Who does not wish to realize oneness with those who used to sing such hymns? In many respects mere translations are defective, but in this case they may be so far in the spirit and manner of the originals as to show us that the early English Christians really learnt to "admonish one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs."

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England, however, may be said to have had a second Christian birth-time, when she was saved from the darkness and corruption which for many centuries, in her later history, had been enclosing and oppressing her Christian life, when in all her sanctuaries she might have sung one of her own bishop's hymns :—

Hence in thy truth thy church delights ¦
From all corruptions freed;
Unblemish'd worship, spotless rites,

And unadulterate creed:

Hence thy pure words her children lead

To speak the united prayer,

Their Saviour's name alone to plead,

His cup of blessing share.

O God, whose love, our country's guides,
Once nerved with courage strong,
And still o'er us their sons presides
Accept our grateful song.
And O the truth, revived among

Our sires from times of old,
Do Thou to future times prolong,
And grant our sons to hold!

The process of England's Christian renewal was somewhat slow; beginning amidst the changes under Henry VIII., and unfolding its first definite results as the claims of the Stuart dynasty yielded to the rights of conscience and of law. The seventeenth century may be called the age of England's renovation, and the period was marked by a quickening in every department of public life. Every sphere of science, literature, arts, and religion was adorned with the most illustrious talent, learning, and genius. Nor was the age wanting in poets whose hallowed powers were given to Him whose grace had inspired the new Christian life. Psalms and hymns broke forth then, as well as in the earlier times of deliverance. The hymns were not perhaps so simple, so childlike; their manner and style had more of the artificial; and, like the times which gave them birth, they had too many elaborated conceits, and quaint turns of thought and expression; still, they had their distinctive beauty, and were quite equal in spirituality, and cheerfulness, and warmth. Among other hymnists of the age, there was Francis Quarles. Who can forget him? He was "the darling of our plebeian judgments," as Milton's nephew, Phillips, called him, with a kind of prophetic insight into the unfailing popularity of "Quarles's Divine Emblems," in the cottage homes

of his country. Born in Essex in 1592, Quarles was by and by known among the Cambridge scholars, then respected as a student in Lincoln's Inn; and then, by turns, he acted as cup-bearer to a royal hymnist, Elizabeth of Bohemia, as secretary to Archbishop Usher, and as chronologer to the City of London. Amidst all the activities of his busy and public life his poetic genius was kept in full play; ever and anon giving to the world either a "Job Militant," or a "Feast of Worms," or "Sion's Elegies," or the fruits of "the Morning Muse." The good man, however, like many of his fellows, suffered so much from the strife of parties that he fell a victim to sorrow at the age of fifty-two. His "Emblems" have enriched the thoughts of many a peasant; but peasant and prince alike may enjoy hist noble hymn on " Delight in God Only."

I love (and have some cause to love) the earth:
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse—she gives me food;

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her daily sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:

But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee?

I love the sea she is my fellow creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store;
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain my eye,
Mine eye, by contemplations great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky :

But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee?
Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me.

Without thy presence earth gives no refection;
Without thy presence sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence air's a rank infection;
Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure;
If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in Thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honours that the world can boast,
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But mighty glow-worms, if compared to Thee.

Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet sadness:
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;

Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being when compared with Thee.

In having all things, and not Thee, what have I?
Not having Thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?

I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be,
Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of Thee.

Chapter VII.

HYMNS FROM OLD CLOISTERS.

"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing."

AVE you learnt to bless the name of Jesus from the depth of a loving heart? Then, at times, you have been sweetly touched or strangely warmed, while trying to realize communion with all that is holy in the past, as you caught the music of a hymn coming, now but faintly, and now in swelling fervent tones from successive generations of the faithful. Listen! Do you know the gracious heartfelt verses?

Jesus, the only thought of Thee,
With sweetness fills my breast;

But sweeter far it is to see,

And on thy beauty feast.

No sound, no harmony so gay,

Can art, or music frame:

No thought can reach, no words can say,

The sweets of thy bless'd name.