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Donne adopted this metre, with a slight variation, in his version of the 137th Psalm. The following stanza, from the 130th Psalm, is very beautifully rendered, the alliteration in the fourth line being the only defect:

My soul base earth despising

More longs with God to be
Than rosy morning's rising

Tired watchmen watch to see!

I have omitted a few lines in this translation of the

13th Psalm :

Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou
Quite forget and quite neglect me?

How long with a frowning brow

Wilt Thou from thy sight reject me?

How long shall I seek a way

From this range of thoughts perplex'd,
Where my griev'd mind, night and day,
Is with thinking tired and vex'd!

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,
Mock my foe's unjust abusing,
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.

These black clouds will overblow,
Sunshine shall have his returning,
And my grief-dull'd heart, I know,

Into joy shall change his mourning.

"Grief-dulled" is a very picturesque epithet. The same graceful facility and religious fervour animate the 86th Psalm:

Save my soul which Thou didst cherish

Until now, now like to perish,

Save Thy servant that hath none
Help, nor hope, but Thee alone!

After Thy sweet-wonted fashion,
Shower down mercy and compassion,
On me, sinful wretch, that cry
Unto Thee incessantly.

Send, O send, relieving gladness,
To my soul oppress'd with sadness,
Which, from clog of earth set free,
Wing'd with zeal springs up to Thee.

Let thine ears which long have tarried
Barred up, be now unbarred,
That my cries may entrance gain,
And being entered grace obtain.

For Thou, darter of dread thunders,
Thou art great, and workest wonders.
Other gods are wood and stone,

Thou the living God alone.

Heavenly Tutor, of thy kindness,

Teach my dulness, guide my blindness,
That my steps Thy paths may tread
Which to endless bliss do lead.

In knots to be loosed never,
Knit my heart to Thee for ever,
That I to Thy name may bear,
Fearful love and loving fear.

Lord, my God, thou shalt be praised,
With my heart to heaven raised,
And whilst I have breath to live,
Thanks to Thee my breath shall give.
Mighty men with malice endless,
Band* against me helpless, friendless,
Using, without fear of Thee,
Force and fraud to ruin me.

But Thy might their malice passes,
And Thy grace Thy might surpasses,
Swift to mercy, slow to wrath,
Bound nor end Thy goodness hath.

Thy kind look no more deny me,
But with eyes of mercy eye me;
O give me, Thy slave, at length,
Easing aid, or bearing strength.

And some gracious token show me,
That my foes that watch t' o'erthrow me,
May be shamed and vex'd to see

Thee to help and comfort me.

Joseph Bryan has versified the 65th Psalm with great harmony of language and sweetness of fancy. Of his history I have been unable to obtain any illustrations; he must not, however, be confounded with Francis Bryan, whom, in the beautiful lines of Drayton,

The Muses kept

And in his cradle rock'd him whilst he slept.

Dwellers beyond Thule's bands,

In fair lands,

At thy signs shall be affrighted.
Morn's bright gate, and ruddy west,
By their guest,

Are with light and heat delighted.

* Unite.

Furrows else plough'd, sow'd in vain,
By thy rain

Are with blades and ears maintained.
Thou sendest rain into thy dales,
And the vales,

Pranking them with curious flowers;
And the stiffened earth mak'st soft
With thy oft

Sweet and soft descending showers.
Thou dost speed the seedman's hand,
In the land

His dead-seeming seed reviving;
And the tender bud, unless

Thou didst bless,

Blasts and frosts would keep from thriving.
There thy gracious showers still

Fall, and fill

With thy blessing barren places;
And the lesser hills are seen,
Fresh and green,

Deck'd with Flora's various graces.

Among the poets who exercised a lively influence over their immediate contemporaries and successors, the name of Sylvester should not be omitted. The first part of his translation of the Divine Weeks of Dubartas was published in 1598. Bishop Hall speaks of him with affectionate praise" Our worthy friend, Mr. J. Sylvester," he says, "hath showed me how happily he hath sometimes turned from his Bartas to the sweet singer of Israel." He closed a troubled life at Middleburgh, in Holland, on the 28th of September, 1618, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. He appears to have been secretary to the Company of Merchants in that town*.

The youthful admiration of Milton and Dryden has endeared the works of Sylvester to the poetical student. Mr. Dunster, in his ingenious considerations on Milton's early reading, has shown his obligations to this singular

* Cole MSS. Cole ascertained this fact from the list of subscribers to Minshieu's Dictionary, in 1617.

author, in whose poetry the flame of genuine fancy continually shoots up through all the extravagance of imagery that oppresses it. He enriched our language with some of its most picturesque epithets. His descriptions of the "sweet-numbered Homer," the "clear-styled Herodotus," and the "choice-termed Petrarch," are not more gracefully poetic, than critically correct. The melody and richness of some of his pictures of nature entitled him to the appellation bestowed by his contemporaries, of the "silvertongued." The "rose-crowned Zephyrus," and the "saffron-coloured bed of Aurora," are worthy of Theocritus or Anacreon. Perhaps the whole range of our poetry does not present a more exquisite descriptive couplet than the following:

Arise betimes, while th' opal-coloured morn

In golden pomp doth May-day's door adorn.

The fate of Davison recalls to the memory the unfortunate and accomplished Sir Walter Raleigh, whom Spenser, in a beautiful sonnet, called the Summer's Nightingale. Mr. Tytler seems to have proved in his recent Life of Raleigh, that the charge of irreligion, so frequently urged against him, does not apply to his maturer years. The afflictions of his manhood appear to have obliterated the vain and sceptical feelings of his youth, and to have impressed his mind with a just and lively sense of the Divine Power. During his long imprisonment, rendered still more melancholy by the uncertainty of its issue, he composed one or two touching Hymns that testify the sincerity of his heart and the piety of his feelings. Probably the last words ever traced by his pen were the lines written in his Bible on the evening preceding his execution, in which he renewed his expression of confidence in the mercy and intercession of our Saviour.

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