HENRY MORE.

BORN 1614; DIED 1687.

AMONG the greatest ornaments of the literature of the church of England are the works of those theologians of the 17th century, who, from having investigated and explained the analogy between Christianity and the ideal philosophy of the Greeks, acquired the name of Platonic Divines. Such were Cudworth, Mede, Joseph Beaumont, Norris, and others—ripe scholars and holy men; but, perhaps, the most remarkable of them all was Henry More. With talents peculiarly fitted to secure admiration and success in the times in which he lived, he was ambitious only of retirement and a free leisure; refusing high preferment in the church, and devoting himself to a life of study and contemplation. His "Mystery of Godliness," "Mystery of Iniquity," "Philosophical Collections," and other laborious productions, though little to the taste of modern readers, once enjoyed a great degree of popularity. His "Psycho-Zoïa, or Life of the Soul," and other philosophical poems, are metaphysical treatises in verse, generally dry and technical enough; yet not wholly unenlivened by gleams of fancy and bursts of poetic feeling.

HENRY MORE.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.

SING aloud; his praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.

eye;

He the boundless heavens has spread
All the vital orbs has kned ;'
He that on Olympus high
Tends his flock with watchful
And this eye has multiplied
Midst each flock for to reside.
Thus, as round about they stray,
Toucheth each with out-stretch'd ray :
Nimbly they hold on their way,
Shaping out their night and day.
Never slack they; none respires,
Dancing round their central fires.

In due order as they move, Echoes sweet be gently drove Thorough heaven's vast hollowness, Which unto all corners press—

Music, that the heart of Jove
Moves to joy and sportful love;

1 Kneaded-made, compounded.

Fills the listening sailor's ears,
Riding on the wandering spheres.
Neither speech nor language is,
Where their voice is not transmiss.

God is good, is wise, is strong, Witness all the creature-throng; Is confess'd by every tongue

All things-back from whence they sprung, As the thankful rivers pay

What they borrowed of the sea.

Now, myself, I do resign;
Take me whole, I all am thine.
Save me, God! from self-desire,
Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire;
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire:
Let not lust my soul bemire.

Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing,
Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O wisdom's sons !
Freed from vain religions.

Lo! from far I you salute,

Sweetly warbling on my lute.

India, Egypt, Araby,

Asia, Greece, and Tartary,

Carmel-tracts and Lebanon,

With the mountains of the moon,
From whence muddy Nile doth run;
Or, wherever else you won,

Breathing in one vital air;—
One we are though distant far.

Rise at once-let's sacrifice: Odours sweet perfume the skies.

See how heavenly lightning fires
Hearts inflamed with high aspires ;
All the substance of our souls
Up in clouds of incense rolls!
Leave we nothing to ourselves
Save a voice-what need we else?
Or an hand to wear and tire
On the thankful lute or lyre.

Sing aloud; his praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.

CUPID'S CONFLICT.

UPON a day, as best did please my mind,
Walking abroad amidst the verdant field,
Scattering my careful thoughts i' th' wanton wind;
The pleasure of my path so far had till'd1
My feeble feet that without timely rests
Uneath it were to reach my wonted nest.

In secret shade, far moved from mortal's sight,
In lowly dale my wandering limbs I laid
On the cool grass, where nature's pregnant wit
A goodly bower of thickest trees had made:

Amongst the leaves the cheerful birds did fare,
And sweetly carrol'd to the echoing air.

Hard at my feet ran down a crystal spring, Which did the cumb'rous pebbles hoarsely chide For standing in the way. Though murmuring, The broken stream his course did rightly guide;