But show Thy mercy to the wicked man,
He will not learn Thy righteousness to know:
His chief delight is still to curse and ban,
And unto Thee himself he will not bow.
They do not once at all regard Thy power:
Thy people's zeal shall let them see their shame;
But with a fire Thou shalt Thy foes devour,
And clean consume them with a burning flame.
With peace Thou wilt preserve us, Lord, alone,
For Thou hast wrought great wonders for our sake;
And other gods beside Thee we have none,
Only in Thee we all our comforts take.
MICHAEL DRAYTON.
LADY of Heaven and Earth and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,-
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are:
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious, Sad May of Egypt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus, Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin, that shalt have no loss thereby!) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
How should I praise Thee, Lord? how should my
Gladly engrave Thy love in steel,
If, what my soul doth feel sometimes,
My soul might ever feel!
Although there were some fourtie heav'ns or more,
Sometimes I peere above them all;
Sometimes I hardly reach a score,
Sometimes to hell I fall.
O, rack me not to such a vast extent,
Those distances belong to Thee;
The world's too little for Thy tent,
A grave too big for me.
Wilt Thou meet arms with man, that Thou dost stretch
A crumme of dust from heav'n to hell?
Will great God measure with a wretch?
Shall he Thy stature spell?
O, let me, when Thy roof my soul hath hid,
O, let me roost and nestle there ;
Then of a sinner Thou art rid,
And I of hope and fear.
Yet take Thy way; for sure Thy way is best;
Stretch or contract me, Thy poore debtor;
This is but tuning of my breast,
To make the musick better.
Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust,
Thy hands made both, and I am there;
Thy power and love, my love and trust,
Make our place ev'rywhere.
THOU mighty formidable King,
Thou mercy's unexhausted spring!
Some comfortable pity bring.
Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost,
In storms of guilty terror tost.
Thou who for me didst feel such pain,
Whose precious blood the Cross did stain,
Let not those agonies be vain.
Thou whom avenging Pow'rs obey,
Cancel my debt-too great to pay—
Before the sad accounting-day.
Surrounded with amazing fears,
Whose load my soul with anguish bears,
I sigh, I weep; accept my tears.
Prostrate, my contrite heart I rend,
My God! my Father! and my Friend!
Do not forsake me in my end.
Well may they curse their second breath
Who rise to a reviving death;
Thou, great Creator of mankind!
Let guilty man compassion find.
WENTWORTH DILLON
ALMIGHTY Framer of the skies,
O let our pure devotion rise
Like incense in Thy sight!
Wrapt in impenetrable shade,
The texture of our souls was made,
Till Thy command gave light.
The sun of glory gleamed, the ray
Refined the darkness into day,
And bid the vapours fly:
Impelled by His eternal love,
He left His palaces above
To cheer our gloomy sky.
How shall we celebrate the day
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn?
When the archangel's heavenly lays
Attempted the Redeemer's praise,
And hailed Salvation's morn?
A humble form the Godhead wore,
The pains of poverty He bore,
To gaudy pomp
Though in a humble walk He trod,
Still was the man Almighty God,
In glory all His own.
Despised, oppressed, the Godhead bears
The torments of this vale of tears,
Nor bids His vengeance rise;
He saw the creatures He had made
Revile His power, His peace invade,
He saw with Mercy's eyes.
THOMAS CHATTERTON.
(Written at the age of eleven years.)
"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
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