Make first a song of joy and love, To this let all good hearts resound, Long may he round about him see And kingdom's hopes so timely sown! H. W. The return from Scotland here alluded to, took place in 1633. A translation of the CIV. Psalm, to the original sense. My soul exalt the Lord with hymns of praise! O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might! Whose throne of state is clothed with glorious rays, And round about hast robed thyself with light. Who like a curtain hast the heavens displayed, And in the watry roofs thy chambers laid. Whose chariots are the thickened clouds above, Who walk'st upon the winged winds below, At whose command the airy spirits move, And fiery meteors their obedience show. The waves that rise would drown the highest hill, Who hath disposed but thou, the winding way And the wild asses come to quench their heat; Where birds resort, and in their kind, thy praise Among the branches chant in warbling lays? The mounts are watered from thy dwelling place; The barns and meads are filled for man and beast; Wine glads the heart, and oil adorns the face, And bread the staff whereon our strength doth rest; So have the fowls their sundry seats to breed: The mining coneys shroud in rocky cells: Thou mak'st the night to overveil the day, Then savage beasts creep from the silent wood: Then lion's whelps lie roaring for their prey, O Lord, when on thy various works we look, We may the wonders of thy wisdom read: There go the ships that furrow out their way, They gather when thy gifts thou dost divide; Their stores abound, if thou thy hand enlarge; Confused they are, when thou thy beams dost hide; In dust resolved, if thou their breath discharge. Again, when thou of life renew'st the seeds, The withered fields revest their chearful weeds. Be ever gloried here thy sovereign name, That thou mayst smile on all that thou hast made; Whose frown alone can shake this earthly frame, And at whose touch the hills in smoke shall vade. For me, may while I breath, both harp and voice, In sweet indictments of thy hymns rejoice. Let sinners fail, let all profaneness cease, His praise, my soul, his praise shall be thy peace! H. WOTTON. W This is the most elaborate of all Sir Henry Wotton's remaining poetical compositions, and may be fairly considered a good example of a difficult kind of exercise, in which many of our greatest writers have entirely failed. The composition of hymns was one of the purposed means of employing his leisure, when set led at Eton; and he expressed this intention in a letter to the king, announcing his having entered into Deacon's orders, in the following passage. "Though I must humbly confess, that both my conception and expressions be weak, yet I do more trust my deliberation than my memory: or if your majesty will give me leave to paint myself in higher terms, I think I shall be bolder against the judgments than against the faces of men. This I conceive to be a piece of mine own character; so as my private study must be my theatre, rather than a pulpit; and my books my auditors, as they are all my treasure. Howsoever, if I can produce nothing else for the use of church and state, yet it shall be comfort enough to the little remnant of my life, to compose some hymns to his endless glory, who hath called me, for which his name be ever blessed, though late, to his service, yet early to the knowledge of his truth, and sense of his mercy." Upon the Death of Sir Albertus Morton's Wife. He first deceased;-she for a little tried H. W. This is one of the very best imitations of the point, spirit, and conciseness of the Greek epigram, in the English language: Sir Henry doubtless, was pleased with the thought himself. In a Letter to his friend Jack Dinely, then secretary to the Queen of Bohemia, he mentions it in the following terms:- "If the Queen have not heard the epitaph of Albertus Morton and his Lady,-authoris incerti,—it is worth her hearing, for the passionate plainness." This Letter is dated November, 1628, which fixes the time of its conception. A description of the Country's Recreations. Fly to fond worldling's sports, Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still, And sorrows only real be! Fly from our country pastimes!-fly Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the chrystal brooks, Or the pure azur'd Heaven, that smiles to see Peace, and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find. Abused mortals !-did you know Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in the bowers, Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, But blustering care could never tempests make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, Saving of fountains that glide by us. |