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O give me, Thy slave, at length,
And some gracious token show me,
foes that watch t'o'erthrow me, May be shamed and vexed to see Thee to help and comfort me.
PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XIII.
Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou
Quite forget and quite neglect me? How long with a frowning brow
Wilt Thou from thy sight reject me ? How long shall I seek a way
From this range of thoughts perplexed, Where my grieved mind, night and day,
Is with thinking tired and vexed ! How long shall my stormful foe,
On my fall his greatness placing, Build upon my overthrow,
And be graced by my disgracing ?
Hear, O Lord and God, my cries,
Mock my foe's unjust abusing, And illuminate mine eyes,
Heavenly beams in them infusing.
my woes too great to bear, And too infinite in number, Rock me soon, 'twixt Hope and Fear,
Into Death's eternal slumber.
These black clouds will overblow,
Sunshine shall have his returning, And my grief-dulled heart, I know,
Into joy shall change his mourning.
Was apparently a contemporary of Davison. There is much beauty
in the following
PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXV.
DWELLERS beyond Thule's bands,
In fair lands,
By their guest,
By thy rain
And the vales,
With thy oft
In the land
Thou didst bless,
Fall, and fill
John Donne was born in London, in 1573. He entered Hertford College at the early age of eleven, and became a prodigy of learning. He was bred a Catholic, but early in life he became a Protestant minister. He died, Dean of St. Paul's, in 1631. Without being in the strictest sense a sacred poet, Donne is one of those writers who have shown their reverence of religion with the warmth and sincerity of genuine feeling. He is frequently rugged and obscure, yet he displays a depth of sentiment and an originality of thought, which entitle him to a rank among the truest poets.
Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay ?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
Despair behind, and death before, doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By thy leave I can look, I rise again ;
That not one hour myself I can sustain ;
This is my play's last scene ; here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile ; and my race
Idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace;
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face
And earth-born body, in the earth shall dwell,
have their right,
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
your numberless infinities
All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes
For if above all these my sins abound,
When we are there ; here, on this lowly ground,
DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those whom thou thinkest thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms, can make us sleep as well,
And better, than thy stroke ; why swellest thou then ? One short sleep past, we wake eternally ; And death shall be no more ; Death! thou must die.
VENGEANCE will sit above our faults; but till
She there do sit
We suffer it.
Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill : Enough we labor under
age In number, th' errors of the last place are
The greater still.
and care :
Yet we, that should the ill we now begin
As soon repent, (Strange thing !) perceive not; our faults are not seen, But past us ; neither felt, but only in
But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows
Our minds so store,
Himself, knows more.
HYMN TO CHRIST.
In what torn ship soever I embark,