My soul, why art thou so deprest ?
Why, oh! thus troubled in my breast,
With grief so overthrown?
With constant hope on God await:
I yet His name shall celebrate,

For mercy timely shown.

My fainting heart within me pants; My God, consider my complaints;

My songs shall praise Thee still,
Even from the vale where Jordan flows,
Where Hermon his high forehead shows,
From Mitzar's humble hill.

Deeps unto deeps enraged call,
When thy dark spouts of waters fall,
And dreadful tempest raves:
For all thy floods upon me burst,
And billows after billows thrust

To swallow in their graves.
But yet by day the Lord will charge
His ready mercy to enlarge

My soul, surprised with cares ;
He gives my songs their argument;
God of my life, I will present

By night to thee my prayers.

And say, my God, my rock, oh, why
Am I forgot, and mourning die,

By foes reduced to dust?

Their words, like weapons, pierce my bones, While still they echo to my groans,

Where is the Lord thy trust?

My soul, why art thou so deprest?
O why so troubled in my breast?
Sunk underneath thy load!
With constant hope on God await;
For I his name shall celebrate,

My Saviour and my God.

George Sandys.-About 1636.

479-PSALM LXVIII.

Let God, the God of battle, rise,
And scatter his proud enemies :
O let them flee before his face,

Like smoke which driving tempests chase;

As wax dissolves with scorching fire,
So perish in his burning ire.
But let the just with joy abound;
In joyful songs his praise resound,
Who, riding on the rolling spheres,
The name of great Jehovah bears.
Before his face your joys express,
A father to the fatherless;

He wipes the tears from widows' eyes,
The single plants in families;
Enlarging those who late were bound,
While rebels starve on thirsty ground.
When he our numerous army led,
And march'd through deserts full of dread,
Heav'n melted, and earth's centre shook,
With his majestic presence struck.
When Israel's God in clouds came down,
High Sinai bow'd his trembling crown;

He, in th' approach of meagre dearth, With showers refresh'd the fainting earth. Where his own flocks in safety fed,

The needy unto plenty led.

By him we conquer.-Virgins sing
Our victories, and timbrels ring:

He kings with their vast armies foils,
While women share their wealthy spoils.

When he the kings had overthrown,
Our land like snowy Salmon shone.
God's mountain Bashan's mount transcends,
Though he his many heads extends.
Why boast ye so, ye meaner hills?
God with his glory Zion fills,
This his beloved sidence,
Nor ever will depart from hence.
His chariots twenty thousand were,
Which myriads of angels bear,

He in the midst, as when he crown'd
High Sinai's sanctified ground.
Lord, thou hast raised thyself on high,
And captive led captivity.

*

O praised be the God of Gods,
Who with his daily blessings loads;
The God of our salvation,

On whom our hopes depend alone;
The controverse of life and death
Is arbitrated by his breath.

Thus spoke Jehovah: Jacob's seed
I will from Bashan bring again,
And through the bottom of the main,
That dogs may lap their enemies blood,
And they wade through a crimson flood.
We, in thy sanctuary late,

My God, my King, beheld thy state;
The sacred singers march'd before,
Who instruments of music bore,

In order follow'd-every maid

Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd.

His praise in your assemblies sing,

You who from Israel's fountain spring, Nor little Benjamin alone,

But Judah, from his mountain throne; The far-removed Zebulon,

And Napthali, that borders on

Old Jordan, where his stream dilates,
Join'd all their powers and potentates.
For us his winged soldiers fought;
Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath
wrought!

He that supports a diadem
To thee, divine Jerusalem!
Shall in devotion treasure bring,
To build the temple of his King.

*

Far off from sun-burnt Meroë,
From falling Nilus, from the sea
Which beats on the Egyptian shore,
Shall princes come, and here adore.
Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd.
Sing to the Lord, his praise resound; 17

He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides,
And on her aged shoulders rides;
Whose voice the clouds asunder rends,
In thunder terrible descends.

O praise his strength whose majesty
In Israel shines-his power on high!
He from his sanctuary throws
A trembling horror on his foes,
While us his power and strength invest;
O Israel, praise the ever-blest!

George Sandys.-About 1636.

480.-CHORUS OF JEWISH WOMEN.

The rapid motion of the spheres
Old night from our horizon bears,
And now declining shades give way
To the return of cheerful day.
And Phosphorus, who leads the stars,
And day's illustrious path prepares,
Who last of all the host retires,
Nor yet withdraws those radiant fires;
Nor have our trumpets summon'd
The morning from her dewy bed:
As yet her roses are unblown,
Nor by her purple mantel known.
All night we in the temple keep,
Not yielding to the charms of sleep;
That so we might with zealous prayer
Our thoughts and cleansed hearts prepare,
To celebrate the ensuing light.
This annual feast to memory

Is sacred, nor with us must die.

What numbers from the sun's up-rise, From where he leaves the morning skies, Of our dispersed Abrahamites,

This Vesper to their homes invites.

Yet we in yearly triumph still

A lamb for our deliverance kill.
Since liberty our confines fled,

Given with the first unleaven'd bread,
She never would return; though bought
With wounds, and in destruction sought;
Some stray to Libya's scorched sands,
Where horned Hammon's temple stands :
To Nilus some, where Philip's son,
Who all the rifled Orient won,
Built his proud city; others gone
To their old prison, Babylon :
A part to freezing Taurus fled,
And Tiber now the ocean's head
Our ruins all the world have filled:
But you, by use in suffering skill'd,
Forgetting in remoter climes

Our vanisht glory, nor those times,
Those happy times, compare with these,
Your burdens may support with ease.
More justly we of fate complain
Who servitude at home sustain;
We to perpetual woes designed,
In our own country Egypt find.

Yet this no less our grief provokes,
Our kindred bear divided yokes;
One part by Roman bondage wrung,
The other two by brothers sprung
From savage Idumæans, whom
Our fathers have so oft o'ercome.
O Thou, the Hope, the only One
Of our distress, and ruin'd throne;
Of whom with a prophetic tongue,
To Judah dying Jacob sung:
The crowned muse on ivory lyre,
His breast inflamed with holy fire,
This oft foretold,-that Thou should'st free
The people consecrate to Thee;
That Thou, triumphing, should'st revoke
Sweet peace, then never to be broke;
When freed Judæa should obey
Our Lord, and all affect His sway.
O when shall we behold Thy face,
So often promised to our race?
If prophets, who have won belief,
By our mishaps and flowing grief,
Of joyful change, as truly sung;
Thy absence should not now be long.
Thee, by Thy virtue, we entreat;
The temple's veil, the mercy's seat,
That name by which our fathers sware,
Which in our vulgar speech we dare
Not utter to compassionate

Thy kindred's tears, and ruined state,
Hast to our great redemption, hast,
O thou most Holy! and at last

Bless with Thy presence, that we may
To Thee our vows devoutly pay.

George Sandys.-About 1642.

481.-LOVE.

"Tis affection but dissembled, Or dissembled liberty,

To pretend thy passion changed
With changes of thy mistress' eye,
Following her inconstancy.

Hopes, which do from favour flourish,
May perhaps as soon expire
As the cause which did them nourish,
And disdain'd they may retire;
But love is another fire.

For if beauty cause thy passion,
If a fair resistless eye
Melt thee with its soft expression.
Then thy hopes will never die,
Nor be cured by cruelty.

'Tis not scorn that can remove thee,
For thou either wilt not see
Such loved beauty not to love thee,
Or will else consent that she
Judge not as she ought of thee.
Thus thou either canst not sever
Hope from what appears so fair,
Or, unhappier, thou canst never
Find contentment in despair,
Nor make love a trifling care.

There are seen but few retiring

Steps in all the paths of love, Made by such who in aspiring

Meeting scorn their hopes remove;
Yet even these ne'er change their love.
Sidney Godolphin.-About 1640.

482.-ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side;
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

*

When now th' incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their

course,

Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood,

And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood.

Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire
Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire:
His courage work'd like flames, cast heat
about,

Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out;

Not any pike in that renowned stand,

But took new force from his inspiring hand:
Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man,
And he urged all; so much example can;
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call,
He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all:
His soul this while retired from cell to cell,
At last flew up from all, and then he fell.
But the devoted stand enraged more
From that his fate, plied hotter than before.
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield,
Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the

field.

Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew:
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.
This was not nature's courage, not that
thing

We valour call, which time and reason bring;
But a diviner fury, fierce and high,
Valour transported into ecstacy,
Which angels, looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.
You now that boast the spirit, and its sway,
Show us his second, and we'll give the day:
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die:
And though you thank God that you lost none
there,

'Cause they were such who lived not when they were;

Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispense,
Either a-
-or his excellence)
Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame,

As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes,

Glory for people, substance for the wise,
Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat
To which the valiant, when they've done,
retreat :

And when thou seest an happy period sent
To these distractions, and the storm quite
spent,

Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

William Cartwright.-About 1040.

483.-LOVE'S DARTS.

Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
O let him tell me ere I die

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:

I will anoint and keep them warm,`
And make the weapons heal the harm.

Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;

And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkle in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts; 17#

Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape, and force for ills.
Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.

William Cartwright.-About 1640.

484.-TALE OF ARGENTILE AND
CURAN.

The Brutons thus departed hence, seven king. doms here begone,

Where diversely in diverse broils the Saxons lost and won.

King Edell and King Adelbright in Divia jointly reign:

In loyal concord during life these kingly friends remain.

When Adelbright should leave his life, to Edell thus he says:

By those same bonds of happy love, that held us friends always,

By our byparted crown, of which the moiety is mine,

By God, to whom my soul must pass, and so in time may thine,

I pray thee, nay, conjure thee, too, to nourish as thine own

Thy niece, my daughter Argentile, till she to age be grown,

And then, as thou receivest, resign to her my throne.

A promise had for this bequest, the testator

he dies,

love bewray,

and speak, he did his

And tells his birth: her answer was, she husbandless would stay.

Meanwhile, the king did beat his brains, his booty to achieve,

Not caring what became of her, so he by her might thrive :

At last his resolution was, some peasant should her wive.

And, which was working to his wish, he did observe with joy

How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, scapt many an amorous toy.

The king, perceiving such his vein, promotes his vassal still,

Lest that the baseness of the man, should let, perhaps, his will.

Assured therefore of his love, but not suspecting who The lover was,

did woo.

the king himself in his behalf

And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold;

Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much as it would hold :

A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese

as white as snow,

And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow :

And whilst his piebald cur did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by,

On hollow quills of oaten straw he piped melody.

But when he spied her, his saint, he wip'd his greasy shoes,

And clear'd the drivel from his beard, and thus the shepherd woos;

'I have, sweet wench, a piece of checse, as good as tooth may chaw,

And bread and wildings, souling well;' and therewithal did draw

His lardry; and, in eating, 'See yon crumpled ewe,' quoth he,

'Did twin this fall; faith thou art too elfish, and too coy;

Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy,

I wis I am not; yet that thou dost hold me in disdain

Is brim abroad, and made a gibe to all that keep this plain.

There be as quaint, at least that think themselves as quaint, that crave

The match which thou (I wot not why) may'st, but mislik'st to have.

How would'st thou match? (for well I wot thou art a female); I,

I know not her, that willingly, in maidenhood would die.

The ploughman's labour hath no end, and he

a churl will prove;

The craftsman hath more work in hand than fitteth on to love;

The merchant, trafficking abroad, suspects his wife at home;

A youth will play the wanton, and an old man prove a mome;

Then choose a shepherd; with the sun he doth his flock unfold,

And all the day on hill or plain he merry chat can hold :

And with the sun doth fold again: then jogging home betime,

He turns a crab, or tunes a round, or sings some merry rhyme;

Nor lacks he gleeful tales to tell, whilst that the bowl doth trot:

And sitteth singing care away, till he to bed hath got.

There sleeps he soundly all the night, forgetting

Well wot I sooth they say, that say, more quiet nights and days

The shepherd sleeps and wakes than he whose cattle he doth graze.

Believe me, lass, a king is but a man, and so am I;

Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs hit the high.

As late it did a king and his, not dying far from hence,

Who left a daughter (save thyself) for fair, a matchless wench.'

Here did he pause, as if his tongue had made his heart offence.

The neatress, longing for the rest, did egg him on to tell

How fair she was, and who she was. 'She bore,' quoth he, the bell

For beauty: though I clownish am I know what beauty is,

Or did I not, yet seeing thee, I senseless were to miss.

Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's somewhat less,

And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess.

Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and her wit

To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless, I omit.

A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead smooth and high,

An even nose, on either side stood out a grayish eye:

Two rosy cheeks, round ruddy lips, with just set teeth within,

A month in mean, and underneath a round and dimpled chin.

Her snowy neck, with bluish veins, stood bolt upright upon

Her portly shoulders; beating balls, her veined breasts, anon,

Add more to beauty; wand-like was her middle, falling still

*

And more, her long and limber arms had white and azure wrists,

And slender fingers answer to her smooth and lily fists!

A leg in print, and pretty foot; her tongue of speech was spare;

But speaking, Venus seem'd to speak, the ball from Ide to bear!

With Pallas, Juno, and with both, herself contends in face;

Where equal mixture did not want of mild and stately grace:

Her smiles were sober, and her looks were cheerful unto all,

And such as neither wanton seem, nor wayward; mell, nor gall.

A quiet mind, a patient mood, and not dis