out In a careless laugh or a joyous shout. Beautiful was she as early morn,

When the dew is fresh on the blossoming thorn;