nt. Here is a
portion of the Fifty-first Psalm, translated amongst others into English
verse by John Croke, Master in Chancery, in the reign of Henry VIII.

Open my lips first to confess
My sin conceived inwardly;
And my mouth after shall express
Thy laud and praises outwardly.

If I should offer for my sin,
Or sacrifice do unto thee
Of beast or fowl, I should begin
To stir thy wrath more towards me.

Offer we must for sacrifice
A troubled mind with sorrow's smart:
Canst thou refuse? Nay, nor despise
The humble and the contrite heart.

To us of Sion that be born,
If thou thy favour wilt renew,
The broken sowle, the temple torn, _threshold._
The walls and all shall be made new.

The sacrifice then shall we make
Of justice and of pure intent;
And all things else thou wilt well take
That we shall offer or present.

In the works of George Gascoigne I find one poem fit for quoting here. He
is not an interesting writer, and, although his verse is very good, there
is little likelihood of its ever being read more than it is now. The date
of his birth is unknown, but probably he was in his teens when Surrey was
beheaded in the year 1547. He is the only poet whose style reminds me of
his, although the _wherefore_ will hardly be evident from my quotation.
It is equally flat, but more articulate. I need not detain my reader with
remarks upon him. The fact is, I am glad to have something, if not "a
cart-load of wholesome instructions," to cast into this Slough of
Despond, should it be only to see it vanish. The poem is called

GASCOIGNE'S GOOD MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night
In sleep and quiet rest,
And joy to see the cheerful light
That riseth in the east;
Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart;
Come help me now to sing;
Each willing wight come bear a part,
To praise the heavenly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,
Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress;
Yet bear a part in doleful wise;
Yea, think it good accord,
And acceptable sacrifice,
Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread the light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overpressed our might:
A glass wherein you may behold
Each storm that stops our breath,
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mo