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of wicked men, who are unceasingly subject to the pain and perturbation of a troubled spirit; and above all, the ardent supplication for the Divine assistance, in order to enable him to celebrate the praises of the omnipotent Deity in a suitable manner, and in a perpetual strain of praise and adoration; all of these breathe so true and unaffected a spirit of piety, that they seem in some measure to approach the excellence of the sacred poetry. The hymn of David, which I have just mentioned, deservedly occupies the first place in this class of poems; that which comes nearest to it, as well in the conduct of the poem as in the beauty of the style, is another of the same author. See Psalm 139.

LOWTH, Lect. 29.

PSALM CIV.*

My soul, exalt the Lord with hymns of praise,
O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might!
Whose throne of state is cloth'd with glorious rays,
And round about hast rob'd thyself with light,

*The few poems this elegant scholar has left behind him, are distinguished by a very interesting simplicity, worthy of his pure classic taste.

His

Who like a curtain hast the heav'ns display'd,
And in the wat❜ry roofs thy chambers laid.

Whose chariots are the thickned clouds above,
Who walk'st upon the winged winds below,
At whose command the airy spirits move,
And fiery meteors their obedience shew:

beautiful stanzas 66 on his mistress, the Queen of Bohemia," have always been greatly admired; the 104th psalm, which I here give, is much less known, but will, I think, be allowed to reflect great credit on him. It is the finest specimen I have met with of sacred poetry among our earlier authors, and will be highly acceptable, I doubt not, to every reader of taste. His treatise on Architecture deserves to be better known. Sir Henry Wotton was born in 1568, entered into holy orders late in life, and died provost of Eton in 1639.

His life has been written by that excellent biographer Isaac Walton. He was a great traveller, and was ambassador at several courts; Cowley says of him

In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,

He read the men and manners, bringing home.
Their wisdom, learning, and their piety.

On the Death of Sir Henry Wotton.

Who on his base the earth didst 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 thund'ring voice, they post to do thy will,
And bound their furies in their proper sphere:
Where surging floods, and valing ebbs can tell
That none beyond thy marks must sink, or swell.

Who hath dispos'd, but thou, the winding way

Where springs down from the steepy crags do beat, At which, both foster'd 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 water'd from thy dwelling place,
The barns and meads are fill❜d 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 over-vail the day,
Then savage beasts creep from the silent wood,
Then lion's 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 furnish'd is the earth we tread! Where in the fair contents of nature's book We may the wonders of thy wisdom read; Nor earth alone, but lo! the sea so wide, Where great and small, a world of creatures glide.

There
go the ships that furrow out their way,
Yea, there of whales enormous sights we see,
Which yet have scope among the rest to play,
And all do wait for their support on thee,

Who hast assign'd each thing his proper food,
And in due season doth dispense thy good.

They gather when thy gifts thou dost divide,
Their stores abound, if thou thy hand enlarge;
Confus'd they are, when thou thy beams dost hide,

In dust resolv'd, if thou their breath discharge:

Again, when thou of life renew'st the seeds,
The wither'd fields revest their chearful weeds.

Be ever glory'd here thy sovereign name,

That thou may'st smile on all which thou hast made, Whose frown alone can shake this earthly frame, And at whose touch the hills in smoke shall vade. For me, may, while I breathe, both harp and voice In sweet inditement of thy hymns rejoice: Let sinners fail, let all profaneness cease, His praise, my soul, his praise shall be thy peace, SIR HENRY WOTTON.

PSALM CIV.*

Bless God, O my soul,

Rejoice in his name,
O Lord, let my.voice

Thy greatness proclaim;..

* The production of a very eminent scholar, who published it some years ago, without his name, and enjoined me to follow his example. It is a name

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