Then lion's whelps lie roaring for their prey,
And at thy powerful hand demand their food:
Who when at morn they all recouch again,
Then toiling man 'till eve pursues his pain.

O Lord, when on thy various works we look,
How richly furnished is the earth we tread!
Where in the fair contents of nature's book,

We may the wonders of thy wisdom read: Nor earth alone, but lo, the sea so wide Where great and small, a world of creatures glide.

There go the ships that furrow out their

way, Yea, there of whales enormous sights we see, Which yet have scope among the rest to play,

And all do wait for their support on thee: Who hast assigned each thing his proper food, And in due season dost dispense thy good.

They gather when thy gifts thou dost divide;

Their stores abound, if thou thy hand enlarge; Confused they are, when thou thy beams dost hide;

In dust resolved, if thou their breath discharge. Again, when thou of life renew'st the seeds, The withered fields revest their chearful weeds.

Be ever gloried here thy sovereign name,

That thou mayst smile on all that thou hast made; Whose frown alone can shake this earthly frame, And at whose touch the hills in smoke shall vade. For me, may while I breath, both harp and voice, In sweet indictments of thy hymns rejoice.

Let sinners fail, let all profaneness cease,

His praise, my soul, his praise shall be thy peace! H. WOTTON.

W

Γ

This is the most elaborate of all Sir Henry Wotton's remaining poetical compositions, and may be fairly considered a good example of a difficult kind of exercise, in which many of our greatest writers have entirely failed. The composition of hymns was one of the purposed means of employing his leisure, when set led at Eton; and he expressed this intention in a letter to the king, announcing his having entered into Deacon's orders, in the following passage. "Though I must humbly confess, that both my conception and expressions be weak, yet I do more trust my deliberation than my memory: or if your majesty will give me leave to paint myself in higher terms, I think I shall be bolder against the judgments than against the faces of men. This I conceive to be a piece of mine own character; so as my private study must be my theatre, rather than a pulpit; and my books my auditors, as they are all my treasure. Howsoever, if I can produce nothing else for the use of church and state, yet it shall be comfort enough to the little remnant of my life, to compose some hymns to his endless glory, who hath called me, for which his name be ever blessed, though late, to his service, yet early to the knowledge of his truth, and sense of his mercy."

Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife.

He first deceased;—she for a little tried
To live without him: liked it not, and died!

H. W.

This is one of the very best imitations of the point, spirit, and conciseness of the Greek epigram, in the English language: Sir Henry doubtless, was pleased

with the thought himself. In a Letter to his friend Jack Dinely, then secretary to the Queen of Bohemia, he mentions it in the following terms:-"If the Queen have not heard the epitaph of Albertus Morton and his Lady,—authoris incerti,—it is worth her hearing, for the passionate plainness." This Letter is dated November, 1628, which fixes the time of its conception.

A description of the Country's Recreations.
Quivering fears, heart-rending cares,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts !

Fly to fond worldling's sports,

Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery,

And sorrows only real be!

Fly from our country pastimes!-fly
Sad troop of human misery!

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the chrystal brooks,

Or the pure azur'd Heaven, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty!

Peace, and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals!-did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in the bowers,

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may

shake,

But blustering care could never tempests make,

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic mask or dance,

But of our kids that frisk and prance;

Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one another,

Which done both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found,

Save what the plough-share gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits,

To hasten too, too, hasty fates;

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish, which wordlings like, still look,
Upon the bait, but never on the hook :

Nor envy, unless among

The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go, let the diving negro seek

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek;

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; And gold ne'er here appears,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest silent groves!-O may ye

be

For ever mirth's best nursery !

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents,

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these

mountains,

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains; Which we may every year

Find, when we come a fishing here.

IGNOTO.

66

It may be doubted whether this be a poem of Sir Henry Wotton's, or not, it is rather in a higher mood" than most of his strains, and has not the usual signature, or the initials of his name.Walton arranges it with "Poems found among the papers of Sir Henry Wotton,"-some of which certainly were by other hands; at the same time it

remarked, that he himself addressed one of ha

be

com

positions to his friend Dinely, as the work-authoris incerti.—Another poem, with the same signature of "Ignoto," is decidedly in Wotton's style.

De Morte.

Man's life's a Tragedy: his mother's womb
From which he enters, is the 'tiring room;
This spacious earth the theatre; and the stage,
That country which he lives in; passions, rage,
Folly, and vice, are actors;-the first cry
The prologue to the ensuing tragedy:
The former act consisteth of dumb shews;
The second he to more perfection grows;
In the third he is a man, and doth begin
To nurture vice, and act the deeds of sin;
In the fourth declines; in the fifth diseases clog
And trouble him; then death's his epilogue.

IGNOTO.

To the rarely accomplished, and worthy of best employment, Mr. HOWELL, upon his VOCAL FOREST.

Believe it, sir, you happily have hit,

Upon a curious fancy of such wit,