THE TRANSLATION OF CERTAIN PSALMS BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS, PRINTED AT LONDON, 1625, IN QUARTO. TO HIS VERY GOOD FRIEND, MR. GEORGE HERBERT. The pains* that it pleased you to take about some of my writings, I cannot forget; which did put me in mind to dedicate to you this poor exercise of my sickness. Besides, it being my manner for dedications, to choose those that I hold most fit for the argument, I thought, that in respect of divinity and poesy met, whereof the one is the matter, the other the stile of this little writing, I could not make better choice: so, with signification of my love and acknowledgment, I ever rest Your affectionate Friend, FR. ST. ALBAN. * Of translating part of the Advancement of Learning into THE TRANSLATION OF THE IST PSALM. WHO never gave to wicked reed A yielding and attentive ear; He shall be like the fruitful tree, 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; Yet so they think to reign, and work their will 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 in the trial never loseth weight; Like noble gold, which, since it left the mine, Hath seven times passed through the fiery strait 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, One God thou wert, and art, and still shalt be; 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, 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, |