But since with true contrition Lord, thou art all my comfort, My Soul's sure prop and shield; My hopes in my discomfort Still on thy word I build. My soul base earth despising Tir'd watchmen watch to see. Lay thy Hope's sure foundation In God, O Israel, O God, in whom salvation And boundless mercy dwell. The leprous spots that stain thee He then will purify; Sin's fetters, that enchain thee, He gently will untie. PSALM XIII. By the same. LORD, how long, how long wilt thou Wilt thou from thy sight reject me? How long shall I seek a way Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed Where my griev'd mind night and day Is with thinking tir'd and vexed! How long shall my stormful foe, On my fall his greatness placing, Build upon my overthrow; And be grac'd by my disgracing! Hear, O Lord and God, my cries; And illuminate mine eyes, Heavenly beams in them infusing; Lest my woes, too great to bear, And too infinite to number, Rock me soon, 'twixt Hope and Fear, Into Death's eternal slumber! Lest my foes their boasting make, "Spite of right on him we trample;" And a pride in mischief take, Hearten'd by my sad example! As for me, I'll ride secure At thy mercy's sacred anchor, And undaunted will endure Fiercest storms of wrong and rancour! These black clouds will overflow; Sunshine shall have his returning; And my grief-dull'd heart, I know, Therefore I'll rejoice, and sing Hymns to God in sacred measure, Who to happy pass will bring My just hopes at his good pleasure. PSALM XXIII. By the same. To St. Bernard's "Cum mundus militat," &c. THE Lord my pastor is; he tends me heedfully; In fields he pastures me, clad with amenity; Through bushy labyrinths roaming audaciously, Yea, through Death's vallies, a fruitful obscurity, If thou dost guard me; for in tribulation Thy rod and sheep-hook are my consolation. Before mine enemies, enviously vicious, Thou hast prepar'd my board with meats delicious; Thy love I need not doubt, and thy gratuity So in this house I shall, O bless'd condition! From the same MSS. This is a curious specimen of the Dactylic measure. ON AMBITION. O COULD the mighty but give bounds to pride, Not striving how to make so much their own, Who seem by their high-spreading overgrown, Whilst they themselves remain in all mens' sight, The odious mark of hatred and despite! Then should not, O, so many tragedies Burden our knowledge with their bloody end, From so high pride to so low shame descend; SONG. DISDAIN that so doth fill me, Hath surely sworn to kill me, Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 123. |