He that is down, needs fear no fall;
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much;
And, Lord, contentment still I crave,
Because thou savest[155] such.
Fulness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage;
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.
I could not have my book without one word in it of John Bunyan, the
tinker, probably the gipsy, who although born only and not made a poet,
like his great brother, John Milton, has uttered in prose a wealth of
poetic thought. He was born in 1628, twenty years after Milton. I must
not, however, remark on this noble Bohemian of literature and prophecy;
but leaving at length these flowery hills and meadows behind me, step on
my way across the desert.--England had now fallen under the influence of
France instead of Italy, and that influence has never been for good to
our literature, at least. Thence its chief aim grew to be a desirable
trimness of speech and logical arrangement of matter--good external
qualities purchased at a fearful price with the loss of all that makes
poetry precious. The poets of England, with John Dryden at their head,
ceased almost for a time to deal with the truths of humanity, and gave
themselves to the facts and relations of society.
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