ger than Thomson, which is quite pagan in
its mode of glorifying the power of the Deity.

But about the same time when Thomson's _Seasons_ was published, which was
in 1730, the third year of George II., that life which had burned on in
the hidden corners of the church in spite of the worldliness and
sensuality of its rulers, began to show a flame destined to enlarge and
spread until it should have lighted up the mass with an outburst of
Christian faith and hope. I refer to the movement called Methodism, in
the midst of which, at an early stage of its history, arose the directing
energies of John Wesley, a man sent of God to deepen at once and purify
its motive influences. What he and his friends taught, would, I presume,
in its essence, amount mainly to this: that acquiescence in the doctrines
of the church is no fulfilment of duty--or anything, indeed, short of an
obedient recognition of personal relation to God, who has sent every man
the message of present salvation in his Son. A new life began to bud and
blossom from the dry stem of the church. The spirit moved upon the waters
of feeling, and the new undulation broke on the shores of thought in an
outburst of new song. For while John Wesley roused the hearts of the
people to sing, his brother Charles put songs in their mouths.

I do not say that many of these songs possess much literary merit, but
many of them are real lyrics: they have that essential element, song, in
them. The following, however, is a very fine poem. That certain
expressions in it may not seem offensive, it is necessary to keep the
allegory of Jacob and the Angel in full view--even better in view,
perhaps, than the writer does himself.

WRESTLING JACOB.

Come, O thou traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with thee!
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day!

I need not tell thee who I am,
My misery or sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by my name:
Look on my hands, and read it there!
But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

In vain thou struggles! to get free:
I never will unloose my hold.
Art thou the man that died for me?
The secret of thy love unfold.
Wrestling, I will not let thee go
Till I thy name, thy nature know.

* * * * *

What though my sinking flesh complain,
An