Yet be not surety, if thou be a father; Love is a personal debt. I cannot give My children’s right, nor ought he take it, rather Both friends should die, than hinder them to live. Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends, And are her sureties, ere they are friends. The spirit in which we should enter the hallowed courts of the sanctuary, is set forth thus: When once thy foot enters the church, believe God is more there than thou, for thou art there Only by his permission. Then beware, And make thyself all reverence and fear. Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state, All equal are within the church’s gate. Space will not permit us to make further extracts from “The Porch.” Enough has been given to show its tone and character. The poems called “The Temple,” thus introduced, are a series of devotional songs upon sacred subjects, overflowing with ardent feeling, and manifesting the existence of a piety as fervent as it is rare. In his verses on Prayer, we have an apt illustration of our author’s style and devotional ardor. Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age, God’s breath in man returning to his birth. The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth. The quiet stillness of the Sabbath morn, and the blessings that accompany it, call forth such verses as the following: Oh, day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world’s bud, Th’ indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light, Thy torch doth show the way. Sundays the pillars are On which Heaven’s palace arched lies; The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities; They are the fruitful beds and borders In God’s rich garden; that is base Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man’s life, Threaded together on time’s string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious king; On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope, Blessings are plentiful and rife— More plentiful than hope. In his verses styled “The Odour,” we have an exemplification of the Poet’s love for his Divine Master, expressed with that fervency which betokens the sincerity of his adoration. How sweetly doth my master sound! my master! As ambergris leaves a rich scent Unto the taster. So do these words a sweet content, An oriental fragrance—my master!