  Could this outside beholden be To cost and cunning equally, Or were it such as might suffice The luxury of curious eyes— Yet would I have my dearest look Not on the cover, but the Book. If thou art merry, here are airs; If melancholy, here are prayers; If studious, here are those things writ Which may deserve thy ablest wit; If hungry, here is food divine; If thirsty, Nectar, Heavenly wine. Read then, but first thyself prepare To read with zeal and mark with care; And when thou read’st what here is writ, Let thy best practice second it; So twice each precept read shall be, First in the Book, and next in thee. Much reading may thy spirits wrong, Refresh them therefore with a song; And, that thy music praise may merit, Sing David’s Psalms with David’s spirit, That, as thy voice doth pierce men’s ears, So shall thy prayers and vows the spheres. Thus read, thus sing, and then to thee The very earth a Heaven shall be; If thus thou readest, thou shalt find A private Heaven within thy mind, And, singing thus, before thou die Thou sing’st thy part to those on high. I have modernized the orthography of the foregoing quaint and beautiful stanzas, from the dress in which they are clothed in the second part of the Diary of Lady Willoughby, just published by John Wiley, bookseller, in New York. They are happily imitative of the style of the poets of olden time. They remind one of George Herbert—that “sweet singer in the Israel” of the English church, of Donne, of Wotton, and of other lyrists, who chanted the praises of our God. To my ear, much dearer are such simple, tuneful verses than the grandiloquent outpourings of the more modern muse. They come home, as it were, to one’s child-like sympathies. They awaken the thoughts of “youthly years;” they freshen the withered feelings of the heart, as heaven’s dew freshens the dried leaves in summer. Let me recommend this most tender, most soul-touching of “late works”—these passages from the Diary of Lady Willoughby. It is not a real “aunciente booke,” but an imitation; yet, like certain copies of a picture by an old master, it may boast some touches better than the original. Chatterton’s forgeries were not more perfect in their way, though this be no forgery, but what it pretends to be—namely, an invention. I feared, when I took up the second part of this remarkable production, that it would deteriorate in interest, that the hand of the artist would become manifest. But it is not so. Here, throughout, is the ars celare artem in perfection. How touching a lesson do the feigned sorrows the Lady Willoughby present to her sex. What absence of repining! What reliance on the justice and mercy of God! What trust in the merits of her Redeemer! Her faith is never shaken. Her soul is never dismayed. With an expression holier than Raphael has imparted to his pictures of the Madonna, she looks upward and is comforted. Ever into the troubled waters of her soul descends the angel of peace. Perfect pattern is she for wives and mothers. Excellent example of a Christian woman. —— |
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