When I remember Christ our burden bears,
      I look for glory, but find misery;
    I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;
      I look that we should live, and find him die;
      I look for angels’ songs, and hear him cry: 
    Thus what I look, I cannot find so well;
    Or rather, what I find I cannot tell,
  These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell.

We would gladly eliminate the few common-place allusions; but we must take them with the rest of the passage.  Besides far higher merits, it is to my ear most melodious.

One more passage of two stanzas from Giles Fletcher, concerning the glories of heaven:  I quote them for the sake of earth, not of heaven.

  Gaze but upon the house where man embowers: 
      With flowers and rushes paved is his way;
    Where all the creatures are his servitours: 
      The winds do sweep his chambers every day,
      And clouds do wash his rooms; the ceiling gay,
    Starred aloft, the gilded knobs embrave: 
    If such a house God to another gave,
  How shine those glittering courts he for himself will have!

    And if a sullen cloud, as sad as night,
      In which the sun may seem embodied,
    Depured of all his dross, we see so white,
      Burning in melted gold his watery head,
      Or round with ivory edges silvered;
    What lustre super-excellent will he
    Lighten on those that shall his sunshine see
  In that all-glorious court in which all glories be!

These brothers were intense admirers of Spenser.  To be like him Phineas must write an allegory; and such an allegory!  Of all the strange poems in existence, surely this is the strangest.  The Purple Island is man, whose body is anatomically described after the allegory of a city, which is then peopled with all the human faculties personified, each set in motion by itself.  They say the anatomy is correct:  the metaphysics are certainly good.  The action of the poem is just another form of the Holy War of John Bunyan—­all the good and bad powers fighting for the possession of the Purple Island.  What renders the conception yet more amazing is the fact that the whole ponderous mass of anatomy and metaphysics, nearly as long as the Paradise Lost, is put as a song, in a succession of twelve cantos, in the mouth of a shepherd, who begins a canto every morning to the shepherds and shepherdesses of the neighbourhood, and finishes it by folding-time in the evening.  And yet the poem is full of poetry.  He triumphs over his difficulties partly by audacity, partly by seriousness, partly by the enchantment of song.  But the poem will never be read through except by students of English literature.  It is a whole; its members are well-fitted; it is full of beauties—­in parts they swarm like fire-flies; and yet it is not a good poem.  It is like a well-shaped house, built of mud, and stuck full of precious stones.  I do not care, in my limited space, to quote from it.  Never was there a more incongruous dragon of allegory.