Whose precepts from hell's jaws our steps withdraw,

And whose example was a living law:

Who purg'd us with his blood; the way prepar'd To heaven, and those long-chain'd-up doors unbarr'd.

How infinite thy mercy! which exceeds

The world thou mad'st, as well as our misdeeds!
Which greater reverence than thy justice wins,
And still augments thy honour by our sins.
O who hath tasted of thy clemency

In greater measure, or more oft, than I!
My grateful verse thy goodness shall display,
O Thou who went'st along in all my way:
To where the morning with perfumed wings
From the high mountains of Panchæa springs,
To that new-found-out world, where sober night
Takes from the antipodes her silent flight;
To those dark seas, where horrid winter reigns,
And binds the stubborn floods in icy chains:
To Libyan wastes, whose thirst no showers assuage,
And where swoln Nilus cools the lion's rage.
Thy wonders in the deep have I beheld;
Yet all by those on Judah's hills excell'd:
There where the virgin's Son his doctrine taught,
His miracles, and our redemption wrought:
Where I, by Thee inspir'd, his praises sung;
And on his sepulchre my offering hung.
Which way soe'er I turn my face or feet,
I see thy glory, and thy mercy meet;
Met on the Thracian shores, when in the strife
Of frantic Simoans thou preserv'dst my life;
So when Arabian thieves belaid us round,
And whenby all abandon'd Thee I found.

That false Sidonian wolf, whose craft put on
A sheep's soft fleece, and me Bellerophon
To ruin by his cruel letter sent,

Thou didst by thy protecting hand prevent.
Thou sav'st me from the bloody massacres

Of faithless Indians; from their treacherous wars;
From raging fevers; from the sultry breath
Of tainted air, which cloy'd the jaws of death;
Preserved from swallowing seas, when tow'ring

waves

Mixed with the clouds, and opened their deep

graves;

From barbarous pirates ransom'd; by those taught
Successfully with Salian Moors we fought.

Then brought'st me home in safety; that this earth
Might bury me, which fed me from my birth:
Blest with a healthful age; a quiet mind,
Content with little; to this work designed;
Which I at length have finished by thy aid,
And now my vows have at thy altar paid.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

BORN 1584; DIED 1650.

THE family of Fletcher was rendered illustrious in the literary history of the 17th century, by a constellation of poetic power. Dr. Giles Fletcher, an accomplished scholar, and himself, as Wood the antiquary says, "an excellent poet," left two sons, Phineas and Giles, both of whom deserve an eminent place among our early English classics. John Fletcher, the dramatic writer, the associate of Beaumont, was their cousin. With reason, therefore, might the writer of a copy of verses, prefixed to the works of Phineas Fletcher, say,

66 Thy very name's a poet."

The principal composition of this author is "The Purple Island," a poem in twelve cantos, containing an allegorical description of the body and soul of man—a subject which no degree of skill in the poet could render agreeable as a whole to modern readers. It abounds, however, with passages of powerful description and great beauty both of thought and style.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

THE INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.'

FOND man, that looks on earth for happiness,

And here long seeks what here is never found! For all our good we hold from heav'n by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound;

Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due:
Though now but writ, and seal'd, and giv'n

anew,

Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good,
At ev'ry loss 'gainst heav'n's face repining?
Do but behold where glorious cities stood,
With gilded tops and silver turrets shining;
There now the hart fearless of greyhound
feeds,

And loving pelican in safety breeds:

There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes.'

'This and the next extract are from "The Purple Island." Steads, i. e. places.