This might have been written by Cowley in his happiest mood. The following is in a still higher style of poetry. What a strange moment will that be, My soul, how full of curiosity, When wing'd and ready for thy eternal flight, Thou shalt advance, and have eternity in sight! But yet, how much more strange that state, And move as swift and active as a ray Shot from the lucid spring of day! Thou who just now wast clogg'd with dull mortality, • Then to strange mansions of the air, But knowledge all at once will overflow thee there. There with bright splendours must thou dwell, Then to thy old forgotten state must thou retire. Now for the greatest change prepare, To see the only Great, the only Fair. Vail now thy feeble eyes, gaze and be blest; Here all thy turns and revolutions cease, Here's all serenity and peace: Thou'rt to the center come, the native seat of rest. Among some other writers whose works might have supplied Mr. Mitford with appropriate specimens, Bishop Ken ought not to have been forgotten. Andrew Marvel, the author of some of the hymns ascribed to Addison, whom Watts has imitated, and Mallet stolen from, has been treated with singularly unjust neg lect. Mr. Johnstone has, indeed, inserted two short poems of his, but they do him not less injustice, than Mr. Mitford's silent omission of his name. There is a volume of sacred poems by an old writer named Mason, which contains many that are marked by the quaint beauty and simplicity of our elder bards. Many of our older collections of Sacred Music will be found worthy of examination, for the fugitive pieces which have been preserved in them. We have already referred to a psalm of Milton's, which came into our hands by this means. In a book of Psalmody without a date, but which must have been published about the middle of the last century, we have found the following stanzas, which have, if we mistake not, an air of antique simplicity, and, at the same time, of devotional elevation, which entitle them to preservation. The air to which the words are set, has found a place in Rippon's Selection of Tunes, under the name of Tottenham Court: of its merit as a composition, we give no opinion, but the effect on our own mind, whether from association or from the genuine pathos of the air, is at once touching and solemn. That effect, however, would probably be lost in the vulgarizing performance of a modern choir. The Poem is said to be commonly entitled the Pilgrim's Hymn. • Never weather beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Than my weary spirit longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O how the Heavenly choirs all sing, to Him that sits enthron'd above! O how I long to see this feast of Love!' In justice to Mr. Mitford, however, we must not dismiss his volume, without presenting another specimen or two of its contents. The following stanzas, by George Wither, are highly interesting. Great Almighty, God of Heaven! For thy blessings deigned to me; VOL. XXVII. N.S. By thy mercy thou didst raise me Thou hast taught my lips to praise thee, And those blessed hopes dost. leave me, By thy grace, those passions, troubles, A design was brought to pass, And that day most grace was shewn me, So my rest, by thee enjoyed, I thy presence was allowed, While the world neglected me: This, my Muse hath took upon her, That she might advance thine honour. 'Lord, accept my poor endeavour, And assist thy servant so In good studies to persever That more fruitful he may grow; And become thereby the meeker, Not his own vain glory-seeker. Oh, preserve me from committing Aught that's heinously amiss; From all speeches him unfitting That hath been employed on this: Yea, as much as may be deigned, Keep my very thoughts unstained. "And when I, with Israel's Singer, As our last extract, we cannot do better than take the striking specimen which is given from Habington's Castara. Tell me, O great all-knowing God! Hast thou unto my days assigned? Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the wind? 'Here, where I first drew vital breath, And find in the same vault a room, Or shall I die, where none shall weep My timeless fate, and my cold earth entomb? Receive my death, or shall I see ? Affirm my scheme doth not presage But they are jugglers, and by slight Of faith delude; and in their school, A mystery of each mistake, And teach strange words credulity to fool. For Thou who first didst motion give, And time hath been, to conceal To check ambition of our wit, And keep in awe the curious search of zeal. Therefore, so I prepared still be, O' th' sudden on my spirits may For me a well-wrought tomb prepare: Mr. Mitford's proem' to these specimens is highly elegant and erudite; too erudite, we fear, we might say recondite, to please very generally, and too long for a poem of a purely lyrical character. It should have been broken into parts or fyttes,' and an argument would have enabled the reader more easily to catch his design. It exhibits, however, so much genuine poetic taste and feeling, and abounds with so many picturesque passages, that it cannot fail to please in parts, and will, as a whole, amply repay perusal. It would be unjust to close this article without adding to our specimens one more, taken from this part of Mr. Mitford's volume. • Ye aged towers of Solyma! Thou ancient seat of sovereign sway! Thou heavenly-thron'd Hierusalem ? Is the sun with shrouded head For which the world in darkness grieves? |