I sing the Birth was born to-night, The Author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it:— And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it. The Son of God, the eternal King, That did us all salvation bring, And freed the soul from danger; He whom the whole world could not take, The Word, which heaven and earth did make, Was now laid in a manger. What comfort by Him do we win, Who made Himself the price of sin, To make us heirs of glory! To see this Babe, all innocence, A martyr born in our defence!— Can man forget this story? Robert Herrick’s (1591-1674) quaint ‘Litany to the Holy Spirit’ yields a few verses to some of our best modern collections, but his irrepressible humour makes several verses impossible, and his references to ‘furies in a shole,’ to ‘flames and hellish cares,’ shut out others. In his _Noble Numbers_ are many fine verses and epigrams, but he is not a hymn-writer. George Herbert (1593-1632) did not write hymns to be sung in church, though his ‘Antiphon’ and ‘The Elixir’ are, for love of their author, found in many modern hymn-books, and ‘Praise’ is also beautifully possible as a hymn. Yet his loveliest poems cannot be adapted to congregational use. He is the greatest of the poets of the sanctuary, but he is not a chorister. John Wesley and George Rawson tried to make Herbert’s poems into hymns, but with no great success—though in one or two instances Wesley came near it.[88] In any collection of religious poetry for use in the hour of private devotion, Herbert would rank among the chief contributors, and it is well that he should be represented in our hymn-books, if only that he may be remembered and honoured by our children.[89] He is the chief singer of a school of poets in which Henry Vaughan and Christina Rossetti are distinguished and worthy disciples. I give three of Herbert’s poems. The first because it is an ideal example of his quaint but exquisite pathos, and of his gracious, humble, affectionate devotion to his Lord; the others because they are the most hymn-like of his poems. LOVE Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked any thing. A guest, I answered, worthy to be here: Love said, You shall be he. I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my Dear, I cannot look on Thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes, but I? Truth, Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? My Dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat. PRAISE