See there thy spouse is on the bank, and more
Than heaven flown down and pitch'd upon his head;
That snowy Dove, which perched heretofore
High on the all-illustrious throne of God,

Hath chose this seat, nor thinks it a descent
On such high terms to leave the firmament.

For wheresoever Jesus is, although
In the profoundest gulph of black disgrace,
Still Glory triumphs in his soveraign brow,
Still Majesty holds its imperial place

In the bright orb of his all-lovely eye;
Still most depressed He remains Most High.

And heaven well witness'd this strange truth, which in
That wondrous instant oped its mouth, and cry'd,
"This is my darling Son, in whom do shine
All my joy's jewels." O how far and wide

That voice did fly, on which each wind gat hold,
And round about the world the wonder told.

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Christ stilling the Tempest.

HERE having step'd aboard, He turn'd his eye
Upon the storm, and sternly signified
His royal will their duty instantly
The winds discover'd in that glance, and hied
Away in such great haste and fear, that they
Lost all their breath and spirits by the way.

The mutinous billows saw his awful look,
And hush'd themselves all close into their deep :
The sea grew tame and smooth; the thunder broke
Its threatning off; forth durst no lightning peep,
But kept its black nest, now outshined by
The flashing mandates of its Master's eye.

The Devils, who all this while had toss'd and rent
The elements, perceived the final wrack

Fall on their own design, and yelling went
Home to their pangs; the clouds in sunder brake,
And having clear'd the scene of these loud wars,
Left heaven's free face all full of smiling stars.

Forthwith the ship without or sail, or tide,
Kept strait its course, and flew to kiss the shore:
Where Jesus deigns to be the vessel's Guide,
There needs no help of time, tide, wind, or oar;

His eye alone might drive the bark, whose look
Abash'd the sea, the storm with terror stroke.

His eye, his eye is that eternal star

Which gildeth both the poles; which day and night
Equally shines; which guides all those who are
Sailing in life's rough sea: for by his light,

And none but his, each mortal mariner
Who goes for safety's port, his course must steer.

THOMAS KEN.

BORN 1637. DIED 1710.

Sometime Bishop of Bath and Wells. He had the double honour of being one of the seven prelates, sent to the Tower for protesting against the tyrannical usurpations of spiritual authority by James II. and also of conscientiously vacating his see, rather than take the oaths to William III. after having sworn allegiance to his predecessor.-His Poems are numerous and of considerable merit, though by three only is he now generally known-the Morning, Evening, and Midnight Hymns.

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Christ's virtual presence on Earth.

WHEN Peter cry'd out, sinking in the wave,
And Jesus stretch'd his hand the saint to save;
Had Jesus been in heaven when Peter pray'd,
And sent invisible, yet mighty aid;

JOSEPH BEAUMONT.

BORN 1615. DIED 1699.

Author of Psyche, or Love's Mystery, in Twenty-four Cantos, displaying the intercourse between Christ and the Soul:-the long. est Poem in the English language, consisting of nearly forty thou sand lines; yet scarcely known, even by name, to one reader in a thousand. This work is so mystical, allegorical, and rhapsodical, that it would be vain to attempt any sketch of the plan here: it is, indeed, like some other poems of the age, (Stirling's Doome's Day, for example) a history of the world, in a certain line,-here limited to the revelations of Himself by God, " at sundry times and in divers manners." The pages perpetually present striking and brilliant scintillations of genius and fine thought, amidst obscurity and dulness, which no effort of patience in these "degenerate days," (when readers are as much stunted in their plodding facul ties as heroes in their bodily stature, in comparison with those of the olden time,) can be expected to overcome; and yet that the enterprise of an adventurer, who could persevere through the whole, would be reasonably rewarded, must be manifest from the quotations that follow.

John the Baptist in the Wilderness.

[Phylax, Psyche's Guardian Angel, describes to her the pictures embroidered on a girdle, transmitted to her by " the Spouse."]

BUT there the scene is changed, where Desolation
Was sole inhabitant, until that one

Poor Ermite chose his tamest habitation,

Amidst its wildness: that plain thing is John.

'Tis strange how Mary taught such gems to seem So vile a garb, as here becloudeth him.

That cincture stands but for a thong of leather,
That vestiment for a coat of camel's hair:
The sum of all his wardrobe was no other
But what upon his simple self he bare.
"No riches will I own," said noble he,
"But what may make me rich in poverty.

"I know my dust; nor shall my flesh and blood,
Flatter my heart into forgetfulness,

That they are sentenced to become the food
Of putrefaction: and why should I dress
Corruption's seeds in beautie's livery,
And be a painted tomb before I dy?

"I'll rob no ermyn of his dainty skin
To make mine own grow proud: no cloth of gold
To me shall dangerous emulation win:

I live to live; I live not to be sold:

And fine enough this clod of mine shall be
In weeds which best will suit humility.

"This hairy covering is my only bed,
My shirt, my cloke, my gown, my every-thing;
When over it these several names I read,
His furniture I well can spare the king,
The tumult of whose store yields no supply
So fully fit, as my epitomy."

His common diet those poor locusts are;
And when he feasts, he lifts but up his head,
And strait those courteous trees, to mend his fare,
Into his mouth sincerest honey shed;

Nor turns he down that mouth, until it has
Pay'd for its sweet feast by a sweeter grace.

Here with himself he does converse: a rare
And painful thing, when men in presses dwell;
Where, whilst on those who crowd them still they stare,
Unhappy they, alas, though too, too well

Skilled in all their neighbours, never come
To be acquainted with themselves at home.

The rest of his acquaintance dwelt on high,
Beyond his eyes' reach, but within his heart's:
For with what speed brave lightnings downward fly,
Through every stage of heaven, this upward darts:
Nor will its sprightful journey bounded be
By any rampart but immensity.

At God it aims, nor ever fails to hit

Its blessed mark, whilst on strong Prayer's wings,
Or Contemplation's it steers its flight:
And rank'd above with joyous angels sings,
Admires, adores, and studies to forget
There is a breast below which wanteth it.

He fetch'd no bold materials from the deep
Bowels of any marble mine, to raise

A daring fabric, which might scorn the steep
Torrent of headlong time; as if his days

And years had been his own, and he might here
Lord of his life for ever domineer.

He knew the least blast's indignation might
His brittle dust and ashes blow away:

He knew most certain death's uncertain night
Lurk'd in the bosom of his vital day :

He knew, that any house would serve him, who
Look'd for no home so long's he dwelt below.

'That cave his palace was, both safe and strong,
Because not kept by jealous door nor bar:
Those groves his gardens, where he walk'd among
The family of dread, yet knew no fear:

For fear's wild realm is not the wilderness,

But that foul breast where guilt the dweller is.

Those bears, those boars, those wolves, whose ireful face

Strikes terror into other mortal eyes,

With friendly mildness upon him did gaze,

As on sweet Adam in calm paradise;

They slander'd are with savageness; no spleen
They bear to man, but to man's poison, sin.

So wild, so black, and so mis-shaped a beast
Is sin, that other monsters it defy,

As a more monstrous thing than they, and cast
About how to revenge it: but the eye

And port of purity so reverend are,

That beasts most feared wait on it with fear.