Whilst they a title make to understand
Whatever secret's bosom'd in the land.

But God shall imp their pride, and let them see
They are but fools in a sublime degree:

He shall bring down and humble those proud eyes,

In which false glasses only they look'd wise;

That all the world may laugh, and learn by it—
There is no folly to' pretended wit.

Woe unto those that draw iniquity
With cords, and by a vain security
Lengthen the sinful trace, till their own chain
Of many links, form'd by laborious pain,
Do pull them into hell; that as with lines
And cart-ropes drag on their unwilling crimes;
Who, rather than they will commit no sin,
Tempt all occasions to let it in,

As if there were no God, who must exact
The strict account for ev'ry vicious fact-
Nor judgment after death. "If any be,
Let him make speed (say they) that we may see.
Why is his work retarded by delay ?
Why doth himself thus linger on the way?
If there be any judge or future doom,
Let it and him with speed together come."
Unhappy men! that challenge and defy
The coming of that dreadful Majesty !
Better by much, for you, he did reverse
His purposed sentence on the universe;
That time's revolting hand would lag the year,
And so put back his day which is too near.

Behold his signs advanc'd like colours fly,
To tell the world that his approach is nigh;

To be compared to.

And, in a furious march, he's coming on,
Swift as the raging inundation,

To scour the sinful world, 'gainst which is bent
Artillery that never can be spent!-

Bows strung with vengeance, and flame-feathered darts,

Headed with death, to wound transgressing hearts;
His chariot-wheels wrapt in the whirlwind's gyre;
His horses hoof'd with flint and shod with fire,
In which amaze, where'er they fix their eye,
Or on the melting earth, or up on high,

To seek heaven's shrunk lights, nothing shall ap

pear

But night and horror in their hemisphere;

Nor shall the affrighted sense more objects know, Than darken'd skies above, and hell below.

A PENITENTIAL HYMN.

HEARKEN, O God! unto a wretch's cries,
Who low dejected at thy footstool lies.
Let not the clamour of my heinous sin
Drown my requests, which strive to enter in
At these bright gates, which always open stand
To such as beg permission at thy hand.

For well I know, if thou in rigour deal,

I can nor pardon ask, not yet appeal;

To my hoarse voice heaven will no audience grant,

But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant,

Beat back my words: therefore I bring to thee

A gracious Advocate to plead for me.

What though my lep'rous soul no Jordan can
Recure, nor floods of the lav'd ocean

Make clean? Yet, from my Saviour's bleeding side

Two large and medicinal rivers glide:

Lord! wash me where those streams of life abound, And new Bethesdas flow from every wound.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BORN 1592; DIED 1664.

THE chief poems of Quarles are, the "Scripture Histories of Sampson, Job, Esther, and Jonah ;" "Emblems;" the "School of the Heart;" "Sion's Elegies ;" and "Hieroglyphics of the Life of Man ;" of which, the "Emblems" alone continued to retain some degree of popular esteem within the memory of the existing generation. Quarles was a writer of extensive learning, a lively fancy, and profound piety. His style, everywhere devoid of polish, presents nevertheless some of the best specimens of manly and vigorous versification to be found among our poets of the second order; but is debased by vulgarisms, and deformed by quaint conceits. The space assigned to the following selections may appear disproportionately large to those who have only beheld from a distance that languid twilight of the author's fame, which lingers among the few who yet read his "Emblems," and perhaps one or two of his lessremembered works, merely as aids to devotion. It is believed, however, that few persons will attentively peruse these specimens, without imbibing a wish to become further acquainted with the volumes from which they are derived.