No shadow can compare unto the face,
No step with that dear foot which did it trace;
Your souls immortal are, then place them hence,
And do not drown them in the midst of sense :
Do not, O do not by false pleasure's might
Deprive them of that true and sole delight;
That happiness ye seek is not below,
Earth's sweetest joy is but disguised woe.
Here did she pause, and with a mild aspect
Did towards me those lamping twins direct.
The wonted rays I knew, and thrice essayed
To answer make, thrice fault'ring tongue it stay'd;
And while upon that face I fed my sight,
Methought she vanish'd up to Titan's light;
Who gilding with his rays each hill and plain,
Seem'd to have brought the golden world again.

DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

JERUSALEM, that place divine,
The vision of sweet peace is nam'd,
In heaven her glorious turrets shine,
Her walls of living stones are fram'd,
While angels guard her on each side,
Fit company for such a bride.

She deck'd in new attire from heaven,
Her wedding chamber now descends,
Prepar'd in marriage to be given
To Christ, on whom her joy depends.

Her walls, wherewith she is inclos'd,
And streets are of pure gold compos'd.

The gates, adorn'd with pearls most bright,
The way to hidden glory show,

And thither, by the blessed might
Of faith in Jesus' merits go

All these who are on earth distress'd

Because they have Christ's name profess'd.

These stones the workmen dress and beat,
Before they throughly polish'd are,
Then each is in his proper seat
Establish'd by the Builder's care;
In this fair frame to stand for ever,
So join'd that them no force can sever.

To God who sits in highest seat,
Glory and power given be,

To Father, Son, and Paraclete,
Who reign in equal dignity,

Whose boundless power we still adore,
And sing their praise for evermore.

HYMN FOR WHITSUNDAY.

CREATOR, Holy Ghost, descend,

Visit our minds with thy bright flame,

And thy celestial grace extend,

To fill the hearts which thou dost frame;

Who Paraclete art said to be,

Gift which the highest God bestows, Fountain of Life, fire, charity,

Ointment whence ghostly blessing flows.

Thy seven-fold grace thou down didst send; Of God's right hand thou finger art; Thou, by the Father promised,

Unto our mouths doth speech impart.

In our dull senses kindle light;
Infuse thy love into our hearts,
Reforming with perpetual light
The infirmities of fleshly parts.

Far from our dwelling drive our foe,
And quickly peace unto us bring;
Be thou our guide, before to go,
That we may shun each hurtful thing.

Be pleased to instruct our mind

To know the Father and the Son; The Spirit who them both dost bind, Let us believe, while ages run.

To God the Father glory great,
And to the Son, who from the dead
Arose, and to the Paraclete
Beyond all time imagined.

L

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

THOMAS HEYWOOD was a remarkable instance of the prolific genius of the dramatists of the age of Elizabeth and James I. In the preface to one of his publications, he claims to be the author, entirely or in part, of no less than two hundred and twenty plays; the greater number of which are lost; but a list of twenty-four, still extant, is given in Cibber's Lives of the Poets. He left other works-as the "Life of Queen Elizabeth," the "General History of Women," and the "Hierarchy of the Angels." It is from this last, a long, and, upon the whole, tedious poem, but not without powerful and even sublime passages, that the pieces which follow are extracted.