Part 6

Other poems in this series are well worth preserving, though perhaps few would find favour with the average congregation. For the most part they run smoothly; the language is that of plain men, and the spirit of the festival finds happy expression in praise or prayer. His Communion hymn is intended to be sung during the administration. It is interesting to find that those who are now adopting this custom are but reviving an ancient order. ‘We have a custom among us,’ he says, ‘that during the time of administering the blessed Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper there is some psalm or hymn sung, the better to keep the thoughts of the communicants from wandering after vain objects.’

But the piece which is most easily adapted to modern use is the poem, a paraphrase of Ps. cxlvii., which he prefixed to his _Preparation for the Psalter_. I give the poem as Wither published it. Mr. Horder and Miss Wood[84] have shown how well it may be adapted to public worship.

Come, O come! in pious lays Sound we God Almighty’s praise; Hither bring in one consent, Heart, and voice, and instrument. Music add of every kind; Sound the trump, the cornet wind; Strike the viol, touch the lute; Let no tongue nor string be mute; Nor a creature dumb be found, That hath either voice or sound.

Come, ye sons of human race, In this chorus take a place; And amid the mortal throng, Be you masters of the song. Angels, and supernal powers, Be the noblest tenor yours; Let in praise of God the sound Run a never-ending round; That our song of praise may be Everlasting as is He.

From earth’s vast and hollow womb, Music’s deepest bass may come; Seas and floods, from shore to shore, Shall their countertenors roar, To this concert, when we sing, Whistling winds your descants bring; That our song may over-climb All the bounds of place and time, And ascend from sphere to sphere, To the great Almighty’s ear.

So, from heaven, on earth He shall Let His gracious blessings fall: And this huge wide orb we see, Shall one choir, one temple be; Where, in such a praise-full tone We will sing what He hath done, That the cursèd fiends below Shall thereat impatient grow. Then, O come! in pious lays Sound we God Almighty’s praise.

Wither has been slow in winning his place among our sacred poets. He was a man of war from his youth, had a perilous gift of sarcasm, and lacked the caution and good sense which were so much needed in his troublous times. He was boycotted by the booksellers, satirized by Butler in _Hudibras_, by Pope, Dryden, and Swift, and seemed likely to be forgotten, save as the butt of a former age. But Southey, Charles Lamb, Montgomery, Edward Farr, George Macdonald, F. T. Palgrave, Dr. Grosart, among others have recognized his merits. He was a devout man and courageous, for he not only fought on both sides in the Civil War, but with rarer bravery chose to remain in London during the Great Plague, and to render what little help he could to the sufferers in that awful visitation. The king is said to have spared his life at Sir John Denham’s good-naturedly contemptuous entreaty that he (Denham) might not be ‘the worst poet in England’; his contemporaries thought the prison cell a fit cage for the poet, but somehow he joined the lark, and sang at heaven’s gate.[85]

Samuel Crossman, who died in 1683, within a few weeks of his appointment to the Deanery of Bristol, makes up in quality what he lacks in quantity. Of his nine hymns—published in 1660—two or three have won an assured place in the hymn-book of the Church.

My life’s a shade, my days Apace to death decline.

and

Sweet place, sweet place alone The home of God most high.

They are in a minor key, but they speak to the heart of the Christian pilgrim who seeks another country—his true fatherland. His other hymns are seldom met with. I quote one, omitting a verse.

THE GIFT

‘If thou knewest the gift of God’ (John iv. 10).

This is the Gift, Thy Gift, O Lord! The token of Thy dearest love: The orient jewel of Thy Word; Sent down my thankfulness to prove.

Great is his gift in all men’s eyes, Who gives himself, his friend to save: My Lord does more, for foes He dies, This Gift no parallel may have.

But Lord! whil’st Thou thus gav’st to Thine Others arose to vie with Thee: The world and Satan did combine, And they would needs a giving be.

Satan, sin’s pleasures offerèd, And almost forced them upon me: But while they bloomed, they witherèd, And Lord! Thy Gift my choice shall be.

Then did the World its gayes present, And still alluring cried, See, See! Here’s that may rather give content; But Lord! Thy Gift my choice shall be.

These cannot give, they’d steal away From me my heaven, my heart from Thee: Whate’er they offer, I’ll say nay, Still Lord! Thy Gift my choice shall be.

Richard Baxter (1615-91) is to Nonconformity what Ken is to Anglicanism. He might have been a bishop if he would, but preferred the rough ways of persecution for conscience’ sake to the pleasant paths of ecclesiastical preferment. He wrote many hymns, and attempted, with as little success as others, a metrical version of the psalms. He is, and will be, known to our hymn-books by the exquisite verses taken from his long poem on the ‘Covenant and Confidence of Faith.’ These verses, beginning

Now it belongs not to my care Whether I die or live.

are in almost every hymn-book. Another of his hymns, in a brighter tone, is in many collections—

Ye holy angels bright.

The two following are not so well known. They are good in themselves, and very characteristic of their author.

As for my friends, they are not lost: The several vessels of Thy fleet, Though parted now, by tempests tost, Shall safely in the haven meet.

Still we are centred all in Thee; Members, though distant, of one Head, In the same family we be, By the same faith and Spirit led.

Before the throne we daily meet, As joint petitioners to Thee; In spirit we each other greet, And shall again each other see.

The heavenly hosts, world without end, Shall be my company above; And Thou, my best, my surest Friend, Who shall divide me from Thy love?

The three following verses are in Miss Wood’s _Hymns for School Worship_—a very striking selection of hymns suitable for intelligent young people.

Lord, though Thy Church in this dark world Do but begin and learn Thy praise, Accept both it and us through Christ, Till it and us Thy glory raise.

Here trembling sin resists Thy grace; Of joy and sorrow we partake: Our broken hearts and broken peace Can none but broken music make.

Thy ways to us seem often dark, Thou crossest human wit and will: We murmur; but Thou dost Thy work; That’s wise and good, which we thought ill.

If Austin is the Faber of the seventeenth century, John Mason (d. 1694), whom Baxter called ‘the glory of the Church of England,’ is its Newton. There is in Mason the same childlike simplicity which is the charm of the Olney hymns, with an added quaintness which belongs to the earlier century. He is one of the minor poets of the sanctuary, but in his own time he was amongst the best of the evangelical hymn-writers. Mason was born a Dissenter, but entered the Anglican Church. His friend, Thomas Shepherd (1665-1739), who also wrote some noteworthy hymns, seceded from the Establishment, and was for a few years pastor of the church at Nottingham, where Doddridge subsequently ministered. Of the hymns of these good men, George Macdonald and Mr. Horder express a high opinion, comparing them favourably with those of Dr. Watts. Mr. Horder justly says that Mason would have reached a higher standard had his lot been cast in a ‘hymn-singing age.’

Some of Mason’s verses are too racy for congregational use, e.g. this from ‘A Song of Praise for Health’—

Their earnest cries do pierce the skies, And shall I silent be? Lord, were I sick as I am well, Thou shouldst have heard from me. The sick have not more cause to pray Than I to praise my King; Since nature teaches them to groan Let grace teach me to sing.

Here is a verse from his ‘Song of Praise for the Birth of Christ’—

The wakeful shepherds near their flocks Were watching for the morn; But better news from heaven was brought— Your Saviour Christ is born. In Bethlehem the Infant lies, Within a place obscure; O little Bethlehem, poor in walls But rich in furniture!

One of his best hymns, perhaps the very best, is

A GENERAL SONG OF PRAISE TO ALMIGHTY GOD

How shall I sing that Majesty Which angels do admire? Let dust in dust and silence lie: Sing, sing, ye heavenly choir. Thousands of thousands stand around Thy throne, O God, most high: Ten thousand times ten thousand sound Thy praise; but who am I?

Thy brightness unto them appears, Whilst I Thy footsteps trace: A sound of God comes to my ears, But they behold Thy face: They sing because Thou art their Sun, Lord, send a beam on me: For where heaven is but once begun, There Hallelujahs be.

Enlighten with faith’s light my heart, Inflame it with love’s fire, Then shall I sing and bear a part With that celestial choir. I shall, I fear, be dark and cold With all my fire and light, Yet when Thou dost accept their gold, Lord, treasure up my mite.

How good art Thou whose goodness is Our parent, nurse, and guide: Whose streams do water Paradise And all the earth beside! Thine upper and Thy nether springs Make both Thy worlds to thrive: Under Thy warm and sheltering wings Thou keep’st two broods alive.

Thy arm of might, most Mighty King, Both rocks and hearts doth break; My God, Thou canst do everything But what would shew Thee weak. Thou canst not cross Thyself, or be Less than Thyself, or poor; But whatsoever pleaseth Thee, That canst Thou do, and more.

Who would not fear Thy searching eye, Witness to all that’s true? Dark hell and deep hypocrisy Lie plain before its view. Motions and thoughts, before they grow, Thy knowledge doth espy; What unborn ages are to do Is done before Thine eye.

Thy wisdom which both makes and mends We ever much admire; Creation all our wit transcends, Redemption rises higher. Thy wisdom guides strayed sinners home, ’Twill make the dead world rise, And bring those prisoners to their doom, Its paths are mysteries.

Shepherd’s poems were called ‘Penitential Cries,’ and were published with Mason’s Songs of Praise in 1693. His best-known hymn begins

Alas, my God, that we should be Such strangers to each other! O that as friends we might agree, And walk, and talk together!

Most of his hymns have vigour and freshness, but there is generally something which hinders them from becoming hymns of the first class. The following verses are taken from a hymn entitled, ‘Lamenting the Loss of First Love,’ and were probably known to Cowper—

O that my soul was now as fair As it has sometimes been, Devoid of that distracting care Without, and guilt within.

There was a time when I could tread No circle but of love; That joyous morning now is fled, How heavily I move!

Unhappy soul, that thou should’st force Thy Saviour to depart, When He was pleasèd with so coarse A lodging in thy heart!

How sweetly I enjoyed my God! With how divine a frame! I thought, on every plant I trod I read my Saviour’s name.

O might those days return again, How welcome they should be! Shall my petition be in vain, Since grace is ever free?

Lord of my soul, return, return, To chase away this night; Let not Thine anger ever burn; God once was my delight.

Other hymn-writers of this period are almost or entirely unknown to modern hymnals. One or two names may, however, be mentioned. Matthew Henry wrote a number of ‘family hymns’; Benjamin Keach (1640-1704) not only wrote hymns by the hundred, but published a defence of congregational singing under the title—_The Breach repaired in God’s Worship_.

William Barton may be taken as a fair example of the poorer hymn-writers of the time. There is little to choose between the best and the worst of his _Six Centuries of Hymns_. The work was dedicated to Sir Matthew Hale, who had spoken a good word for the hymns to the Mayor and Aldermen of Leicester, in which town Barton had been minister of St. Martin’s Church. Led by Dr. Julian’s statement that these hymns ‘deserve more attention from compilers than they have hitherto received,’ I have searched them diligently, but in vain. I am most impressed that such dull productions could ever have been popular.

There is, indeed, something very pathetic in the author’s evident satisfaction with his work and in his son’s pride in his father’s ‘pious and laborious undertaking,’ which he was led to attempt, ‘finding that the ancient usage of our speech in Sternhold and Hopkins’s translation was become obsoletely contemptuous to many people of this age.’ This filial editor believed that the hymn-book ‘would sufficiently manifest its excellency in the perusal,’ a belief which the extensive circulation of its many editions may be taken to justify. Barton’s first book, his version of the Psalms, was published in 1644, and the last edition was printed in 1768. During a great part of that period it was probably the standard psalter of the Nonconformist congregations. His hymns are usually brief, and he was careful to use familiar metres, having a special weakness for ‘delicate and expeditious tunes.’ His psalms and hymns owed their long life to the poverty of rivals, but one cannot be surprised that Enoch Watts, in urging his brother ‘to oblige the world by showing it your hymns in print,’ should say that ‘honest Barton chimes us asleep.’

The following verses are a fair specimen—

My Saviour, my Beloved One, Is mine and I am His; Chief of ten thousand He alone, Pure red and white He is. Made sin for us that knew no sin, That so we might be made The righteousness of God in Him, By whom the price was paid.

Stronger than death His love is found. Not to be bought with goods: Nor quenched with waters, nor be drowned With whatsoever floods. O draw me, my dear Saviour, With these strong cords of love, And then will we go after Thee As fast as we can move.[86]

Although the seventeenth century is poor in hymn-writers, we find some grand and beautiful hymns written by poets and men of letters. There is, for instance, Sir Thomas Browne’s evening hymn, of which he says, ‘This is the dormitive I take to bedward: I need no other _laudanum_ than this to make me sleep; after which I close mine eyes in security, content to take my leave of the sun, and sleep unto the resurrection.’[87]

The night is come, like to the day; Depart not Thou, great God away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. Keep still in my horizon; for to me The sun makes not the day, but Thee.

Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep; Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes, Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest, But such as Jacob’s temples blest.

While I do rest, my soul advance: Make my sleep a holy trance; That I may, my rest being wrought, Awake into some holy thought, And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun.

Sleep is a death—O make me try By sleeping, what it is to die! And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed. Howe’er I rest, great God, let me Awake again at last with Thee.

And thus assured, behold I lie Securely, or to wake or die. These are my drowsy days; in vain I do not wake to sleep again: O come that hour, when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever!

Another great name is that of John Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s, and friend of James I, who wrote one of the truest and most affecting hymns of that or any other century. If its form prevents its being sung in modern congregations, it is at least one of those spiritual songs which we should preserve for the hour of private devotion.

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore; And, having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more.

‘I have the rather mentioned this hymn,’ says Izaak Walton, ‘for that he caused it to be set to a most grave and solemn tune, and to be often sung to the organ by the choristers of St. Paul’s Church in his own hearing; especially at the evening service, and at his return from his customary devotions in that place, did occasionally say to a friend: “The words of this hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness when I composed it. And, O, the power of Church music! that harmony added to this hymn has raised the affections of my heart and quickened my graces of zeal and gratitude; and I observe that I always return from paying this public duty of prayer and praise to God, with an unexpressible tranquillity of mind, and a willingness to leave the world.”’

Ben Jonson’s lovely Christmas hymn is to be found in a few hymn-books to-day. Is it too much to hope that it may yet become a familiar carol of the Nativity?

I sing the Birth was born to-night, The Author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it:— And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God, the eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger.

What comfort by Him do we win, Who made Himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of glory! To see this Babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence!— Can man forget this story?

Robert Herrick’s (1591-1674) quaint ‘Litany to the Holy Spirit’ yields a few verses to some of our best modern collections, but his irrepressible humour makes several verses impossible, and his references to ‘furies in a shole,’ to ‘flames and hellish cares,’ shut out others. In his _Noble Numbers_ are many fine verses and epigrams, but he is not a hymn-writer.

George Herbert (1593-1632) did not write hymns to be sung in church, though his ‘Antiphon’ and ‘The Elixir’ are, for love of their author, found in many modern hymn-books, and ‘Praise’ is also beautifully possible as a hymn. Yet his loveliest poems cannot be adapted to congregational use. He is the greatest of the poets of the sanctuary, but he is not a chorister. John Wesley and George Rawson tried to make Herbert’s poems into hymns, but with no great success—though in one or two instances Wesley came near it.[88] In any collection of religious poetry for use in the hour of private devotion, Herbert would rank among the chief contributors, and it is well that he should be represented in our hymn-books, if only that he may be remembered and honoured by our children.[89] He is the chief singer of a school of poets in which Henry Vaughan and Christina Rossetti are distinguished and worthy disciples.

I give three of Herbert’s poems. The first because it is an ideal example of his quaint but exquisite pathos, and of his gracious, humble, affectionate devotion to his Lord; the others because they are the most hymn-like of his poems.

LOVE

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here: Love said, You shall be he. I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my Dear, I cannot look on Thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes, but I?

Truth, Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? My Dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat.

PRAISE

King of Glory, King of Peace, I will love Thee: And that love may never cease, I will move Thee.

Thou hast granted my request, Thou hast heard me: Thou didst note my working breast, Thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art I will sing Thee, And the cream of all my heart I will bring Thee.

Though my sins against me cried, Thou didst clear me; And alone, when they replied, Thou didst hear me.

Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise Thee. In my heart, though not in heaven, I can raise Thee.

Thou grew’st soft and moist with tears, Thou relentedst: And when Justice called for fears, Thou dissentedst.

Small it is, in this poor sort To enrol Thee: Even eternity’s too short To extol Thee.

THE CALL

Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life: Such a Way, as gives us breath: Such a Truth, as ends all strife: Such a Life, as killeth death.

Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength: Such a Light, as shows a feast: Such a Feast, as mends in length: Such a Strength, as makes His guest.

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart: Such a Joy, as none can move: Such a Love, as none can part: Such a Heart, as joys in love.

After Herbert comes Henry Vaughan (1621-95), ‘the Silurist,’ or South Wales man, who says that his master was ‘the blessed man, Mr. George Herbert, whose holy life and verse gained many pious converts, of whom I am the least.’ Vaughan had his devoted admirers, but his verse never attained anything approaching to the popularity of Herbert’s. It was long the fashion to ignore or disparage him, and it was not till Henry Francis Lyte republished his _Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations_, with a brief memoir, that he came to his rightful place amongst the minor, but not to be forgotten, poets of the seventeenth century. He was a mystic, and had visions Blake might have envied.

I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright: And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled.

Vaughan’s songs have the marks of the true Christian poet—intense devotion to Christ, humility, ecstasy. His best-known hymns are—‘My soul, there is a country,’ and ‘Up to those bright and gladsome hills’ (Ps. cxxi.). I give one less often quoted. Vaughan’s title is

BEGGING

King of Mercy, King of Love, In whom I live, in whom I move, Perfect what Thou has begun, Let no night put out this Sun.

Grant I may, my chief desire, Long for Thee, to Thee aspire. Let my youth, my bloom of days, Be my comfort, and Thy praise;

That hereafter, when I look O’er the sullied, sinful book, I may find Thy hand therein Wiping out my shame and sin.