Is it interpreted in me disease, That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Gifford justly pronounces this an admirable prayer; solemn, pious, and scriptural.' But the close is a compromise of all the earnest piety that has gone before, and seems to betray the irresolution of a man who, even in his most devout moments, is haunted by the consideration of what the world will think of his religious sentiments. To be afraid to complain lest it should be thought' to proceed from discontent, is inconsistent with the appeal he makes throughout to that Being who knows all hearts, and is invoked to bear witness to his sincerity. A manuscript note upon this piece by my friend Leigh Hunt will be read with interest. This effusion, which is affecting, and seems to come out of real feelings, marks a curious state of scepticism in the age around him. His contemporaries, it would seem, were not simply freethinkers, but took all such resorts to heaven as proofs of melancholy and sickness. Perhaps they had some right, however, to think that jovial and confident Ben was not most inclined to be devout when he was in good health. After all, the verses look more like Donne's than his,' The reader of these poems must frequently have detected similar resemblances. There was a constant intercourse between the two Doets, who frequently communicated their productions Underwoods. CONSISTING OF DIVERS POEMS.* Cineri, gloria sera venit.-MARTIAL. TO THE READER. WITH the same leave the ancients called that kind of body Sylva, or "Yλn, in which there were works of divers nature and matter congested; as the multitude call timber-trees promiscuously growing, a Wood, or Forest, so I am bold to entitle these lesser poems, of later growth, by this of Underwood, out of the analogy they hold to the Forest in my former book, and no otherwise. BEN JONSON. POEMS OF DEVOTION. THE SINNER'S SACRIFICE. TO THE HOLY TRINITY. I. HOLY, blessed, glorious Trinity Help, help to lift Myself up to thee, harrowed, torn, and bruised O take my gift! to each other; and one of Jonson's elegies, see post. p. 453, was published in Donne's collected works, having been found, probably, amongst his papers after his death. The copy from which the text is printed is the second folio, and bears the date of 1640, without any publisher's name. This edition, which Gifford suspects was put to the press surreptitiously, is much enlarged beyond the collection designed by Jonson under the title Underwoods, and contains many pieces found among his papers, which he either did not intend to include, or had not revised and completed for publication. This circumstance will explain the imperfect condition in which some of the pieces appear. The folio of 1640 is negligently printed, and in that respect presents a striking contrast to the editions of the former poems published in Jonson's lifetime, which had the advantage of his own supervision. II. All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice, A broken heart, thou wert not wont despise, For thy acceptance. O, behold me right, To thee more sweet? 111. Eternal Father, God, who didst create Eternal God, the Son, who not deniedst IV. Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding, Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity Of seeing your face. v. Beholding one in three, and three in one, The gladdest light dark man can think upon; Distinct in persons, yet in Unity One God to see. VI. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier. • Altered in Gifford's edition to mediate.' UNDERWOODS. Among thy saints elected to abide, Shall I there rest! A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER. Hear me, O God! If thou hadst not For, sin's so sweet, Rarely repent, Their punishment. Who more can crave Than thou hast done: That gav'st a son, First made of nought; Sin, Death, and Hell, His glorious name And slight the same. But, I'll come in, Under his Cross. A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR. I sing the birth was born to-night, The angels so did sound it, Yet searched, and true they found it. The Son of God, th' Eternal King, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take,* The Word, which heaven and earth did make; Was now laid in a manger. The Father's wisdom willed it so, Both wills were in one stature; And as that wisdom had decreed, What comfort by Him do we win, To see this Babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence; Can man forget this story? That is, contain-a Latinism, Quem non capit.-G. But wisest Fate says No, This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify. MILTON-Hymn on the Nativity. |