Oh! make us apt to seek, and quick to find,

Thou God most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith, in Thee to trust,
Thou God most just!

Remit all our offences we entreat,

Most Good, most Great!

Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest,
May through thy grace admit us 'mongst the blest.

BEN JONSON.

THIS eminent poet was born in London in 1574. Though like many other poets of his day, Jonson too briefly and too rarely forsook the service of the profaner muse for that of religion, the religious poetry he has left behind him is of a very high order. He died in 1637.

EUPHEME'S MIND.

PAINTER, you're come, but may be gone,

Now I have better thought thereon;

This work I can perform alone,

And give you reasons more than one.

Not that your art I do refuse,
But here I may no colours use;
Beside, your hand will never hit

To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,

An eagle tow'ring in the sky,

The sun, a sea, or soundless pit;

But these are like a mind, not it.

No; to express a mind to sense
Would ask a heaven's intelligence ;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine;
And, so disdaining any tryer,
Tis got where it can try the fire.

There, high exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were,

It moveth all, and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.

Whose notions, when it will express
In speech, it is with that excess
Of grace and music to the ear,

As what it spoke it planted there.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,

As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound were parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.

But, that a mind so rapt, so high,

So swift, so pure, should yet apply
Itself to us, and come so nigh

Earth's grossness; there's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,

And stuck in clay here, it would pull

Us forth by some celestial flight,
Up to her own sublimed height?

Or hath she here upon the ground,
Some paradise or palace found,
In all the bounds of beauty fit
For her to inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so lofty form, so straight,
So polished, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from heaven.

Not swelling like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently as a cloud;

As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice and gums.

In action, winged as the wind,
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a bank, or field of flowers,
Begotten by that wind and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,

Yet know with what thou art possessed;

Thou entertaining in thy breast

But such a mind, makest God thy guest.

THE GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THIS elegant writer was born in Kent, in 1568. He enjoyed several public offices in the reign of Elizabeth; but after a while he fell into disgrace, and afterwards he lived abroad, till the accession of James I., when he was appointed ambassador to Venice. He was the author of a variety of works, chiefly upon political subjects; of some of a religious character, and of a few poetical pieces of great beauty. He died in 1640.

FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.

FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles;
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold, pure clay;
Honour, the darling but of one short day;
Beauty, the eye's idol, a damasked skin;
State, but a golden prison to live in,

And torture free-born minds; embroidered trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;

And blood allied to greatness is alone

Inherited, not purchased, nor our own:

Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill;

I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke;
I would be rich, but see men too unkind
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind;
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected while the ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass,
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:

Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorned, if poor;
Great, feared; fair, tempted; high, still envied more.
I have wished all; but now I wish for neither-
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair,-poor I'll be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would Beauty's queen entitle me "the Fair,"

Fame speak me Fortune's minion; could I vie
Angels with India; with a speaking eye

Command bare heads, bowed knees, strike justice dumb,
As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue

To stones by epitaphs; be called "Great Master,"

In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, in all superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine,
And hold one minute of this holy leisure,
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves,
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring;
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears.
Then here I'll sit and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect an holy melancholy;

And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.