HOLY SONNETS.

What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether his countenance can thee affright;
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light;

Blood fills his frowns which from his pierced head fell;
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell

Which prayed forgiveness for his foe's fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry,

I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is,

A sign of rigour; so I say to thee,

To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned-
His beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.

This is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race
Idly, yet quickly, run, hath this last pace,
My span's last inch, my minute's latest point,
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face,
Whose fear already shakes my every joint:

Then, as my soul to heaven, her first seat, takes flight,
And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell;
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,

To where they are bred, and would press me-to hell.
Impute me righteous; thus purged of evil;

For thee I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
Death, be not proud; though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me:
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go-

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery,

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And doth with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
Our short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were none before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin? and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore;
And having done that, Thou hast done-
I fear no more.

THE manuscript, No. 3357, of the Harleian collection, is a small well-preserved volume, bound in white vellum, the written characters of which still sparkle with the silver sand used more than two centuries ago to expedite the process of drying. It is entitled "A Handful of Celestiall Flowers; viz., Divers selected Psalms of David in verse, differently translated from those used in the Church; Divers Meditations upon our Saviour's Passion;

It was the delight of Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, and author of the above hymu, to hear it sung to the organ by the choristers of his cathedral to "a most grave and solemn tune."

Certain Hymnes or Carrols for Christmas Daie; A Divine Pastorell Eglogue; Meditations upon the 1st and 13th verses of ye 17 chap. of Job. Composed by divers worthie and learned gentlemen. Manuscribed by R. Cr."

The Psalms are the productions of Francis and Christopher Davison and others, and are verbatim copies of those in another of the Harleian MSS. The "Divine Pastorell Eglogue," in which shepherds argue the question of predestination, was written by Thomas Randolph, an adopted son of Ben Jonson. Other writers whose works are laid under contribution are W. Bagnall, Richard Gipps, and Joseph Brian. Besides those to whose identity the clue is sufficiently given, there is a certain W.A., who is the author of the Christmas Day Carols, of which the following extract is one. Who this W. A. may be, is not a matter of much importance, but one or two circumstances have suggested themselves rather than been sought, during the examination of the volume, which, put together, make a slight presumption in favour of one individual to be reckoned the W. A. in question.

Ralph Crane, himself a poet, who in 1621 had published "The Workes of Mercy, both Corporall and Spirituall," compiled the "Handful of Celestiall Flowers" for a new year's gift (1632), to Sir Francis Ashley, knight, one of his Majesty's serjeants-at-law. The conclusion of the dedicatory address assures Sir Francis that they are "presented as memorials that he who was ever to your deceased brother an unfortunate servant; still to your worthy self a most entirely affected beadesman, Raphe Crane." This passage is demonstrative of the former existence, between Crane and the late brother of Sir Francis, of a relation which invested the one with patronage and claimed gratitude as the debt of the other.

The names of contributors are marked in many cases by double initials: thus Fr. Da., for Francis Davison,