Both brothers were injured, not by their worship of Spenser, but by the form that worship took—­imitation.  They seem more pleased to produce a line or stanza that shall recall a line or stanza of Spenser, than to produce a fine original of their own.  They even copy lines almost word for word from their great master.  This is pure homage:  it was their delight that such adaptations should be recognized—­just as it was Spenser’s hope, when he inserted translated stanzas from Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered in The Fairy Queen, to gain the honour of a true reproduction.  Yet, strange fate for imitators! both, but Giles especially, were imitated by a greater than their worship—­even by Milton.  They make Spenser’s worse; Milton makes theirs better.  They imitate Spenser, faults and all; Milton glorifies their beauties.

From the smaller poems of Phineas, I choose the following version of

  PSALM CXXX.

  From the deeps of grief and fear,
    O Lord, to thee my soul repairs: 
  From thy heaven bow down thine ear;
    Let thy mercy meet my prayers. 
  Oh! if thou mark’st what’s done amiss,
  What soul so pure can see thy bliss?

  But with thee sweet Mercy stands,
    Sealing pardons, working fear. 
  Wait, my soul, wait on his hands;
    Wait, mine eye; oh! wait, mine ear: 
  If he his eye or tongue affords,
  Watch all his looks, catch all his words.

  As a watchman waits for day,
    And looks for light, and looks again: 
  When the night grows old and gray,
    To be relieved he calls amain: 
  So look, so wait, so long, mine eyes,
  To see my Lord, my sun, arise.

  Wait, ye saints, wait on our Lord,
    For from his tongue sweet mercy flows;
  Wait on his cross, wait on his word;
    Upon that tree redemption grows: 
  He will redeem his Israel
  From sin and wrath, from death and hell.

I shall now give two stanzas of his version of the 127th Psalm.

  If God build not the house, and lay
    The groundwork sure—­whoever build,
  It cannot stand one stormy day. 
    If God be not the city’s shield,
  If he be not their bars and wall,
  In vain is watch-tower, men, and all.

  Though then thou wak’st when others rest,
    Though rising thou prevent’st the sun,
  Though with lean care thou daily feast,
    Thy labour’s lost, and thou undone;
  But God his child will feed and keep,
  And draw the curtains to his sleep.

Compare this with a version of the same portion by Dr. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, who, no great poet, has written some good verse.  He was about the same age as Phineas Fletcher.

  Except the Lord the house sustain,
  The builder’s labour is in vain;
  Except the city he defend,
  And to the dwellers safety send,
  In vain are sentinels prepared,
  Or armed watchmen for the guard.