Deeps unto deeps enraged call, When thy dark spouts of waters fall,

And dreadful tempest raves:

For all thy floods upon me burst,
And billows after billows thrust
To swallow in their graves.

But yet by day the Lord will charge His ready mercy to enlarge

My soul, surprised with cares;

He gives my songs their argument; God of my life, I will present

By night to thee my prayers.

And say, my God, my rock, oh, why
Am I forgot, and mourning die,

By foes reduced to dust?

Their words, like weapons, pierce my bones, While still they echo to my groans,

Where is the Lord, thy trust?

My soul, why art thou so deprest? Oh, why so troubled in my breast, Sunk underneath thy load? With constant hope on God await, For I his name shall celebrate,

My Saviour and my God.

GEORGE SANDYS.

MAN FRAIL AND GOD ETERNAL.

PSALM XC.

OUR God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come; Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home:

Under the shadow of thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure ; Sufficient is thine arm alone,

And our defence is sure.

Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting thou art God, To endless years the same.

A thousand ages, in thy sight,
Are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night,
Before the rising sun.

The busy tribes of flesh and blood,
With all their lives and cares,
Are carried downwards by thy flood,
And lost in following years.

Rest beneath the Almighty's shade,
In his secret habitation

Dwell, and never be dismayed:
There no tumult can alarm thee,
Thou shalt dread no hidden snare;
Guile nor violence can harm thee,
In eternal safeguard there.

From the sword, at noonday wasting,
From the noisome pestilence,
In the depth of midnight blasting,

God shall be thy sure defence:
Fear not thou the deadly quiver,

When a thousand feel the blow; Mercy shall thy soul deliver,

Though ten thousand be laid low. Only with thine eye the anguish

Of the wicked thou shalt see, When by slow disease they languish,

When they perish suddenly:

Thee, though winds and waves be swelling,
God, thine hope, shall bear through all;
Plague shall not come nigh thy dwelling,
Thee no evil shall befall.

He shall charge his angel legions
Watch and ward o'er thee to keep;
Though thou walk through hostile regions,
Though in desert wilds thou sleep.
On the lion vainly roaring,

On his young, thy foot shall tread ;
And, the dragon's den exploring,

Thou shalt bruise the serpent's head.

VERSION OF PSALM CXXX.

PHINEAS FLETCHER was an English poet, a cousin of the dramatist John Fletcher who wrote with Beaumont. He was born about 1584, was educated at Cambridge, became a clergyman, and died at Hilgay, Norfolk, where he was rector, about 1660. He wrote the "Purple Island; or, the Isle of Man."

FROM the deeps of grief and fear,
O Lord! to thee my soul repairs:
From thy heaven bow down thine ear;
Let thy mercy meet my prayers.
Oh, if thou mark'st
What's done amiss,
What soul so pure,

Can see thy bliss?

But with thee sweet mercy stands,
Sealing pardons, working fear:
Wait, my soul, wait on his hands;
Wait, mine eye, oh, wait, mine ear:
If he his eye

Or tongue affords,
Watch all his looks,
Catch all his words.

As a watchman waits for day,
And looks for light, and looks again;
When the night grows cold and gray,
To be relieved he calls amain:

So look, so wait,

So long mine eyes, To see my Lord, My Sun, arise.

Wait, ye saints, wait on our Lord:
For from his tongue sweet mercy flows:
Wait on his cross, wait on his word;
Upon that tree redemption grows:
He will redeem

His Israel

From sin and wrath,

From death and hell.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

PSALM CXXXIX.

O LORD, in me there lieth nought But to thy search revealed lies; For when I sit

Thou markest it;

No less thou notest when I rise: Yea, closest closet of my thought

Hath open windows to thine eyes. Thou walkest with me when I walk: When to my bed for rest I go, I find thee there, And everywhere:

Not youngest thought in me doth grow, No, not one word I cast to talk

But, yet unuttered, thou dost know.

If forth I march, thou goest before;
If back I turn, thou com'st behind:
So forth nor back

Thy guard I lack;
Nay, on me too thy hand I find.
Well I thy wisdom may adore,

But never reach with earthy mind.

To shun thy notice, leave thine eye,
Oh, whither might I take my way?
To starry sphere?

Thy throne is there.

To dead men's undelightsome stay? There is thy walk, and there to lie Unknown, in vain I should assay.

O sun, whom light nor flight can match! Suppose thy lightful, flightful wings Thou lend to me,

And I could flee

As far as thee the evening brings: Ev'n led to west he would me catch, Nor should I lurk with western things.

Do thou thy best, O secret night, In sable veil to cover me:

Thy sable veil

Shall vainly fail:

With day unmasked my night shall be; For night is day, and darkness light, O Father of all lights, to thee.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

PSALM CXXXIX.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, son of the second President of the United States, and himself President, was born in the present town of Quincy, July 11, 1767, and died at Washington, Feb. 23. 1848. He found time in the midst of his many public duties to court the muses, and prepared a metrical version of the whole of the Psalms of David He wrote also hymns which are now in use, besides secular pieces.

O LORD, thy all-discerning eyes

My inmost purpose see;

My deeds, my words, my thoughts, arise Alike disclosed to thee!

My sitting down, my rising up,

Broad noon and deepest night, My path, my pillow, and my cup, Are open to thy sight.

Before, behind, I meet thine eye, And feel thy heavy hand;

Such knowledge is for me too high
To reach or understand;
What of thy wonders can I know?
What of thy purpose see?
Where from thy Spirit shall I go?
Where from thy presence flee?

If I ascend to heaven on high,
Or make my bed in hell;
Or take the morning's wings, and fly
O'er ocean's bounds to dwell;
Or seek from thee a hiding-place
Amid the gloom of night, —
Alike to thee are time and space,
The darkness and the light.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

1841.

AN HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

HEAR me, O God!
A broken heart
Is my best part:
Use still thy rod,

That I may prove
Therein thy love.

If thou hadst not Been stern to me, But left me free,

I had forgot

Myself and thee.

For sin's so sweet, As minds ill bent Rarely repent

Until they meet Their punishment.

Who more can crave
Than thou hast done?
Thou gav'st a Son
To free a slave,

First made of nought,
With all since bought.

Sin, death, and hell His glorious name Quite overcame; Yet I rebel,

And slight the same.

But I'll come in Before my loss Me further toss, As sure to win

Under his cross.

BEN JONSON.

He the boundless heavens has spread,
All the vital orbs has kned,
He that on Olympus high
Tends his flocks with watchful eye,
And this eye has multiplied
Midst each flock for to reside.
Thus, as round about they stray,
Toucheth each with outstretched ray;
Nimble they hold on their way,
Shaping out their night and day.
Summer, winter, autumn, spring,
Their inclined axes bring.
Never slack they; none respires,
Dancing round their central fires.
In due order as they move,
Echoes sweet be gently drove
Thorough heaven's vast hollowness,
Which unto all corners press:

Music that the heart of Jove
Moves to joy and sportful love;
Fills the listening sailor's ears
Riding on the wandering spheres:
Neither speech nor language is
Where their voice is not transmiss.

The evening bell that bringeth
A truce to toil outringeth
No sweetest bird that singeth
Half so sweet,

Not even the lark that springeth
From my feet!

Then see I God beside me,

The sheltering trees that hide me, The mountains that divide me

From the sea,

All prove how kind a Father
He can be.

Beneath the sweet moon shining
The cattle are reclining,
No murmur of repining

Soundeth sad;

All feel the present Godhead,
And are glad!

With mute unvoiced confessings,
To the Giver of all blessings

I kneel, and with caressings

Press the sod,

And thank my Lord and father, And my God!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.
BLESSINGS, O Father, shower!

Father of mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray thee not

For earthly treasures to that most beloved, Fame, fortune, power; - oh, be his spirit proved

By these, or by their absence, at thy will!
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!

Let such a sense of thee,

Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, His bosom guest inalienably be,

That whereso'er he move,

A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien

May sit undimmed! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of
dreams,

Remembered faintly, gleams,

Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown!