THE TRANSLATION OF THE IST PSALM. WHO never gave to wicked reed Nor sat him down in scorner's chair; He shall be like the fruitful tree, Planted along a running spring, A goodly yield of fruit doth bring: And are no prey to winter's pow'r : With wicked men it is not so, Is toss'd at mercy of the wind. For why? the Lord hath special eye The wicked man to take his fall. THE TRANSLATION OF THE XIITH PSALM. HELP, Lord, for godly men have took their flight, But fears, or seeks to please, the eyes of men. Their meaning go'th not with their words, in proof, But fair they flatter, with a cloven heart, By pleasing words, to work their own behoof. But God cut off the lips, that are all set To trap the harmless soul, that peace hath vow'd; And pierce the tongues, that seek to counterfeit The confidence of truth, by lying loud: Yet so they think to reign, and work their will By subtile speech, which enters ev'ry where; And say: Our tongues are ours, to help us still; What need we any higher pow'r to fear? Now for the bitter sighing of the poor, The Lord hath said, I will no more forbear The wicked's kingdom to invade and scour, And set at large the men restrain'd in fear. And sure the word of God is pure and fine, And now thou wilt not first thy word forsake, In spite of all their force and wiles can do. THE TRANSLATION OF THE XCTH PSALM; O LORD, thou art our home, to whom we fly, Or that the frame was up of earthly stage, Both death and life obey thy holy lore, And visit in their turns, as they are sent; Or as a watch by night, that course doth keep, sleep. Thou carry'st man away with a tide : Then down swim all his thoughts that mounted high: Much like a mocking dream, that will not bide, Or as the grass, that cannot term obtain, At morning, fair it musters on the ground; The weather would perform the mower's wrong: Thou bury'st not within oblivion's tomb Our trespasses, but ent' rest them aright; As a tale told, which sometime men attend, The life of man is threescore years and ten, Or, if that he be strong, perhaps fourscore; Yet all things are but labour to him then, New sorrows still come on, pleasures no more. Why should there be such turmoil and such strife, But who considers duly of thine ire? Or doth the thoughts thereof wisely embrace? Frail man, how can he stand before thy face? Teach us, O Lord, to number well our days, This bubble light, this vapour of our breath, Return unto us, Lord, and balance now, Then shall thy servants both with heart and voice, Begin thy work, O Lord, in this our age, Shew it unto thy servants that now live; |