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gives a tremendous catalogue. For instance, five stanzas are devoted to heretics, of which the following is one :"Tertullianists, Arabics, Symmachists,

Homousiasts, Elxites, Origenians,
Valesians, Agrippinians, Catharists,
Hydroparastates, Patripassians,

Apostolics, Angelics, Chiliasts,
Samosatenian Paulianists."

But the very rankness of the weeds indicates the fertility of the soil; and in Beaumont our imagination is frequently dazzled where our taste or our judgment is grievously offended; nor can the reader fail to carry away from his work an impression of ardent personal piety, as well as extraordinary mental opulence. 66 'Psyche" resembles an inter-tropical forest, where everything is too vast and too profuse, and where creatures, as grotesque as the monkey, are intermingled with the brightest of pinions and the fairest of flowers.

The Feeding of the Multitude.

The day, now grown decrepit (for the sun
Bow'd to the west), made His disciples pray
Their Lord to give the crowd dismission,
That in the desert's bordering burroughs they
Might get their suppers. No, said bounteous He-
They are my friends, and they shall sup with me.

Before these numerous mouths what will you set?
Cried they. Alas! two hundred pence in bread
Will not the sorry pittance of a bite

To every one afford; and furnished

How shall this mighty banquet be with dishes,
Since here's but five poor loaves and two small fishes?

As yet, they knew not that their Lord was He

Who able made the petty spring to feed,

And fill the river's vast capacity;

He who the single taper taught to breed


That fertile flame, which lights a thousand more
Without diminishing its native store.

He, by whose power Elijah could command
The final handful of the wasted meal

To grow upon the widow's hand,

From whom no scarceness could her bounty steal,
And by a springing harvest more than turn
The pined barrel to a plenteous barn.

But now they learn'd it: Go, said He, and make
My guests by fifty on a row sit down.
Which done, in His creating hands He took
The fish and bread, and lifting to His own

Fair heav'n His eyes, said grace; when, lo, His sweet
And mighty blessings swelled in the meat.

For, as He brake the bread, each fragment He
Made greater than the whole; no crumb did fall
But rose into a loaf as readily

As when you cut a line, whose products all
Are lines as well as it, though you for ever
The new emergent particles dissever.

Then His disciples' service he commands
To be officious to this growing feast,
And distribute into the people's hands
The teeming bread and fish: strait every guest

Fell to, admiring how that simple meat

Made them forget all honey to be sweet.

Satiety at length, not nauseous,
But soberly accomplish'd, put a close
To this strange banquet: when thy generous
Yet thrifty Lord, enjoins them not to lose
His bounty's surplusage, nor scorn the meat

Because He gave them more than they could eat.

Straightway the fragments all collected were,
Which fifty hundred feasted men had left:
When, lo, the total was exceeded far

By those remaining parts: the springing gift


Pursued its multiplication still,

And with the relics stuff'd twelve baskets full.

Know Psyche, that thy wise Redeemer by
This wonder, to a greater op'd the way;
The long-designed and precious mystery
Of His dear body, which He meant to lay
On every Christian altar, there to be
The endless feast of Catholic piety.

A feast which shall increase upon its guests,
And keep entire when millions filled are:
A feast of miracles, a feast of feasts,
Not to a desert tied, but everywhere
Dispers'd abroad, yet everywhere complete,
That all the world may freely come and eat.

Moses and Elías on the Mount of Transfiguration.

As His disciples wonder'd at the sight
Which peeping through their fingers they beheld,
They spied two strangers, whom with courteous light
The surplusage of Jesus' beams did gild.

They wistfully looked on them, musing who

The men might be, and what they came to do.

The first wore horned beams (though something dim
In this more radiant presence) on his face:
Full was his beard; his countenance 'twixt grim
And pleasant, breathing meek but stately grace;
His robes were large and princely; in his hand
He held a mystic and imperious wand.

A golden plate both deck'd and arm'd his breast
In which the two great words enamell'd were;
A grave, a goodly man he was, and drest
In such attire, that they no longer are
In doubt about him, but conclude that he,
Moses the legislator must needs be.


The other, sagely solemn in his look,

But coarse and homespun in his garb appear'd;
Nor had he any mantle's help to cloak

That vileness which in his poor raiment star'd;

The serious beams which darted from his eye
Spake eremitical severity.

Two ravens, whose plumes taught blackness how to shine,
Upon his venerable shoulders sat:

And, ravenous now no more, did freely join
Their services in purveying for his meat;
For in their faithful beaks they ready had
The one a piece of flesh, the other bread.

Behind him stood a flaming chariot,
With steeds all of the same fierce element;
Nor was their fire more than courage hot,
And much ado they had to stand content.
Which tokens being well observ'd, they knew
Those indications must Elias shew.

These two grand prophets, whom the Lord gave leave
To wear some glorious beams, though He were by,
Their reverend discourses interwove

Of His humanity's economy,

With high ecstatic words displaying how

At Salem He death's power should overthrow.



In his "Christian Poet," Mr Montgomery, noticing a volume entitled "Spiritual Songs; or, Songs of Praise, with Penitential Cries," &c., remarks: "The extracts hereunder given are from the twelfth edition, 1725. From the discreditable incorrectness of this copy, it cannot be supposed to have been printed under the eye of the author. Indeed, whoever he might be, it is probable that he had been long dead in that year. These compositions evidently belong to the preceding

century; and the author probably flourished between the age of Quarles and that of Watts, his style being a middle tint between the raw colouring of the former and the daylight clearness of the latter. His talent is equally poised between both, having more vigour and less versatility than that of either his forerunner or his successor. That such writings should once have been exceedingly popular (as the multitude of editions proves), and now be nearly forgotten, is little creditable to the admirers of sacred literature in this country. Dr Watts, Mr Pope, and the Wesleys, appear to have been familiar with the contents of this volume, sundry lines and phrases in verses of theirs being evidently borrowed from passages in it.”

The author of the hymns which thus commended themselves to the taste and piety of the bard of Sheffield, was John Mason, the grandfather of the better-known John Mason who wrote the treatise on "Self-Knowledge." He died in 1694. His "Spiritual Songs" retained a measure of popular favour till the middle of last century. The edition which we have used is the fourteenth, dated 1750. Dr Watts's brother, Enoch, speaks of them as attaining only to a sort of "yawning indifferency;"* but a later critic speaks of them more generously, and much more truly, as “equalled by few writers of hymns," and "remarkable for a pure and sound, though high-toned devotion."+

“Surely E come quickly.”

I sojourn in a vale of tears,

Alas, how can I sing?

My harp doth on the willows hang,
Distun'd in every string.

* Milner's Life of Watts, p. 177.

+ Cattermole's Sacred Poetry of the Seventeenth Century, vol. ii. p. 387.

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