There must have been a fine harmony in his nature, that _kept_ him, as it were.

This peacefulness makes him interesting in spite of his comparative flatness.

I must restrain remark, however, and give five out of twelve stanzas of another of his hymns.
A ROCKING HYMN.
Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine eldest brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was he, And strength in weakness then was laid Upon his virgin mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay, and asses fed; Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got, Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
I think George Wither's verses will grow upon the reader of them, tame as they are sure to appear at first.

His _Hallelujah, or Britain's Second Remembrancer_, from which I have been quoting, is well worth possessing, and can be procured without difficulty.
We now come to a new sort, both of man and poet--still a clergyman.

It is an especial pleasure to write the name of Robert Herrick amongst the poets of religion, for the very act records that the jolly, careless Anacreon of the church, with his head and heart crowded with pleasures, threw down at length his wine-cup, tore the roses from his head, and knelt in the dust.
Nothing bears Herrick's name so unrefined as the things Dr.Donne wrote in his youth; but the impression made by his earlier poems is of a man of far shallower nature, and greatly more absorbed in the delights of the passing hour.