CHAPTER XVI.
HENRY MORE AND RICHARD BAXTER.
Dr.Henry More was born in the year 1614.

Chiefly known for his mystical philosophy, which he cultivated in retirement at Cambridge, and taught not only in prose, but in an elaborate, occasionally poetic poem, of somewhere about a thousand Spenserian stanzas, called _A Platonic Song of the Soul_, he has left some smaller poems, from which I shall gather good store for my readers.

Whatever may be thought of his theories, they belong at least to the highest order of philosophy; and it will be seen from the poems I give that they must have borne their part in lifting the soul of the man towards a lofty spiritual condition of faith and fearlessness.

The mystical philosophy seems to me safe enough in the hands of a poet: with others it may degenerate into dank and dusty materialism.
RESOLUTION.
Where's now the objects of thy fears, Needless sighs, and fruitless tears?
They be all gone like idle dream Suggested from the body's steam.
* * * * * What's plague and prison?
Loss of friends?
War, dearth, and death that all things ends?
Mere bugbears for the childish mind; Pure panic terrors of the blind.
Collect thy soul unto one sphere Of light, and 'bove the earth it rear; Those wild scattered thoughts that erst Lay loosely in the world dispersed, Call in:--thy spirit thus knit in one Fair lucid orb, those fears be gone Like vain impostures of the night, That fly before the morning bright.
Then with pure eyes thou shalt behold How the first goodness doth infold All things in loving tender arms; That deemed mischiefs are no harms, But sovereign salves and skilful cures Of greater woes the world endures; That man's stout soul may win a state Far raised above the reach of fate.
Then wilt thou say, _God rules the world_, Though mountain over mountain hurled Be pitched amid the foaming main Which busy winds to wrath constrain; * * * * * Though pitchy blasts from hell up-born Stop the outgoings of the morn, And Nature play her fiery games In this forced night, with fulgurant flames: * * * * * All this confusion cannot move The purged mind, freed from the love Of commerce with her body dear, Cell of sad thoughts, sole spring of fear.
Whate'er I feel or hear or see Threats but these parts that mortal be.
Nought can the honest heart dismay Unless the love of living clay, And long acquaintance with the light Of this outworld, and what to sight Those two officious beams[135] discover Of forms that round about us hover.
Power, wisdom, goodness, sure did frame This universe, and still guide the same.
But thoughts from passions sprung, deceive Vain mortals.

No man can contrive A better course than what's been run Since the first circuit of the sun.
He that beholds all from on high Knows better what to do than I.
I'm not mine own: should I repine If he dispose of what's not mine?
Purge but thy soul of blind self-will, Thou straight shall see God doth no ill.
The world he fills with the bright rays Of his free goodness.