England's Antiphon

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

 
  Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
    Which was my sin, though it were done before?⁷³
  Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,⁷⁴
    And do run still, though still I do deplore?—
      When thou hast done, thou hast not done;
        For I have more.
 
 
  Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
    Others to sin, and made my sins their door?⁷⁵
  Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
    A year or two, but wallowed in a score?—
      When thou hast done, thou hast not done;
        For I have more.
 
 
  I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun
    My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
  But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
    Shall shine, as he shines now and heretofore;
      And having done that, thou hast done:
        I fear no more.
 

In those days even a pun might be a serious thing: witness the play in the last stanza on the words son and sun—not a mere pun, for the Son of the Father is the Sun of Righteousness: he is Life and Light.

What the Doctor himself says concerning the hymn, appears to me not only interesting but of practical value. He "did occasionally say to a friend, 'The words of this hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness, when I composed it.'" What a help it would be to many, if in their more gloomy times they would but recall the visions of truth they had, and were assured of, in better moments!

Here is a somewhat strange hymn, which yet possesses, rightly understood, a real grandeur:

A HYMN TO CHRIST

At the Author's last going into Germany.⁷⁶

 
  In what torn ship soever I embark,
  That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark;
  What sea soever swallow me, that flood
  Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood.
  Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
  Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes,
    Which, though they turn away sometimes—
      They never will despise.
 
 
  I sacrifice this island unto thee,
  And all whom I love here and who love me:
  When I have put this flood 'twixt them and me,
  Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins and thee.
  As the tree's sap doth seek the root below
  In winter, in my winter⁷⁷ now I go
    Where none but thee, the eternal root
      Of true love, I may know.
 
 
  Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control
  The amorousness of an harmonious soul;
  But thou wouldst have that love thyself: as thou
  Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now.
  Thou lov'st not, till from loving more thou free
  My soul: who ever gives, takes liberty:
    Oh, if thou car'st not whom I love,
      Alas, thou lov'st not me!
 
 
  Seal then this bill of my divorce to all
  On whom those fainter beams of love did fall;
  Marry those loves, which in youth scattered be
  On face, wit, hopes, (false mistresses), to thee.
  Churches are best for prayer that have least light:
  To see God only, I go out of sight;
    And, to 'scape stormy days, I choose
      An everlasting night
 

To do justice to this poem, the reader must take some trouble to enter into the poet's mood.

It is in a measure distressing that, while I grant with all my heart the claim of his "Muse's white sincerity," the taste in—I do not say of—some of his best poems should be such that I will not present them.

Out of twenty-three Holy Sonnets, every one of which, I should almost say, possesses something remarkable, I choose three. Rhymed after the true Petrarchian fashion, their rhythm is often as bad as it can be to be called rhythm at all. Yet these are very fine.

 
  Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
    Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
    I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
  And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
  I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
    Despair behind, and death before doth cast
    Such terror; and my feeble flesh doth waste
  By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
  Only them art above, and when towards thee
    By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
  But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
    That not one hour myself I can sustain:
  Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
  And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
 
 
  If faithful souls be alike glorified
    As angels, then my father's soul doth see,
    And adds this even to full felicity,
  That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride:
  But if our minds to these souls be descried
    By circumstances and by signs that be
    Apparent in us—not immediately⁷⁸—
  How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?
    They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,
  And, style blasphemous, conjurors to call
  On Jesu's name, and pharisaical
    Dissemblers feign devotiön. Then turn,
  O pensive soul, to God; for he knows best
  Thy grief, for he put it into my breast.
 
 
  Death, be not proud, though some have calléd thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
  Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
  From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
    Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
    And soonest⁷⁹ our best men with thee do go,
  Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery!
    Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
  And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
  And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
    And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st⁸⁰ thou then?
  One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
  And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.
 

In a poem called The Cross, full of fantastic conceits, we find the following remarkable lines, embodying the profoundest truth.

 
  As perchance carvers do not faces make,
  But that away, which hid them there, do take:
  Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,
  And be his image, or not his, but he.
 

One more, and we shall take our leave of Dr. Donne. It is called a fragment; but it seems to me complete. It will serve as a specimen of his best and at the same time of his most characteristic mode of presenting fine thoughts grotesquely attired.

RESURRECTION

 
  Sleep, sleep, old sun; thou canst not have re-past⁸¹
  As yet the wound thou took'st on Friday last.
  Sleep then, and rest: the world may bear thy stay;
  A better sun rose before thee to-day;
  Who, not content to enlighten all that dwell
  On the earth's face as thou, enlightened hell,
  And made the dark fires languish in that vale,
  As at thy presence here our fires grow pale;
  Whose body, having walked on earth and now
  Hastening to heaven, would, that he might allow
  Himself unto all stations and fill all,
  For these three days become a mineral.
  He was all gold when he lay down, but rose
  All tincture; and doth not alone dispose
  Leaden and iron wills to good, but is
  Of power to make even sinful flesh like his.
  Had one of those, whose credulous piety
  Thought that a soul one might discern and see
  Go from a body, at this sepulchre been,
  And issuing from the sheet this body seen,
  He would have justly thought this body a soul,
  If not of any man, yet of the whole.
 

What a strange mode of saying that he is our head, the captain of our salvation, the perfect humanity in which our life is hid! Yet it has its dignity. When one has got over the oddity of these last six lines, the figure contained in them shows itself almost grand.

As an individual specimen of the grotesque form holding a fine sense, regard for a moment the words,

 
  He was all gold when he lay down, but rose
  All tincture;
 

which means, that, entirely good when he died, he was something yet greater when he rose, for he had gained the power of making others good: the tincture intended here was a substance whose touch would turn the basest metal into gold.

Through his poems are scattered many fine passages; but not even his large influence on the better poets who followed is sufficient to justify our listening to him longer now.

CHAPTER VIII

BISHOP HALL AND GEORGE SANDYS.

Joseph Hall, born in 1574, a year after Dr. Donne, bishop, first of Exeter, next of Norwich, is best known by his satires. It is not for such that I can mention him: the most honest satire can claim no place amongst religious poems. It is doubtful if satire ever did any good. Its very language is that of the half-brute from which it is well named.

Here are three poems, however, which the bishop wrote for his choir.

ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER

 
  Lord, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
    What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
  What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
    What is my time? A minute ever flying:
      My time, my flesh, my life, and I,
      What are we, Lord, but vanity?
 
 
  Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death.
    What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
  My sport sin too, my stay a puff of breath.
    What end of sin? Hell's horror never ending:
      My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place,
      Help to make up my doleful case.
 
 
  Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss.
    Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect light.
  What is thy time? Eternity it is.
    What state? Attendance of each glorious sprite:
      Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state
      Pass all the thoughts of powers create.
 
 
  How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
    Ambitious soul. But which way should I fly?
  Thou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I?
    Aspiring thoughts—of faith, of hope, of love:
      Oh, let these wings, that way alone
      Present me to thy blissful throne.
 

FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY

 
  Immortal babe, who this dear day
  Didst change thine heaven for our clay,
  And didst with flesh thy Godhead veil,
  Eternal Son of God, all hail!
 
 
  Shine, happy star! Ye angels, sing
  Glory on high to heaven's king!
  Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch!
  See heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch! manger.
 
 
  Worship, ye sages of the east,
  The king of gods in meanness drest!
  O blessed maid, smile, and adore
  The God thy womb and arms have bore!
 
 
  Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages!
  Thou virgin-glory of all ages!
  Restored frame of heaven and earth!
  Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth.
* * * * *
  Leave, O my soul, this baser world below;
  O leave this doleful dungeön of woe;
  And soar aloft to that supernal rest
  That maketh all the saints and angels blest:
    Lo, there the Godhead's radiant throne,
    Like to ten thousand suns in one!
 
 
  Lo, there thy Saviour dear, in glory dight, dressed.
  Adored of all the powers of heavens bright!
  Lo, where that head that bled with thorny wound,
  Shines ever with celestíal honour crowned!
    That hand that held the scornful reed
    Makes all the fiends infernal dread.
 
 
  That back and side that ran with bloody streams
  Daunt angels' eyes with their majestic beams;
  Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree,
  Trample on Death and Hell, in glorious glee.
    Those lips, once drenched with gall, do make
    With their dread doom the world to quake.
 
 
  Behold those joys thou never canst behold;
  Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold,
  Those streams of life, those trees of Paradise
  That never can be seen by mortal eyes!
    And when thou seest this state divine,
    Think that it is or shall be thine.
 
 
  See there the happy troops of purest sprites
  That live above in endless true delights!
  And see where once thyself shalt rangéd be,
  And look and long for immortality!
    And now beforehand help to sing
    Hallelujahs to heaven's king.
 

Polished as these are in comparison to those of Dr. Donne, and fine, too, as they are intrinsically, there are single phrases in his that are worth them all—except, indeed, that one splendid line, Trample on Death and Hell in glorious glee.

George Sandys, the son of an archbishop of York, and born in 1577, is better known by his travels in the east than by his poetry. But his version of the Psalms is in good and various verse, not unfrequently graceful, sometimes fine. The following is not only in a popular rhythm, but is neat and melodious as well.

PSALM XCII

 
  Thou who art enthroned above,
  Thou by whom we live and move,
  O how sweet, how excellent
  Is't with tongue and heart's consent,
  Thankful hearts and joyful tongues,
  To renown thy name in songs!
  When the morning paints the skies,
  When the sparkling stars arise,
  Thy high favours to rehearse,
  Thy firm faith, in grateful verse!
  Take the lute and violin,
  Let the solemn harp begin,
  Instruments strung with ten strings,
  While the silver cymbal rings.
  From thy works my joy proceeds;
  How I triumph in thy deeds!
  Who thy wonders can express?
  All thy thoughts are fathomless—
  Hid from men in knowledge blind,
  Hid from fools to vice inclined.
  Who that tyrant sin obey,
  Though they spring like flowers in May—
  Parched with heat, and nipt with frost,
  Soon shall fade, for ever lost.
  Lord, thou art most great, most high;
  Such from all eternity.
  Perish shall thy enemies,
  Rebels that against thee rise.
  All who in their sins delight,
  Shall be scattered by thy might
  But thou shall exalt my horn
  Like a youthful unicorn,
  Fresh and fragrant odours shed
  On thy crowned prophet's head.
  I shall see my foes' defeat,
  Shortly hear of their retreat;
  But the just like palms shall flourish
  Which the plains of Judah nourish,
  Like tall cedars mounted on
  Cloud-ascending Lebanon.
  Plants set in thy court, below
  Spread their roots, and upwards grow;
  Fruit in their old age shall bring,
  Ever fat and flourishing.
  This God's justice celebrates:
  He, my rock, injustice hates.
 

PSALM CXXIII

 
  Thou mover of the rolling spheres,
  I, through the glasses of my tears,
    To thee my eyes erect.
  As servants mark their master's hands,
  As maids their mistress's commands,
    And liberty expect,
 
 
  So we, depressed by enemies
  And growing troubles, fix our eyes
    On God, who sits on high;
  Till he in mercy shall descend,
  To give our miseries an end,
    And turn our tears to joy.
 
 
  O save us, Lord, by all forlorn,
  The subject of contempt and scorn:
    Defend us from their pride
  Who live in fluency and ease,
  Who with our woes their malice please,
    And miseries deride.
 

Here is a part of the 66th Psalm, which makes a complete little song of itself:

 
  Bless the Lord. His praise be sung
  While an ear can hear a tongue.
  He our feet establisheth;
  He our souls redeems from death.
  Lord, as silver purified,
  Thou hast with affliction tried,
  Thou hast driven into the net,
  Burdens on our shoulders set.
  Trod on by their horses' hooves,
  Theirs whom pity never moves,
  We through fire, with flames embraced,
  We through raging floods have passed,
  Yet by thy conducting hand,
  Brought into a wealthy land.
 

CHAPTER IX

A FEW OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS.

From the nature of their adopted mode, we cannot look for much poetry of a devotional kind from the dramatists. That mode admitting of no utterance personal to the author, and requiring the scope of a play to bring out the intended truth, it is no wonder that, even in the dramas of Shakspere, profound as is the teaching they contain, we should find nothing immediately suitable to our purpose; while neither has he left anything in other form approaching in kind what we seek. Ben Jonson, however, born in 1574, who may be regarded as the sole representative of learning in the class, has left, amongst a large number of small pieces, three Poems of Devotion, whose merit may not indeed be great, but whose feeling is, I think, genuine. Whatever were his faults, and they were not few, hypocrisy was not one of them. His nature was fierce and honest. He might boast, but he could not pretend. His oscillation between the reformed and the Romish church can hardly have had other cause than a vacillating conviction. It could not have served any prudential end that we can see, to turn catholic in the reign of Elizabeth, while in prison for killing in a duel a player who had challenged him.

THE SINNER'S SACRIFICE

1.—TO THE HOLY TRINITY

 
  O holy, blessed, glorious Trinity
  Of persons, still one God in Unity,
  The faithful man's believed mystery,
                          Help, help to lift
 
 
  Myself up to thee, harrowed, torn, and bruised
  By sin and Satan, and my flesh misused.
  As my heart lies—in pieces, all confused—
                          O take my gift.
 
 
  All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice,
  A broken heart, thou wert not wont despise,
  But, 'bove the fat of rams or bulls, to prize
                          An offering meet
 
 
  For thy acceptance: Oh, behold me right,
  And take compassion on my grievous plight!
  What odour can be, than a heart contrite,
                          To thee more sweet?
 
 
  Eternal Father, God, who didst create
  This All of nothing, gav'st it form and fate,
  And breath'st into it life and light, with state
                          To worship thee!
 
 
  Eternal God the Son, who not deniedst
  To take our nature, becam'st man, and diedst,
  To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and criedst
                          All's done in me!
 
 
  Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding,
  Father and Son—the Comforter, in breeding
  Pure thoughts in man, with fiery zeal them feeding
                          For acts of grace!
 
 
  Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity
  Of persons, still one God in Unity,
  Till I attain the longed-for mystery
                          Of seeing your face,
 
 
  Beholding one in three, and three in one,
  A Trinity, to shine in Union—
  The gladdest light, dark man can think upon—
                           O grant it me,
 
 
  Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost, you three,
  All co-eternal in your majesty,
  Distinct in persons, yet in unity
                           One God to see;
 
 
  My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier,
  To hear, to mediate,⁸² sweeten my desire,
  With grace, with love, with cherishing entire!
                           O then, how blest
 
 
  Among thy saints elected to abide,
  And with thy angels placéd, side by side!
  But in thy presence truly glorified,
                           Shall I there rest!
 

2.—AN HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

 
  Hear me, O God!
    A broken heart
    Is my best part:
  Use still thy rod,
    That I may prove
    Therein thy love.
 
 
  If thou hadst not
    Been stern to me,
    But left me free,
  I had forgot
    Myself and thee.
 
 
  For sin's so sweet
    As minds ill bent that.
    Rarely repent
  Until they meet
    Their punishment.
 
 
  Who more can crave
    Than thou hast done?
    Thou gay'st a Son
  To free a slave,
    First made of nought,
    With all since bought.
 
 
  Sin, death, and hell
    His glorious name
    Quite overcame;
  Yet I rebel,
    And slight the same.
 
 
  But I'll come in
    Before my loss
    Me farther toss,
  As sure to win
    Under his cross.
 

3.—AN HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR

 
  I sing the birth was born to-night,
  The author both of life and light;
    The angels so did sound it.
  And like the ravished shepherds said,
  Who saw the light, and were afraid,
    Yet searched, and true they found it.
 
 
  The Son of God, the eternal King,
  That did us all salvation bring,
    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;
  The Son's obedience knew no No;
    Both wills were in one stature;
  And, as that wisdom had decreed,
  The Word was now made flesh indeed,
    And took on him our nature.
 
 
  What comfort by him do we win,
  Who made himself the price of sin,
    To make us heirs of glory!
  To see this babe, all innocence,
  A martyr born in our defence!—
    Can man forget this story?
 

Somewhat formal and artificial, no doubt; rugged at the same time, like him who wrote them. When a man would utter that concerning which he has only felt, not thought, he can express himself only in the forms he has been taught, conventional or traditional. Let his powers be ever so much developed in respect of other things, here, where he has not meditated, he must understand as a child, think as a child, speak as a child. He can as yet generate no sufficing or worthy form natural to himself. But the utterance is not therefore untrue. There was no professional bias to cause the stream of Ben Jonson's verses to flow in that channel. Indeed, feeling without thought, and the consequent combination of impulse to speak with lack of matter, is the cause of much of that common-place utterance concerning things of religion which is so wearisome, but which therefore it is not always fair to despise as cant.

About the same age as Ben Jonson, though the date of his birth is unknown, I now come to mention Thomas Heywood, a most voluminous writer of plays, who wrote also a book, chiefly in verse, called The Hierarchy of the Blessed Angels, a strange work, in which, amongst much that is far from poetic, occur the following remarkable metaphysico-religious verses. He had strong Platonic tendencies, interesting himself chiefly however in those questions afterwards pursued by Dr. Henry More, concerning witches and such like subjects, which may be called the shadow of Platonism.

 
  I have wandered like a sheep that's lost,
  To find Thee out in every coast:
  Without I have long seeking bin, been.
  Whilst thou, the while, abid'st within.
  Through every broad street and strait lane
  Of this world's city, but in vain,
  I have enquired. The reason why?
  I sought thee ill: for how could I
  Find thee abroad, when thou, mean space,
  Hadst made within thy dwelling-place?
 
 
  I sent my messengers about,
  To try if they could find thee out;
  But all was to no purpose still,
  Because indeed they sought thee ill:
  For how could they discover thee
  That saw not when thou entered'st me?
 
 
  Mine eyes could tell me? If he were,
  Not coloured, sure he came not there.
  If not by sound, my ears could say
  He doubtless did not pass my way.
  My nose could nothing of him tell,
  Because my God he did not smell.
  None such I relished, said my taste,
  And therefore me he never passed.
  My feeling told me that none such
  There entered, for he none did touch.
  Resolved by them how should I be,
  Since none of all these are in thee,
 
 
  In thee, my God? Thou hast no hue
  That man's frail optic sense can view;
  No sound the ear hears; odour none
  The smell attracts; all taste is gone
  At thy appearance; where doth fail
  A body, how can touch prevail?
  What even the brute beasts comprehend—
  To think thee such, I should offend.
 
 
  Yet when I seek my God, I enquire
  For light than sun and moon much higher,
  More clear and splendrous, 'bove all light
  Which the eye receives not, 'tis so bright.
  I seek a voice beyond degree
  Of all melodious harmony:
  The ear conceives it not; a smell
  Which doth all other scents excel:
  No flower so sweet, no myrrh, no nard,
  Or aloës, with it compared;
  Of which the brain not sensible is.
  I seek a sweetness—such a bliss
  As hath all other sweets surpassed,
  And never palate yet could taste.
  I seek that to contain and hold
  No touch can feel, no embrace enfold.
 
 
  So far this light the rays extends,
  As that no place it comprehends.
  So deep this sound, that though it speak
  It cannot by a sense so weak
  Be entertained. A redolent grace
  The air blows not from place to place.
  A pleasant taste, of that delight
  It doth confound all appetite.
  A strict embrace, not felt, yet leaves
  That virtue, where it takes it cleaves.
  This light, this sound, this savouring grace,
  This tasteful sweet, this strict embrace,
  No place contains, no eye can see,
  My God is, and there's none but he.
 

Very remarkable verses from a dramatist! They indicate substratum enough for any art if only the art be there. Even those who cannot enter into the philosophy of them, which ranks him among the mystics of whom I have yet to speak, will understand a good deal of it symbolically: for how could he be expected to keep his poetry and his philosophy distinct when of themselves they were so ready to run into one; or in verse to define carefully betwixt degree and kind, when kinds themselves may rise by degrees? To distinguish without separating; to be able to see that what in their effects upon us are quite different, may yet be a grand flight of ascending steps, "to stop—no record hath told where," belongs to the philosopher who is not born mutilated, but is a poet as well.

John Fletcher, likewise a dramatist, the author of the following poem, was two years younger than Ben Jonson. It is, so far as I am aware, the sole non-dramatic voice he has left behind him. Its opening is an indignant apostrophe to certain men of pretended science, who in his time were much consulted—the Astrologers.