To Thee alone be praise,

From whom our joy descends, Thou cheerer of our days,

Of causes first, and last of ends: To Thee this May we sing, by whom Our roses from the lilies bloom.

Upon this royal flower,

Sprung from the chastest bed, Thy glorious sweetness shower;

And first let myrtles crown his head, Then palms and laurels wreathed between: But let the cypress late be seen.

And so succeeding men,

When they the fulness see

Of this our joy, shall then

In consort join, as well as we,

To celebrate His praise above

That spreads our land with fruits of love.

H. WOTTON.

XI.

AN ODE TO THE KING,

AT HIS RETURNING FROM SCOTLAND TO THE QUEEN AFTER HIS CORONATION THERE.1

(1633.)

OUSE up thyself, my gentle Muse,

Though now our green conceits be

grey,

And yet once more do not refuse

1 "Rel. Wotton." Transcribed as Wotton's in MS. Tan.

And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all look'd gay, all full of cheer,
To welcome the new liveried year.

H. W.

XIII.

A TRANSLATION OF THE CIV. PSALM

TO THE ORIGINAL SENSE.1

Y soul, exalt the Lord with hymns of praise :

M

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 watery 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 his base the earth did'st 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,

1 "Rel. Wotton."

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 the steepy crags do beat,

At which both fostered beasts their thirsts 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 conies 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 lions' 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!

To take thy Phrygian harp, and play
In honour of this cheerful day.

Make first a song of joy and love,
Which chastely 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 lilies blown ;
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.

465, fol. 61, verso, and MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 96. Erroneously inserted among Ben Jonson's "Works," vol. ix. p. 52, edit. Gifford.

XII.

ON A BANK AS I SAT A-FISHING.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE SPRING.1

(Circ. 1638.)

ND now all nature seemed in love;
The lusty sap began to move;

New juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines;
The jealous trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly:

There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest:
The groves already did rejoice

In Philomel's triumphing voice.

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes a sillabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;

"Rel. Wotton." Also as Wotton's in MS. Tann. 465, fol. 61, verso; in MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 47; and in Walton's "Complete Angler," p. 78, edit. Nicolas, where it is said to have been written when Wotton was "beyond seventy years of age." He was born in 1568.