These are my God's ambassadors,

By whom His mind I know;
God's angels in His lower heaven,
God's trumpeters below.

The trumpet sounds, the dead arise,
Which fell by Adam's hand:
Again the trumpet sounds, and they
Set forth for Canaan's land.

Thy servants speak; but Thou, Lord, dost An hearing ear bestow :

They smite the rock; but Thou, my God,
Dost make the waters flow:

They shoot the arrow; but Thy hand
Doth drive the arrow home:

They call; but, Lord, Thou dost compel,
And then Thy guests are come.

Angels that fly, and worms that creep,
Are both alike to Thee:

If Thou mak'st worms Thine angels, Lord,
They bring my God to me.

As sons of thunder, first they come,
And I the lightning fear;

But then they bring me to my home,
And sons of comfort are.

Lord, Thou art in them of a truth,
That I might never stray;
The clouds and pillars march before,
And shew me Canaan's way.
I bless my God, who is my guide;
I sing in Sion's ways:

When shall I sing on Sion's hill

Thine everlasting praise?

THE PSALMISTS OF ENGLAND.

THE reader is already somewhat acquainted with Sternhold, and Hopkins, and others, who translated the Psalms in the sixteenth century.* To that list should have been added Sir Philip Sidney and his sister, the Countess of Pembroke. As the latter lived through the first twenty years of the seventeenth century, we may, without any gross anachronism, give here a specimen of a version which, in music and energy, has been seldom surpassed. Many copies of the work have long been known to exist in manuscript; but it was not till 1823 that it found its way into print, when a small impression was issued from the Chiswick Press. Sir Philip is said to have gone no further than the 43d Psalm: our quotation is, therefore, from the pen of the countess :—

You that of music make such show,
Come sing us now a Zion lay.
O no, we have nor voice, nor hand,
For such a song, in such a land.

Though far I lie, sweet Zion hill,

In foreign soil exil'd from thee,
Yet let my hand forget his skill,
If ever thou forgotten be:
Yet let my tongue fast glued still
Unto my roof lie mute in me:
If thy neglect within me spring,
Or aught I do but Salem sing.

But Thou, O Lord, wilt not forget
To quit the pains of Edom's race,
Who causelessly, yet hotly set
Thy holy city to deface.

Did thus the bloody victors whet

What time they entered first the place:

Down down with it at any hand,

Make all flat plain, let nothing stand.

And Babylon, that did us waste,
Shall one day wasted be;

And happy he, who what thou hast
Unto us done, shall do to thee,
Like bitterness shall make thee taste,

Like woful objects cause thee sce:

Yea happy, who thy little ones

Shall take and dash against the stones.

LORD BACON,

Of his long dark evening this illustrious philosopher* spent a portion in versifying the Psalms of David. He published seven, and inscribed them "to his very good friend, George Herbert." A Latin poem which Herbert addressed to Bacon

* Born at London, January 22, 1561: died there, April 9, 1626.

and

in return, is included in some editions of Herbert's works; the original autograph is now in the possession of a learned friend of our own, rich in similar curiosities. Regarding this version, a recent critic* has thus given his judgment:

"No one knew better than Bacon the difference between writing verses and poetry. The former, says he, 'is but a character of style, and belongeth to arts of speech,' the latter 'is one of the principal portions of learning, and is nothing else but feigned history, which may be styled as well in prose as in verse.' Bacon therefore proposes to translate these Psalms of David into English verse, capable of being united to music, to form a holy song. How faithfully he has discharged his duty as a translator any one may ascertain by comparing his version with that in the Bible or Prayer Book. But the great difficulty he had to encounter was so to adapt his verse that the accompanying music should mend, not mar the sense. In reading, the emphasis and the cadence may be varied to help the sense without injury to the rhythm; but in a tune, as the notes return in uniform and regular order, the cadence and expression of the To this verse must be arranged so as to correspond with it. end, it is of the first importance that the sense should be so complete in each line as to admit of a pause at the close. is either because our writers do not understand, or else are not able to effect this, that in listening to vocal music, we are often. compelled to detach our attention from, and totally disregard the words-if, indeed, they are intelligible-and abandon ourselves to the mere sensuous indulgence of listening to the sweet sounds. Bacon, in this Translation of Certain Psalms into English Verse,' has triumphed over all the difficulties which beset this style of composition."

* Mr W. H. Smith, in The Athenæum, Jan. 24, 1857.

It

Psalm xc.

O Lord, Thou art our home, to whom we fly,
And so hast always been from age to age:
Before the hills did intercept the eye,

Or that the frame was up of earthly stage,

One God Thou wert, and art, and still shalt be;
The line of time, it doth not measure Thce.

Both death and life obey Thy holy lore,

And visit in their turns, as they are sent;
A thousand years with Thee they are no more
Than yesterday, which, ere it is, is spent ;

Or as a watch by night, that course doth keep,
And goes and comes, unwares to them that sleep.

Thou carry'st man away as with a tide :

Then down swim all his thoughts that mounted high : Much like a mocking dream, that will not bide,

But flies before the sight of waking eye;

Or as the grass, that cannot term obtain,
To see the summer come about again.

At morning, fair it musters on the ground;
At ev'n it is cut down, and laid along :
And though it spared were, and favour found,
The weather would perform the mower's wrong.
Thus hast Thou hang'd our life on brittle pins,
To let us know it will not bear our sins.

Thou bury'st not within oblivion's tomb

Our trespasses, but ent'rest them aright;
Ev'n those that are conceiv'd in darkness' womb,
To thee appear as done at broad day-light.

As a tale told, which sometimes men attend,
And sometimes not, our life steals to an end.

The life of man is threescore years and ten,

Or, if that he be strong, perhaps fourscore;