Parting from Christ my fainting force declined;
    With lingering foot I followed him aloof;
  Base fear out of my heart his love unshrined,
    Huge in high words, but impotent in proof. 
  My vaunts did seem hatched under Samson’s locks,
  Yet woman’s words did give me murdering knocks

* * * * *

  At Sorrow’s door I knocked:  they craved my name
    I answered, “One unworthy to be known.” 
  “What one?” say they.  “One worthiest of blame.” 
    “But who?” “A wretch not God’s, nor yet his own.” 
  “A man?” “Oh, no!” “A beast?” “Much worse.”  “What creature?”
    “A rock.”  “How called?” “The rock of scandal, Peter.”

* * * * *

  Christ! health of fevered soul, heaven of the mind,
    Force of the feeble, nurse of infant loves,
  Guide to the wandering foot, light to the blind,
    Whom weeping wins, repentant sorrow moves! 
  Father in care, mother in tender heart,
  Revive and save me, slain with sinful dart!

  If King Manasseh, sunk in depth of sin,
    With plaints and tears recovered grace and crown,
  A worthless worm some mild regard may win,
    And lowly creep where flying threw it down. 
  A poor desire I have to mend my ill;
  I should, I would, I dare not say I will.

  I dare not say I will, but wish I may;
    My pride is checked:  high words the speaker spilt. 
  My good, O Lord, thy gift—­thy strength, my stay—­
    Give what thou bidst, and then bid what thou wilt. 
  Work with me what of me thou dost request;
  Then will I dare the worst and love the best.

Here, from another poem, are two little stanzas worth preserving: 

  Yet God’s must I remain,
    By death, by wrong, by shame;
  I cannot blot out of my heart
    That grace wrought in his name.

  I cannot set at nought,
    Whom I have held so dear;
  I cannot make Him seem afar
    That is indeed so near.

The following poem, in style almost as simple as a ballad, is at once of the quaintest and truest.  Common minds, which must always associate a certain conventional respectability with the forms of religion, will think it irreverent.  I judge its reverence profound, and such none the less that it is pervaded by a sweet and delicate tone of holy humour.  The very title has a glimmer of the glowing heart of Christianity: 

  NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.

  Behold a silly,[69] tender babe,
    In freezing winter night,
  In homely manger trembling lies;
    Alas! a piteous sight.

  The inns are full; no man will yield
    This little pilgrim bed;
  But forced he is with silly beasts
    In crib to shroud his head.

  Despise him not for lying there;
    First what he is inquire: 
  An orient pearl is often found
    In depth of dirty mire.