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WRESTLING JACOB.

Come, O thou Traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee:
With Thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am,
My misery and sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by my name,
Look on thy hands, and read it there!
But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold!
Art Thou the Man that died for me?
The secret of thy love unfold:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy name, thy nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable name ?
Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:

To know it now, resolved I am :
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go
Till I thy name, thy nature know.
"Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,

Or touch the hollow of my thigh;
Though every sinew be unstrung,
Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy name, thy nature know.

What though my shrinking flesh complain,
And murmur to contend so long?

I rise superior to my pain:

When I am weak, then I am strong: And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-Man prevail.

My strength is gone; my nature dies;
I sink beneath thy weighty hand;
Faint to revive, and fall to rise;

I fall, and yet by faith I stand:
I stand, and will not let Thee go,
Till I thy name, thy nature know.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair;
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,
Be conquered by my instant prayer!
Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name is Love?

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me!
I hear thy whisper in my heart!
The morning breaks, the shadows flee;
Pure universal Love Thou art!
To me, to all, thy bowels move;
Thy nature, and thy name, is Love!

the grace

My prayer hath power with God;
Unspeakable I now receive;
Through faith I see Thee face to face,

I see Thee face to face, and live:
In vain I have not wept and strove;
Thy nature, and thy name, is Love.

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;
Jesus, the feeble sinner's Friend!
Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,
But stay, and love me to the end!
Thy mercies never shall remove,
Thy nature, and thy name, is Love!

The Sun of Righteousness on me

Hath rose, with healing in his wings; Withered my nature's strength, from Theo My soul its life and succour brings; My help is all laid up above;

Thy nature, and thy name, is Love!

S

Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life's short journey end;
All helplessness, all weakness, I

On Thee alone for strength depend;
Nor have I power from Thee to move;
Thy nature, and thy name, is Love!

Lame as I am, I take the prey,

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome;
I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And as a bounding hart fly home!
Through all eternity to prove

Thy nature, and thy name, is Love!

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CHRISTOPHER SMART was born April 11th, 1722, at Shipbourne, in Kent. While yet a boy, he lost his father, who had been steward to Lord Barnard, afterwards Earl of Darlington. To this nobleman's patronage and influence with the Duchess of Cleveland, Smart owed an allowance which enabled him to enter, at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, in 1739. He was elected, in 1745, to a fellowship; and two years after, took his master's degree. He carried off the Seatonian prize for four consecutive years, and his "Latin Poems," amongst which was a translation of Pope's "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," attracted considerable and favourable attention. But already, step by step with academical successes, marched most incongruously those irregularities of conduct of

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which the precise and fastidious Gray, Smart's fellowcollegian, prophesied that a jail or madness would be the result. Smart's after experience, satisfying both its members, offered a double fulfilment of this alternative prediction. In 1753, he married Miss Carnan, stepdaughter to Mr. Newberry, a bookseller, to whose periodical publications he had contributed. Deprived by this act of his academical emoluments, he repaired to London, and relied for a subsistence on his literary activity and talents. In 1756, Smart was one of the stated undertakers" of a monthly miscellany called The Universal Visiter;" and with the "unhappy vacillation of mind," which seems at this time to have occurred as a premonition of the malady to which, in a more settled form, his future was doomed, Dr. Johnson so sincerely sympathized" as to assist him with several essays. In 1763, the poor poet was confined in a madhouse. The following quotation from Boswell's "Life of Johnson" is interesting as illustrating the half-venerating pity which the great moralist, many of whose days were passed under the cloud of constitutional melancholy, felt towards the sufferer from what he seemed to suspect of being a developed form of his own infirmity. At the same time it will fulfil the purpose-at present, its primary one-of giving prominence to the peculiar "method" of Smart's madness, and indicating those habits which had engendered or aggravated it. "Madness""-Boswell is here quoting Johnson-"frequently discovers itself merely by unnecessary deviation from the usual modes of the world. My poor friend Smart showed the disturbance of his mind by falling upon his knees, and saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place. Now, although rationally speaking, it is greater madness not to pray at all, than to pray as Smart did, I am afraid there are so many who do not pray, that their understanding is not called in question.'

"Concerning this unfortunate poet, Christopher Smart, who was confined in a madhouse, he had, at another time, the following conversation with Dr. Burney. BURNEY: 'How does poor Smart do, sir? is he likely to recover ?' JOHNSON: 'It seems as if his mind had ceased to struggle with the disease; for he grows fat upon it.' BURNEY: 'Perhaps, sir, that may be from want of exercise.' JOHNSON: No, sir, he has partly as much exercise as he used to have; for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the ale-house; but he was carried back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him; and I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.”” From another conversation of Dr. Johnson's, it would seem, according to Mr. Croker's very legitimate inference, that Smart supposed "himself obliged literally to pray continually." Smart died in the King's Bench, where he was imprisoned for debt, May 18th, 1770.

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"Smart's," says Southey, "was an unhappy life-imprudent, drunken, poor, diseased, and at length, insane. Yet he must not be classed with such as Boyse and Savage, who were redeemed by no virtue, for Smart was friendly, liberal, and affectionate. His piety was fervent, and when composing his religious poems, he was frequently so impressed as to write upon his knees." The Song to David," a few concluding stanzas from which are presented, was composed during his confinement in a madhouse; and when, not being allowed writing materials, he was compelled to "indent his lines with the end of a key upon the wainscot." This poem in its weird grandeur and whirlwind piety comes near to being a prodigy; almost every line invites analysis. Whatever the degree of lucidity enjoyed at moments of com

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