it of John Bunyan, the
tinker, probably the gipsy, who although born only and not made a poet,
like his great brother, John Milton, has uttered in prose a wealth of
poetic thought. He was born in 1628, twenty years after Milton. I must
not, however, remark on this noble Bohemian of literature and prophecy;
but leaving at length these flowery hills and meadows behind me, step on
my way across the desert.--England had now fallen under the influence of
France instead of Italy, and that influence has never been for good to
our literature, at least. Thence its chief aim grew to be a desirable
trimness of speech and logical arrangement of matter--good external
qualities purchased at a fearful price with the loss of all that makes
poetry precious. The poets of England, with John Dryden at their head,
ceased almost for a time to deal with the truths of humanity, and gave
themselves to the facts and relations of society. The nation which could
recall the family of the Stuarts must necessarily fall into such a decay
of spiritual life as should render its literature only respectable at the
best, and its religious utterances essentially vulgar. But the decay is
gradual.

Bishop Ken, born in 1637, is known chiefly by his hymns for the morning
and evening, deservedly popular. He has, however, written a great many
besides--too many, indeed, for variety or excellence. He seems to have
set himself to write them as acts of worship. They present many signs of
a perversion of taste which, though not in them so remarkable, rose to a
height before long. He annoys us besides by the constant recurrence of
certain phrases, one or two of which are not admirable, and by using, in
the midst of a simple style, odd Latin words. Here are portions of, I
think, one of his best, and good it is.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

* * * * *

Lord, 'tis thyself who hast impressed
In native light on human breast,
That their Creator all
Mankind should Father call:
A father's love all mortals know,
And the love filial which they owe.

Our Father gives us heavenly light,
And to be happy, ghostly sight;
He blesses, guides, sustains;
He eases us in pains;
Abatements for our weakness makes,
And never a true child forsakes.

He waits till the hard heart relents;
Our self-damnation he laments;
He sweetly them invites
To share in heaven's delights;
His arms he opens to recei