XI.

Thus prayed I, and God soon after Changed my mourning into laughter; Mine ashy sackcloth, mark of mine annoy, To robes of joy

Eftsoons he turned.

XII.

Therefore harp and voice, cease never,
But sing sacred lays for ever
To great Jehovah, mounted on the skies,
Who dried mine eyes

When as I mourned.

PSALM XLIII.

I.

I APPEAL, oh God, to thee;

Oh, give sentence, Lord, with me,

And defend my helpless cause

'Gainst such men as hate thy laws;

Oh deliver me from those

That deceitfully can gloze.

No signature in Harl. MSS. 6930, but attributed to Francis Davison in Harl .MSS. 3357.

II.

For thou art the God of whom
All my strength and help doth come;
Why, oh why hast thou from thee
So estrang'd, and parted me?
And why doth my pace, so slow
Me dejected, heartless, show,
While insulting enemies

Press'd me with their injuries?

III.

Oh send out thy truth and light
To instruct and lead me right,
To conduct me to thy hill

And thy dwelling, holy still.

IV.

Then unto thine altar, I

With oblations will hie,
Off'ring these to thee, who art
Joy and gladness to my heart,
And upon my harp will sing
Praise to thee, oh God my King!

V.

Oh, my soul, oh why art thou
So cast down? so heavy now?

And why art thou in breast
my

So disturbed of thy rest?
Wait on God, be patient,
And in him be confident.

Yet I will remain the same,

To give thanks to his great name;
For he is my God of might,

Who my countenance sets right.

PSALM LXXIII.

BY FRANCIS DAVISON.

I.

CALM thy tempestuous thoughts, my mind!
Leave mutinying, and rest secure,
That God, being goodness-self, is kind,

And kind will still endure,

To them whose hearts are pure.

II.

Without the staff of heavenly grace,
How prone to fall is feeble man!
My feet tript in my heedless race,
And so to slide began,

As I could hardly stand.

III.

When I saw fools advanced so high,

As dazzling height did make them mad,

And grieving saw with envious eye,

That they who were most bad,

Most happy fortunes had.

IV.

For their lives-thread so well is spun,
And with good fortunes so well wound,
As life's and fortune's web doth run
From end to end so sound,

As knot, nor brack is found.

V.

From sweating toil, and eating care,
The wreck of body, rack of mind,
Of other mortals, free they are;
A privilege they find,
Of woe, to taste no kind.

PSALM LXXIX.

BY FRANCIS DAVISON.

I.

OH GOD, into thine once dear heritage

The heathen have broke, and there their barbarous rage

Have executed.

Rude heaps th' have made great Salem's frame:
The sacred temple of thy glorious name

They have polluted.

II.

To ravenous fowls and savage beasts to eat,

Those men, most inhumane have thrown for meat,

Meat execrable,

The reverend bodies of thy servants dead,
And mangled saints, in numbers butchered

Innumerable.

III.

Their swords, whose thirst cannot be quench'd with blood,

So much have shed, that many a crimson flood
Flows through the city:

And to give turfy tombs unto the slain,

Our friends for fear, our foes for spite refrain,
Devoid of pity.

IV.

Our neighbours, who behold, with envious eyes
Our happiness, now in our miseries

Triumph, and flout us;

And on our burthen of heart-breaking woes,
The heavy weight of scorn is laid, by those
That dwell about us.

V.

Lord, shall no time give limits to thine ire?
Shall thy fierce rage, like all-devouring fire,
Still burn, enraged?

Can streams of blood? Can our eyes' briny show'rs?
Can low-laid ruins of our lofty tow'rs

No whit assuage it?

VI.

Lord, let the heathen of thy cup of wrath,
Whereof too deeply Sion tasted hath,

Now drink like measure;