These are my God's ambassadors, By whom His mind I know; The trumpet sounds, the dead arise, Thy servants speak; but Thou, Lord, dost An hearing ear bestow : They smite the rock; but Thou, my God, They shoot the arrow; but Thy hand They call; but, Lord, Thou dost compel, Angels that fly, and worms that creep, If Thou mak'st worms Thine angels, Lord, As sons of thunder, first they come, But then they bring me to my home, Lord, Thou art in them of a truth, 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, Though far I lie, sweet Zion hill, In foreign soil exil'd from thee, But Thou, O Lord, wilt not forget 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, And happy he, who what thou hast 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, 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 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, At morning, fair it musters on the ground; Thou bury'st not within oblivion's tomb Our trespasses, but ent'rest them aright; As a tale told, which sometimes men attend, The life of man is threescore years and ten, Or, if that he be strong, perhaps fourscore; |