The first I give is a sonnet, one of eighty-eight which he wrote to his wife before their marriage.  Apparently disappointed in early youth, he did not fall in love again,—­at least there is no sign of it that I know,—­till he was middle-aged.  But then—­woman was never more grandly wooed than was his Elizabeth.  I know of no marriage-present worthy to be compared with the Epithalamion which he gave her “in lieu of many ornaments,”—­one of the most stately, melodious, and tender poems in the world, I fully believe.

But now for the sonnet—­the sixty-eighth of the Amoretti: 

  Most glorious Lord of Life! that, on this day,
  Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,
  And having harrowed hell, didst bring away
  Captivity thence captive, us to win: 
  This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin;
  And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die,
  Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
  May live for ever in felicity! 
  And that thy love we weighing worthily,
  May likewise love thee for the same again;
  And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,
  With love may one another entertain. 
    So let us love, dear love, like as we ought: 
    Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Those who have never felt the need of the divine, entering by the channel of will and choice and prayer, for the upholding, purifying, and glorifying of that which itself first created human, will consider this poem untrue, having its origin in religious affectation.  Others will think otherwise.

The greater part of what I shall next quote is tolerably known even to those who have made little study of our earlier literature, yet it may not be omitted here.  It is from An Hymne of Heavenly Love, consisting of forty-one stanzas, written in what was called Rime Royal—­a favourite with Milton, and, next to the Spenserian, in my opinion the finest of stanzas.  Its construction will reveal itself.  I take two stanzas from the beginning of the hymn, then one from the heart of it, and the rest from the close.  It gives no feeling of an outburst of song, but rather of a brooding chant, most quiet in virtue of the depth of its thoughtfulness.  Indeed, all his rhythm is like the melodies of water, and I could quote at least three passages in which he speaks of rhythmic movements and watery progressions together.  His thoughts, and hence his words, flow like a full, peaceful stream, diffuse, with plenteousness unrestrained.

  AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY LOVE.

  Before this world’s great frame, in which all things
    Are now contained, found any being place,
  Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas[55] wings
    About that mighty bound which doth embrace
    The rolling spheres, and parts their hours by space,
  That high eternal power, which now doth move
  In all these things, moved in itself by love.