THE ANGELS-THE SHEPHERDS.

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division, and thus fashioning for itself a fitting body. The melody of their verse is all their own-as original as the greatest art-forms of the masters. Of Drummond, then, here are two sonnets on the Nativity; the first spoken by the angels, the second by the shepherds.

The Angels.

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears.

We bring the best of news; be not dismayed:

A Saviour there is born more old than years,

Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed.
In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid

A weakling did him bear, who all upbears;

There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid,
To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:
Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth.

This is that night-no, day, grown great with bliss,
In which the power of Satan broken is :

In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth!

Thus singing, through the air the angels swam,
And cope of stars re-echoed the same.

The Shepherds.

O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night!

Night to best days, in which a sun doth rise

Of which that golden eye which clears the skies
Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light!

And blessed ye, in silly pastors' sight,

Mild creatures, in whose warm1 crib now lies
That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born wight,
Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread!
Though withered-blessed grass, that hath the grace
To deck and be a carpet to that place!

Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed,

Before the babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;
And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.

1 Warm is here elongated, almost treated as a dissyllable.

simple.

No doubt there is a touch of the conventional in these. Especially in the close of the last there is an attempt to glorify the true by the homage of the false. But verses which make us feel the marvel afresh-the marvel visible and credible by the depth of its heart of glory-make us at the same time easily forget the discord in themselves.

The following, not a sonnet, although it looks like
one, measuring the lawful fourteen lines, is the closing
paragraph of a poem he calls A Hymn to the Fairest Fair.
O king, whose greatness none can comprehend,
Whose boundless goodness doth to all extend!
Light of all beauty! ocean without ground,
That standing flowest, giving dost abound!
Rich palace, and indweller ever blest,
Never not working, ever yet in rest!

What wit cannot conceive, words say of thee,
Here, where, as in a mirror, we but see
Shadows of shadows, atoms of thy might,
Still owly-eyed while staring on thy light,

Grant that, released from this earthly jail,

And freed of clouds which here our knowledge veil,
In heaven's high temples, where thy praises ring,
I may in sweeter notes hear angels sing.

That is, "May I in heaven hear angels sing what wit cannot conceive here."

Drummond excels in nobility of speech, and especially in the fine line and phrase, so justly but disproportionately prized in the present day. I give an instance of each:

Here do seraphim

Burn with immortal love; there cherubim

With other noble people of the light,

As eaglets in the sun, delight their sight.

Like to a lightning through the welkin hurled,
That scores with flames the way, and every eye
With terror dazzles as it swimmeth by.

Here are six fine verses, in the heroic couplet, from An Hymn of the Resurrection.

So a small seed that in the earth lies hid
And dies-reviving bursts her cloddy side;
Adorned with yellow locks, of new is born,
And doth become a mother great with corn;
Of grains bring hundreds with it, which when old
Enrich the furrows with a sea of gold.

But I must content myself now with a little madrigal, the only one fit for my purpose. Those which would best support what I have said of his music are not of the kind we want. Unfortunately, the end of this one is not equal to the beginning.

CHANGE SHOULD BREED CHANGE.

New doth the sun appear;

The mountains' snows decay;

Crowned with frail flowers comes forth the baby year.

My soul, time posts away;

And thou yet in that frost,

Which flower and fruit hath lost,

As if all here immortal were, dost stay!

For shame thy powers awake;

Look to that heaven which never night makes black ;
And there, at that immortal sun's bright rays,

Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BROTHERS FLETCHER.

I NOW come to make mention of two gifted brothers, Giles and Phineas Fletcher, both clergymen, the sons of a clergyman and nephews to the Bishop of Bristol, therefore the cousins of Fletcher the dramatist, a poem by whom I have already given. Giles, the eldest, is supposed to have been born in 1588. From his poem Christ's Victory and Triumph, I select three passages.

To understand the first, it is necessary to explain that while Christ is on earth a dispute between Justice and Mercy, such as is often represented by the theologians, takes place in heaven. We must allow the unsuitable fiction attributing distraction to the divine Unity, for the sake of the words in which Mercy overthrows the arguments of Justice. For the poet unintentionally nullifies the symbolism of the theologian, representing Justice as defeated. He forgets that the grandest exercise of justice is mercy. The confusion comes from the fancy that justice means vengeance upon sin, and not the doing of what is right. Justice can be at no strife with mercy, for not to do what is just would be most unmerciful.

MERCY AND JUSTICE.

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Mercy first sums up the arguments Justice has been employing against her, in the following stanza :

He was but dust; why feared he not to fall?
And being fallen how can he hope to live?
Cannot the hand destroy him that made all?
Could he not take away as well as give?

Should man deprave, and should not God deprive?
Was it not all the world's deceiving spirit

(That, bladdered up with pride of his own merit,
Fell in his rise) that him of heaven did disinherit?

To these she then proceeds to make reply :

He was but dust: how could he stand before him?
And being fallen, why should he fear to die?
Cannot the hand that made him first, restore him?
Depraved of sin, should he deprived lie
Of grace? Can he not find infirmity

That

gave him strength?-Unworthy the forsaking
He is, whoever weighs (without mistaking)
Or maker of the man or manner of his making.1

Who shall thy temple incense any more,

Or to thy altar crown the sacrifice,

Or strew with idle flowers the hallowed floor?

Or what should prayer deck with herbs and spice,

Her vials breathing orisons of price,

If all must pay that which all cannot pay?

O first begin with me, and Mercy slay,

And thy thrice honoured Son, that now beneath doth stray.

But if or he or I may live and speak,

And heaven can joy to see a sinner weep,

Oh let not Justice' iron sceptre break

A heart already broke, that low doth creep,

And with prone humbless her feet's dust doth sweep.

Must all go by desert? Is nothing free?
Ah! if but those that only worthy be,

None should thee ever see! none should thee ever see!

why.

1 He ought not to be forsaken: whoever weighs the matter rightly, will come to this conclusion."