Bishop Ken, born in 1637, is known chiefly by his hymns for the morning and evening, deservedly popular.  He has, however, written a great many besides—­too many, indeed, for variety or excellence.  He seems to have set himself to write them as acts of worship.  They present many signs of a perversion of taste which, though not in them so remarkable, rose to a height before long.  He annoys us besides by the constant recurrence of certain phrases, one or two of which are not admirable, and by using, in the midst of a simple style, odd Latin words.  Here are portions of, I think, one of his best, and good it is.

  FIRST SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

* * * * *

  Lord, ’tis thyself who hast impressed
  In native light on human breast,
    That their Creator all
    Mankind should Father call: 
  A father’s love all mortals know,
  And the love filial which they owe.

  Our Father gives us heavenly light,
  And to be happy, ghostly sight;
    He blesses, guides, sustains;
    He eases us in pains;
  Abatements for our weakness makes,
  And never a true child forsakes.

  He waits till the hard heart relents;
  Our self-damnation he laments;
    He sweetly them invites
    To share in heaven’s delights;
  His arms he opens to receive
  All who for past transgressions grieve.

  My Father!  O that name is sweet
  To sinners mourning in retreat. 
    God’s heart paternal yearns
    When he a change discerns;
  He to his favour them restores;
  He heals their most inveterate sores.

* * * * *

  Religious honour, humble awe;
  Obedience to our Father’s law;
    A lively grateful sense
    Of tenderness immense;
  Full trust on God’s paternal cares;
  Submission which chastisement bears;

  Grief, when his goodness we offend;
  Zeal, to his likeness to ascend;
    Will, from the world refined,
    To his sole will resigned: 
  These graces in God’s children shine,
  Reflections of the love divine.

* * * * *

  God’s Son co-equal taught us all
  In prayer his Father ours to call: 
    With confidence in need,
    We to our Father speed: 
  Of his own Son the language dear
  Intenerates the Father’s ear. makes tender.

  Thou Father art, though to my shame,
  I often forfeit that dear name;
    But since for sin I grieve,
    Me father-like receive;
  O melt me into filial tears,
  To pay of love my vast arrears.

* * * * *

  O Spirit of Adoption! spread
  Thy wings enamouring o’er my head;
    O Filial love immense! 
    Raise me to love intense;
  O Father, source of love divine,
  My powers to love and hymn incline!