Possibly, however, the right development of our human relations in the world may be a more difficult and more important task still than this condition of divine alienation.

To find God in others is better than to grow _solely_ in the discovery of him in ourselves, if indeed the latter were possible.
DEVOTION.
Good God, when them thy inward grace dost shower Into my breast, How full of light and lively power Is then my soul! How am I blest! How can I then all difficulties devour! Thy might, Thy spright, With ease my cumbrous enemy control.
If thou once turn away thy face and hide Thy cheerful look, My feeble flesh may not abide That dreadful stound; _hour._ I cannot brook Thy absence.

My heart, with care and grief then gride, Doth fail, Doth quail; My life steals from me at that hidden wound.
My fancy's then a burden to my mind; Mine anxious thought Betrays my reason, makes me blind; Near dangers drad _dreaded._ Make me distraught; Surprised with fear my senses all I find: In hell I dwell, Oppressed with horror, pain, and sorrow sad.
My former resolutions all are fled-- Slipped over my tongue; My faith, my hope, and joy are dead.
Assist my heart, Rather than my song, My God, my Saviour! When I'm ill-bested.
Stand by, And I Shall bear with courage undeserved smart.
THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.
Sing aloud!--His praise rehearse Who hath made the universe.
He the boundless heavens has spread, All the vital orbs has kned, _kneaded._ He that on Olympus high Tends his flocks with watchful eye, And this eye has multiplied _suns, as centres of systems._ Midst each flock for to reside.
Thus, as round about they stray, Toucheth[137] each with outstretched ray; Nimble they hold on their way, Shaping out their night and day.
Summer, winter, autumn, spring, Their inclined axes bring.
Never slack they; none respires, Dancing round their central fires.
In due order as they move, Echoes sweet be gently drove Thorough heaven's vast hollowness, Which unto all corners press: Music that the heart of Jove Moves to joy and sportful love; Fills the listening sailers' ears Riding on the wandering spheres: Neither speech nor language is Where their voice is not transmiss.
God is good, is wise, is strong, Witness all the creature throng, Is confessed by every tongue; All things back from whence they sprung, _go back_--a verb.
As the thankful rivers pay What they borrowed of the sea.
Now myself I do resign: Take me whole: I all am thine.
Save me, God, from self-desire-- Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire--[138] Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire; Let not lust my soul bemire.
Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing, Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O Wisdom's sons, Freed from vain religions! Lo! from far I you salute, Sweetly warbling on my lute-- India, Egypt, Araby, Asia, Greece, and Tartary, Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon, With the Mountains of the Moon, From whence muddy Nile doth run, Or wherever else you won: _dwell._ Breathing in one vital air, One we are though distant far.
Rise at once;--let's sacrifice: Odours sweet perfume the skies; See how heavenly lightning fires Hearts inflamed with high aspires! All the substance of our souls Up in clouds of incense rolls.
Leave we nothing to ourselves Save a voice--what need we else! Or an hand to wear and tire On the thankful lute or lyre! Sing aloud!--His praise rehearse Who hath made the universe.
In this _Philosopher's Devotion_ he has clearly imitated one of those psalms of George Sandys which I have given.
CHARITY AND HUMILITY.
Far have I clambered in my mind, But nought so great as love I find: Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might, Are nought compared to that good sprite.
Life of delight and soul of bliss! Sure source of lasting happiness! Higher than heaven! lower than hell! What is thy tent?
Where may'st thou dwell?
"My mansion hight _Humility_, _is named._ Heaven's vastest capability.
The further it doth downward tend, The higher up it doth ascend; If it go down to utmost nought, It shall return with that it sought." Lord, stretch thy tent in my strait breast; Enlarge it downward, that sure rest May there be pight for that pure fire _pitched._ Wherewith thou wontest to inspire All self-dead souls: my life is gone; Sad solitude's my irksome won; _dwelling._ Cut off from men and all this world, In Lethe's lonesome ditch I'm hurled; Nor might nor sight doth ought me move, Nor do I care to be above.
O feeble rays of mental light, That best be seen in this dark night, What are you?
What is any strength If it be not laid in one length With pride or love?
I nought desire But a new life, or quite to expire.
Could I demolish with mine eye Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in sky, Bring down to earth the pale-faced moon, Or turn black midnight to bright noon; Though all things were put in my hand-- As parched, as dry as the Libyan sand Would be my life, if charity Were wanting.

But humility Is more than my poor soul durst crave That lies entombed in lowly grave; But if 'twere lawful up to send My voice to heaven, this should it rend: "Lord, thrust me deeper into dust, That thou may'st raise me with the just." There are strange things and worth pondering in all these.

An occasional classical allusion seems to us quite out of place, but such things we must pass.