Make first a song of joy and love,
Which chastly flame in royal eyes;
Then tune it to the spheres above,
When the benignest stars do rise,
And sweet conjunctions grace the skies.

To this let all good hearts resound,
While diadems invest his head;
Long may he live, whose life doth bound
More than his laws, and better lead
By high example, than by dread!

Long may he round about him see
His roses and his lillies bloom!
Long may his only dear and he
Joy in ideas of their own,

And kingdom's hopes so timely sown!
Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of crowns is such a love!

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.
Who on this base the earth didst firmly found,
And mad'st the deep to circumvest it round.

The waves that rise would drown the highest hill,
But at thy check they fly, and when they hear
Thy thundering voice they post to do thy will,
And bound their furies in their proper sphere:
Where surging floods, and valing ebbs can tell,
That none beyond thy marks must sink or swell.

Who hath disposed but thou, the winding way
Where springs down from their steepy crags do beat
At which both fostered beasts their thirst allay,

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;
Nor shrubs alone feel thy sufficing hand,
But even the cedars that so proudly stand.

So have the fowls their sundry seats to breed:
The ranging stork in stately beeches dwells;
The climbing goats on hills securely feed;

The mining coneys shroud in rocky cells:
Nor can the heavenly lights their course forget;
The moon her turns, or sun his times to set.

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,
And at thy powerful hand demand their food:
Who when at morn they all recouch again,
Then toiling man 'till eve pursues his pain.

O Lord, when on thy various works we look,
How richly furnished is the earth we tread!
Where in the fair contents of nature's book,

We may the wonders of thy wisdom read:
Nor earth alone, but lo, the sea so wide
Where great and small, a world of creatures glide.

There go the ships that furrow out their way,
Yea, there of whales enormous sights we see,
Which yet have scope among the rest to play,
And all do wait for their support on thee:
Who hast assigned each thing his proper food,
And in due season dost dispense thy good.

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
To live without him: liked it not, and died!

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.
Quivering fears, heart-rending cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts !

Fly to fond worldling's sports,

Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery,

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
The rich attendance of our poverty!

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.