Here is a portion of one which I hope may be helpful to some of my readers.

  WHEN WE CANNOT SLEEP.

  What ails my heart, that in my breast
    It thus unquiet lies;
  And that it now of needful rest
    Deprives my tired eyes?

  Let not vain hopes, griefs, doubts, or fears,
    Distemper so my mind;
  But cast on God thy thoughtful cares,
    And comfort thou shalt find.

  In vain that soul attempteth ought,
    And spends her thoughts in vain,
  Who by or in herself hath sought
    Desired peace to gain.

  On thee, O Lord, on thee therefore,
    My musings now I place;
  Thy free remission I implore,
    And thy refreshing grace.

  Forgive thou me, that when my mind
    Oppressed began to be,
  I sought elsewhere my peace to find,
    Before I came to thee.

  And, gracious God, vouchsafe to grant,
    Unworthy though I am,
  The needful rest which now I want,
    That I may praise thy name.

Before examining the volume, one would say that no man could write so many hymns without frequent and signal failure.  But the marvel here is, that the hymns are all so very far from bad.  He can never have written in other than a gentle mood.  There must have been a fine harmony in his nature, that kept him, as it were.  This peacefulness makes him interesting in spite of his comparative flatness.  I must restrain remark, however, and give five out of twelve stanzas of another of his hymns.

  A ROCKING HYMN.

  Sweet baby, sleep; what ails my dear? 
    What ails my darling thus to cry? 
  Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
    To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
  My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
  Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

  Whilst thus thy lullaby I sing,
    For thee great blessings ripening be;
  Thine eldest brother is a king,
    And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 
  Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
  Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

  A little infant once was he,
    And strength in weakness then was laid
  Upon his virgin mother’s knee,
    That power to thee might be conveyed. 
  Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
  Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

  Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
    Where oxen lay, and asses fed;
  Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
    An easy cradle or a bed. 
  Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
  Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

  Thou hast, yet more to perfect this,
    A promise and an earnest got,
  Of gaining everlasting bliss,
    Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not. 
  Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
  Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

I think George Wither’s verses will grow upon the reader of them, tame as they are sure to appear at first.  His Hallelujah, or Britain’s Second Remembrancer, from which I have been quoting, is well worth possessing, and can be procured without difficulty.