A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where 'twas born,
Round it itself incloses;

And in its little globe's extent

Frames as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies!

But, gazing back upon the skies,

Shines with a mournful light :

Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and insecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain,

And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;

And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in an heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,

Every way it turns away!

To the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day;
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;

How girt and ready to ascend:

Moving but on a point below,

In all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,
White and entire, although congealed and chill-
Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

HENRY MORE.

HENRY MORE was born at Grantham, in Lincolnshire, in 1614. He was educated at Eton, and afterwards removed to Christ's College, Cambridge, where he studied philosophy with an ardent mind. He obtained a fellowship, and was presented to a prebend in the church of Gloucester. He died in 1687.

The principal works of More are, The Mystery of Godliness, Mystery of Iniquity, Philosophical Collections. These enjoyed in his day great popularity, but they are little suited to the taste of the modern reader; yet they are enlivened with gleams of fancy, and bursts of poetic feeling, which would amply repay an attentive perusal.

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:

He that on Olympus high

Tends his flock with watchful eye;

And this eye has multiplied,

'Midst each flock for to reside.

Thus as round about they stray,

Toucheth each with outstretched ray:
Nimbly they hold on their way,

Shaping out their night and day,

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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 sailors' 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:
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,
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,

EDMUND WALLER.

EDMUND WALLER was born at Coleshill, in Hertfordshire, in 1605, vas educated at Eton, and afterwards removed to King's College, ambridge. He was sent to parliament at the age of eighteen, and equented the court of James I., suffered considerably during the civil ar for his attachment to the monarchy, but closed his long life in eace, at Beaconsfield, in 1687. His poetry is not of a high order, ut his sacred pieces are every way the best.

THE SCRIPTURES.

THE Grecian muse has all their gods survived,
Nor Jove at us, nor Phoebus, is arrived;
Frail deities, which first the poets made,
And then invoked to give their fancies aid!
Yet if they still divert us with their rage,
What may be hoped for in a better age,
When not from Helicon's imagined spring,
But sacred writ, we borrow what we sing?
This with the fabric of the world begun,
Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun.
Before this oracle, like Dagon, all
The false pretenders, Delphos, Hammon, fall;
Long since despised and silent, they afford
Honour and triumph to the eternal Word.
As late Philosophy our globe has graced,
And rolling earth among the planets placed,
So has this Book entitled us to heaven,
And rules to guide us to that mansion given;
Tells the conditions how our peace was made,
And is our pledge for the great Author's aid.
His power in nature's ample book we find;
But the less volume doth express his mind.
This light unknown, bold Epicurus taught,
That his blest gods vouchsafe us not a thought,