Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

The "Patriarch of Dorchester " was the projector of the colony of Massachusetts, New England, but did not himself join the expedition Like Barton, he was a member of the Westminster Assembly; but his psalms do not appear to have

been published till 1655. With a short interruption, he was minister of Dorchester, in Dorsetshire, from 1606 till his death in 1648; and during this period he expounded the entire Bible to his parishioners, and had gone half through it a second time, when he was interrupted by death. Through his "wisdom and ministerial labours," Fuller says, "Dorchester was much enriched with knowledge, piety, and industry."

Psalm cxxxiii.

How pleasant and how good is it,
How doth that grace excel,

When in the unity of love,

Brethren together dwell.

'Tis like that precious fragrant oil,
That once was poured out

On Aaron's head, and ran his beard
And collar round about.

Like Hermon's dew, or that which doth
On Zion's hills descend,

For there the blessing God commands,
Ev'n life without an end.

RICHARD BAXTER.

Here, too, we may notice the "Paraphrase" of Baxter, although it was a posthumous work, and did not see the light till 1692. By a curious device-the omission of the words within parenthesis in the alternate lines—its long metre can be converted into common.

Psalm cxxi.

Unto the hills, from whence my help

Doth come, I (will) list (up) mine eyes.

[blocks in formation]

Dr Samuel Woodford, born at London in 1636, and educated at Wadham College, Oxford, was originally intended for the bar; and, during his sojourn in the Inner Temple, he occupied the same chambers with the poet Flatman. After the Restoration, he took orders, and was presented to the rectory of Hartley-Maudet, in Hampshire. He died in 1700.

The style of Woodford's Paraphrase—a quarto, published in 1668-is free, ambitious, and Pindaric-looking; but, like Merrick, in the following century, he often enfeebles the text by an excessive expansion.

Psalm vi.

I.

Lord, in Thy wrath rebuke me not,

Nor in Thy fury chasten me

For such weak things that furnace is too hot,
And by my clay no more endured can be
Than my injustice and repeated wrongs by Thee.

II.

Uphold me, Lord, for I am weak,

Whilst Thou Thy hand doth on me lay;

My bones are shaken, and my heart will break :
Heal me with speed, and take Thy hand away,

Or let me know how long, and I'll with patience stay!

III.

Return, and for Thy mercy sake

My soul from this affliction save!

Oh, now some pity on Thy servant take,

For Thou in death canst not Thy praises have,
But they and I shall be forgotten in the grave!

IV.

I weary out the day with sighs,

And when that's done, the night with tears; So vast a deep comes rolling from my eyes,

That down its tide my bed it almost bears;

Yet, though it wash my couch, it cannot drown my fears.

V.

My eyes are hollow and decayed,

And from their windows hardly see;

Quite buried in the graves my tears have made,

They only shew where they were wont to be,
So that, what age to others, grief has done for me.

VI.

But hold; why do I thus complain

Like one whom God does never hear?

For God has heard me, and I'll pray again.

Avoid profane, avoid, least, while you 're near,

That wickedness, which hardens yours, should stop His ear!

VII.

The Lord has heard me, and my tears

Have found acceptance in His eyes;

SIR JOHN DENHAM.

My sighs already have blown o'er my fears,

And scatter'd with their breath my enemies.

So let them fly with shame all who against me rise!

141

SIR JOHN DENHAM.

A less paraphrastic version was executed about the same time by Sir John Denham, although not published till 1714forty years after the author's death. As might be expected from such a master of versification, many passages are distinguished by a pleasing melody; but its claims were not so dazzling or decisive, as to induce people to set aside in its favour the "New Version," sent forth by authority shortly before its publication.

Psalm cíí.

O Lord, receive my doleful cries,
Nor turn Thy face away,
But look upon my miseries,

And hear me when I pray.

When in my grief I Thee invoke,
Make me a quick return;

For all my days consume in smoke,
My bones to ashes burn.

My heart like wither'd grass seems dead,
My voice is lost in groans,

My flesh consum'd for want of bread,
And I can count my bones.

So walks the pelican distrest,

The bird of night so shrieks,

So the sad sparrow from his nest
His lost companion seeks.

All day my foe renews his threat,
Against my life he swears;

* Born at Dublin, 1615; died at London, March 1668.

« PreviousContinue »