In 1615 was born Richard Baxter, one of the purest and wisest and devoutest of men--and no mean poet either. If ever a man sought between contending parties to do his duty, siding with each as each appeared right, opposing each as each appeared wrong, surely that man was Baxter. Hence he fared as all men too wise to be partisans must fare--he pleased neither Royalists nor Puritans. Dull of heart and sadly unlike a mother was the Church when, by the Act of Uniformity of Charles II., she drove from her bosom such a son, with his two thousand brethren of the clergy! He has left us a good deal of verse--too much, perhaps, if we consider the length of the poems and the value of condensation. There is in many of them a delightful fervour of the simplest love to God, uttered with a plain half poetic, half logical strength, from which sometimes the poetry breaks out clear and fine. Much that he writes is of death, from the dread of which he evidently suffered--a good thing when it drives a man to renew his confidence in his Saviour's presence. It has with him a very different origin from the vulgar fancy that to talk about death is religious. It was refuge from the fear of death he sought, and that is the part of every man who would not be a slave. The _door of death_ of which he so often speaks is to him a door out of the fear of death. The poem from which the following excerpt is made was evidently written in view of some imminent suffering for conscience-sake, probably when the Act of Uniformity was passed: twenty years after, he was imprisoned at the age of sixty-seven, and lay nearly a year and a half.--I omit many verses. THE RESOLUTION. It's no great matter what men deem, Whether they count me good or bad: In their applause and best esteem, There's no contentment to be had. Thy steps, Lord, in this dirt I see; And lest my soul from God should stray, I'll bear my cross and follow thee: Let others choose the fairer way. My face is meeter for the spit; I am more suitable to shame, And to the taunts of scornful wit: It's no great matter for my name. My Lord hath taught me how to want A place wherein to put my head: While he is mine, I'll be content To beg or lack my daily bread. Must I forsake the soil and air Where first I drew my vital breath? That way may be as near and fair: Thence I may come to thee by death. All countries are my Father's lands; Thy sun, thy love, doth shine on all; We may in all lift up pure hands, And with acceptance on thee call.