I shall quote but little; for, although there is a sweet calm and a great justice of reflection and feeling, there is hardly anything of that warming glow, that rousing force, that impressive weight in his verse, which is the chief virtue of the lofty rhyme.
The best in a volume of ninety _Hymns and Songs of the Church_, is, I think, _The Author's Hymn_ at the close, of which I give three stanzas.
They manifest the simplicity and truth of the man, reflecting in their very tone his faithful, contented, trustful nature.
By thy grace, those passions, troubles, And those wants that me opprest, Have appeared as water-bubbles, Or as dreams, and things in jest: For, thy leisure still attending, I with pleasure saw their ending.
Those afflictions and those terrors, Which to others grim appear, Did but show me where my errors And my imperfections were; But distrustful could not make me Of thy love, nor fright nor shake me.
Those base hopes that would possess me, And those thoughts of vain repute Which do now and then oppress me, Do not, Lord, to me impute; And though part they will not from me, Let them never overcome me.
He has written another similar volume, but much larger, and of a somewhat extraordinary character.

It consists of no fewer than two hundred and thirty-three hymns, mostly long, upon an incredible variety of subjects, comprehending one for every season of nature and of the church, and one for every occurrence in life of which the author could think as likely to confront man or woman.

Of these subjects I quote a few of the more remarkable, but even from them my reader can have little conception of the variety in the book: _A Hymn whilst we are washing_; _In a clear starry Night_; _A Hymn for a House-warming_; _After a great Frost or Snow_; _For one whose Beauty is much praised_; _For one upbraided with Deformity_; _For a Widower or a Widow delivered from a troublesome Yokefellow_; _For a Cripple_; _For a Jailor_; _For a Poet_.
Here is a portion of one which I hope may be helpful to some of my readers.
WHEN WE CANNOT SLEEP.
What ails my heart, that in my breast It thus unquiet lies; And that it now of needful rest Deprives my tired eyes?
Let not vain hopes, griefs, doubts, or fears, Distemper so my mind; But cast on God thy thoughtful cares, And comfort thou shalt find.
In vain that soul attempteth ought, And spends her thoughts in vain, Who by or in herself hath sought Desired peace to gain.
On thee, O Lord, on thee therefore, My musings now I place; Thy free remission I implore, And thy refreshing grace.
Forgive thou me, that when my mind Oppressed began to be, I sought elsewhere my peace to find, Before I came to thee.
And, gracious God, vouchsafe to grant, Unworthy though I am, The needful rest which now I want, That I may praise thy name.
Before examining the volume, one would say that no man could write so many hymns without frequent and signal failure.

But the marvel here is, that the hymns are all so very far from bad.

He can never have written in other than a gentle mood.