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!

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 assigned each thing his proper food, And in due season dost dispense Thy good.

They gather when Thy gifts Thou dost divide;

Their stores abound, if Thou Thy hand enlarge, Confused they are when Thou Thy beams dost hide;

In dust resolved if Thou their breath discharge; Again, when Thou of life renew'st the seeds, The withered fields revest their cheerful weeds.

Be ever gloried 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 indictment of Thy hymns rejoice!

Let sinners fail, let all profaneness cease:—
His praise, my soul, His praise shall be thy peace.
H. WOTTON.

XIV.

A HYMN TO MY GOD,

IN A NIGHT OF MY LATE SICKNESS.1

(1638 or 1639.)

H Thou great power! in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through Thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie;

And cleanse my sordid soul within
By Thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin!

No hallowed oils, no grains I need,
No rags of saints, no purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed

Was worlds of seas to quench Thine ire.
O precious ransom! which once paid,
That consummatum est was said:

And said by Him that said no more,

But sealed it with His sacred breath:
Thou, then, that hast dispunged my score,
And dying wast the death of Death,

Be to me now, on Thee I call,
My life, my strength, my joy, my all!

H. WOTTON.

"Rel. Wotton." among the letters. There are copies in MS. Taun. 465, p. 137; MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 101; MS. Ashm. 38, No. 172, &c.; and in Clark's "Aurea Legenda," 1682, p. 141.

XV.

TO THE RARELY ACCOMPLISHED, AND WORTHY

OF BEST EMPLOYMENT, MASTER HOWELL,
UPON HIS VOCAL FOREST.1

B

ELIEVE it, Sir, you happily have hit
Upon a curious fancy, of such wit,
That far transcends the vulgar; for
each line

Methinks breathes Barclay, or a Boccaline.
I know you might (none better) make the vine,
The olive, ivy, mulberry, and pine,

With others, their own dialects expose,

But you have taught them all rich English prose. I end and envy; but must justly say,

Who makes trees speak so well, deserves the bay. HENRY WOTTON.

XVI.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S

RECREATIONS.2

(Author uncertain.)

UIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts!

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,

Prefixed to Howell's "Dodona's Grove," 1640. No doubt the book was submitted in MS. to Wotton, who died in 1639.

2 "Rel. Wotton." signed as below. Also in Walton's

Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be!

Fly from our country pastimes! fly,
Sad troop of human misery!

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty!

Peace, and a secure mind,

Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow,

You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers,

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may

shake,

But blustering care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic mask, nor dance
But of our kids, that frisk and prance:
Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green

"Complete Angler," p. 309, edit. Nicolas, as doubtless made either by (Sir H. Wotton) or by a lover of angling." An anonymous copy in " Tixall Poetry," p. 297, as "Rusticatio Religiosi in Vacantiis." Claimed without authority for Sir W. Raleigh by Brydges and the Oxford editors.