I will devote the rest of my allotted space to a few remarks on that part of Herrick’s work which undoubtedly belongs to the Dean Prior period. I mean the “pious pieces,” or _Noble Numbers_. Now it is not to be denied that there is a great deal of poor stuff in the _Noble Numbers_. Nobody is likely to care much for the metrical creeds, or the tawdry and sensuous poems on the Nativity or Passion. Still the little book contains some pieces which English literature could ill spare. There is, for instance, the strange and, indeed, startling “litany to the Holy Spirit.” This hymn is actually included in one at least of our popular hymn-books, and I have sometimes heard parts of it sung in a village church. I wonder what the congregation would have thought of these two stanzas, which, needless to say, are not to be found in the hymn-book version:— When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but in his fees And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When his Potion and his Pill Has or none or little skill, Meet for nothing but to kill, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. Probably they would be greatly shocked, and indeed everyone must admit that the stanzas show a certain strange devilry mixing itself with Herrick’s most reverent thoughts. At the same time, I do not think there is any real or intentional irreverence in them. There is one stanza in the “Litany” which has, I think, a personal interest:— When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. Now compare this with the following:— Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep, And time seems then not for to flie but creep. . . . . . . Just so it is with me who listening pray The winds to blow the tedious night away. And again— Through all the night Thou dost me fright, And holdst mine eyes from sleeping. I infer from these that Herrick suffered much from sleeplessness, and if so, may we not with considerable probability trace the genesis of this celebrated litany to some sleepless nights in the little vicarage of Dean Prior? Again it is to the _Noble Numbers_ that we owe the beautiful “Lord, Thou hast given me a cell.” Familiar as this poem is, it is only a just tribute to Dean Prior that these sweet praises of its simple plenty should be set down here. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE.