ng that he is our head, the captain of our
salvation, the perfect humanity in which our life is hid! Yet it has its
dignity. When one has got over the oddity of these last six lines, the
figure contained in them shows itself almost grand.

As an individual specimen of the grotesque form holding a fine sense,
regard for a moment the words,

He was all gold when he lay down, but rose
All tincture;

which means, that, entirely good when he died, he was something yet
greater when he rose, for he had gained the power of making others good:
the _tincture_ intended here was a substance whose touch would turn the
basest metal into gold.

Through his poems are scattered many fine passages; but not even his
large influence on the better poets who followed is sufficient to justify
our listening to him longer now.

CHAPTER VIII.

BISHOP HALL AND GEORGE SANDYS.

Joseph Hall, born in 1574, a year after Dr. Donne, bishop, first of
Exeter, next of Norwich, is best known by his satires. It is not for such
that I can mention him: the most honest satire can claim no place amongst
religious poems. It is doubtful if satire ever did any good. Its very
language is that of the half-brute from which it is well named.

Here are three poems, however, which the bishop wrote for his choir.

ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER.

Lord, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:
My time, my flesh, my life, and I,
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death.
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
My sport sin too, my stay a puff of breath.
What end of sin? Hell's horror never ending:
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place,
Help to make up my doleful case.

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss.
Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect light.
What is thy time? Eternity it is.
What state? Attendance of each glorious sprite:
Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.

How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul. But which way should I fly?
Thou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts--of faith, of hope, of love:
Oh, let these wings, that way alone
Present me to thy blissful t