Here is another, delightful in its oddity.  We can fancy the merry yet gracious poet chuckling over the vision of the child and the fancy of his words.

  A GRACE FOR A CHILD.

  Here a little child I stand,
  Heaving up my either hand;
  Cold as paddocks though they be, frogs.
  Here I lift them up to thee,
  For a benison to fall
  On our meat, and on us all. Amen.

I shall now give two or three of his longer poems, which are not long, and then a few of his short ones.  The best known is the following, but it is not so well known that I must therefore omit it.

  HIS LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.

  In the hour of my distress,
  When temptations me oppress,
  And when I my sins confess,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When I lie within my bed,
  Sick in heart, and sick in head,
  And with doubts discomforted,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the house doth sigh and weep,
  And the world is drowned in sleep,
  Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the artless doctor sees without skill.
  No one hope, but of his fees,
  And his skill runs on the lees,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When his potion and his pill,
  His or none or little skill,
  Meet for nothing but to kill,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the passing-bell doth toll,
  And the furies in a shoal
  Come to fright a parting soul,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the tapers now burn blue,
  And the comforters are few,
  And that number more than true,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the priest his last hath prayed,
  And I nod to what is said,
  ’Cause my speech is now decayed,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When God knows I’m tossed about,
  Either with despair or doubt,
  Yet, before the glass be out,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the tempter me pursu’th
  With the sins of all my youth,
  And half damns me with untruth,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the flames and hellish cries
  Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes,
  And all terrors me surprise,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  When the judgment is revealed,
  And that opened which was sealed;
  When to thee I have appealed,
    Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

  THE WHITE ISLAND, OR PLACE OF THE BLEST.

  In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
  While we sit by sorrow’s streams,
  Tears and terrors are our themes,
    Reciting;

  But when once from hence we fly,
  More and more approaching nigh
  Unto young eternity,
    Uniting;

  In that whiter island, where
  Things are evermore sincere;
  Candour here and lustre there,
    Delighting: