I saw the obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow; For well they now can spare their wings, Since heaven itself lies here below.
"Well done," said I; "but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure ?" _Chorus._ "Well done," said I, &c.
* * * * * _Full Chorus_.

Welcome all wonders in one sight! Eternity shut in a span! Summer in winter! day in night! Heaven in earth, and God in man! Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth! * * * * * Welcome--though not to those gay flies Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings-- Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity.
Yet when young April's husband showers Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the firstborn of her flowers To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head: To thee, dear Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To thee, meek Majesty, soft king Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves.
At last, in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
A splendid line to end with! too good for the preceding one.

All temples and altars, all priesthoods and prayers, must vanish in this one and only sacrifice.

Exquisite, however, as the poem is, we cannot help wishing it looked less heathenish.

Its decorations are certainly meretricious.
From a few religious poems of Sir Edward Sherburne, another Roman Catholic, and a firm adherent of Charles I., I choose the following--the only one I care for.
AND THEY LAID HIM IN A MANGER.
Happy crib, that wert, alone, To my God, bed, cradle, throne! Whilst thy glorious vileness I View with divine fancy's eye, Sordid filth seems all the cost, State, and splendour, crowns do boast.
See heaven's sacred majesty Humbled beneath poverty; Swaddled up in homely rags, On a bed of straw and flags! He whose hands the heavens displayed, And the world's foundations laid, From the world's almost exiled, Of all ornaments despoiled.
Perfumes bathe him not, new-born; Persian mantles not adorn; Nor do the rich roofs look bright With the jasper's orient light.
Where, O royal infant, be The ensigns of thy majesty; Thy Sire's equalizing state; And thy sceptre that rules fate?
Where's thy angel-guarded throne, Whence thy laws thou didst make known-- Laws which heaven, earth, hell obeyed?
These, ah! these aside he laid; Would the emblem be--of pride By humility outvied.
I pass by Abraham Cowley, mighty reputation as he has had, without further remark than that he is too vulgar to be admired more than occasionally, and too artificial almost to be, as a poet, loved at all.
Andrew Marvell, member of Parliament for Hull both before and after the Restoration, was twelve years younger than his friend Milton.