All that is good he'd crush, A pricking thorny bush, Such Christ was crowned with: Their worship's like to this, The reed, the Judas kiss, Such the religion is, That these abound with; They mock Christ with the knee Whene'er they bow it; As if God did not see The heart, and know it. Of good they choose the least, The joyful, heavenly feast, Which Christ would give them; Heaven hath scarce one cold wish, They live unto the flesh, Like swine they feed on wash, Satan doth drive them. JOHN QUARLES, A SON of Francis Quarles, inherited much of his father's character and genius. He was educated by Archbishop Usher, upon whose death he wrote an elegy, beginning with these beautiful lines: "Then weep no more; see how his peaceful breast, Disturb him not; but let him sweetly take A full repose; he hath been long awake." He was for some time engaged in the civil wars, travelled abroad, and returning to London, died of the plague in 1665. HYMN. GREAT GOD, whose sceptre rules the earth, Distil thy fear into my heart, That, being rapt with holy mirth, I may proclaim how good thou art: Open my lips, that I may sing Great God, thy garden is defaced, The weeds thrive there, the flowers decay; Restore thou them, cut these away: In all extremes, Lord, thou art still The mount whereto my hopes do flee; O make my soul detest all ill, Because so much abhorred by Thee: That I am just, or make me so. Shall mountain, desert, beast, and tree, Nor stir this stone-this heart of mine? Fountain of light, and living breath, Whose mercies never fail nor fade, Fill me with light that hath no shade; Lord, God of gods, before whose throne When all the world belongs to Thee? O Thou that sittest in heaven, and seest I care not, so I rise to Thee. What I possess, or what I crave, Brings no content, great God, to me, If what I would or what I have Be not possessed and blessed in Thee: What I enjoy, oh, make it mine, In making me that have it-Thine. When winter-fortunes cloud the brows Of summer-friends,—when eyes grow strange,— When plighted faith forgets its vows, When earth and all things in it change,— O Lord, thy mercies fail me never,— When once Thou lovest, Thou lovest forever. Great God, whose kingdom hath no end, SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE, a poet, physician, and miscellaneous writer, was born in 1654. Among his poems are "The Creation," "The Redeemer," a " Paraphrase on the Book of Job," and a "Version of the Psalms." Blackmore was the butt of contemporary wits. Dryden commenced the persecution, and a host followed. Heedless, however, of this, he went on in his selected path, and he has received his reward in the commendations of such men as Addison, Locke, and Johnson. He died in 1739. THE HUNDRED AND FOURTEENTH PSALM PARAPHRASED. WHEN God a thousand miracles had wrought, Their God, and with celestial light While all their neighbors lay involved in night. |