JEREMY TAYLOR. JEREMY TAYLOR, the most eloquent of English preachers, was the author of many prose works of surpassing excellence, and, though little known as a poet, also of some hymns well deserving notice. It is true that they are not so remarkable as his prose, for felicity of diction, but they are replete with rich and noble thoughts, thoughts fitted to improve the heart of him who reads them. He was born in 1613, and died bishop of Down and Connor in 1667. THE WISE MEN COMING TO WORSHIP JESUS. A COMET dangling in the air, Presaged the ruin both of death and sin; The King of glory, and the Sun Till they appear In this blest infant King's propitious eye, It was idolatry no more. Great God! they gave to Thee Myrrh, frankincense and gold; But, Lord, with what shall we Present ourselves before thy Majesty, Whom Thou redeemest when we were sold? We've nothing but ourselves, and scarce that neither; Yet it is soft and may Impression take. Accept it, Lord, and say, this Thou hadst rather; The beauty of the golden mine. Amen. IMMANUEL. How good a God have we! who for our sake, To save us from the burning lake, Did change the order of creation : At first He made Man like Himself in his own image; now In the more blessed reparation, The heavens bow, Eternity took the measure of a span; And said, "Let us make ourselves like man; And not from man the woman take, But from the woman, man." Hallelujah, we adore His name, whose goodness hath no store. OF HEAVEN. O BEAUTEOUS God, uncircumscribed treasure Of an eternal pleasure, Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where Thou preparest a glorious place Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit, That build his hopes upon thy merit, HENRY KING. HENRY KING, author of miscellaneous poems, and a version of the Psalms, was born in 1591. He was successively Chaplain to James the First, Dean of Rochester, and Bishop of Chichester, and died in 1669. All the writings of King are religious, and there is a peculiar charm in his poetry, arising more from this circumstance than from its style. THE DIRGE. WHAT is the existence of man's life And never feels a perfect peace, Till death's cold hand signs his release? It is a storm, where the hot blood Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats his bark with many a wave, It is a flower, which buds and grows, Where its first being was enrolled. It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth; As wandering as his fancies are; The dreamer vanished quite away. And loves Thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or eyes, Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity? Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper stone; There the eye O' th' chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase, And above all, thy holy face, Makes an eternal charity. When Thou thy jewels up dost bind-that day Remember us we pray, That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There Thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face, And our soul, In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enrol, That we may praise Thee to eternity. Allelujah. |