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 1714— forty 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.

Ashes instead of bread I eat,

And mix my drink with tears.
Only in wrath Thou didst me raise,
To throw me down again.

I, like a shadow, end my days,
Like grass that thirsts for rain.

BRADY AND TATE.

If the Scotch version of the Psalms is English, the English version is Irish, in as far as both of its authors were natives of the sister isle.

Dr Nicholas Brady was born at Bandon, in the county of Cork, October 28, 1659, and after an education begun at Westminster School and Christ Church College, and completed at the University of Dublin, he became successively minister of St Catharine Cree, London, and Stratford-upon-Avon, and died rector of Clapham, as well as minister of Richmond, Surrey, May 20, 1726.

Nahum Tate, a native of Dublin, and son of a clergyman, was born 1652. What profession he followed, if any, does not appear, and although promoted to the rank of poetlaureate, his place in literature never was high. He died in deep poverty, at the Mint in Southwark, a place of refuge for debtors, Aug. 12, 1715.

The divine and the laureate together compiled the "New Version," now almost universally employed in the worship of the Church of England. Occasionally feeble, and never sublime, it is usually smooth and melodious, and its evenly cadence is not unfrequently relieved by some forcible turn or elegant expression; and, in order to appreciate it rightly, nothing more is needful than to compare it with the efforts of acknowledged masters of the lyre, few of whom, in this difficult enterprise, have been equally successful.

BRADY AND TATE.

143

Psalm cxxxix.

Thou, Lord, by strictest search hast known
My rising up and lying down;
My secret thoughts are known to Thee,
Known long before conceiv'd by me.
Thine eye my bed and path surveys,
My public haunts and private ways;
Thou know'st what 'tis my lips would vent,
My yet unutter'd words' intent.

Surrounded by Thy power I stand,
On every side I find Thy hand:
O skill, for human reach too high!
Too dazzling bright for mortal eye!
O could I so perfidious be,

To think of once deserting Thee,
Where, Lord, could I Thy influence shun?
Or whither from Thy presence run?

If up to heaven I take my flight,

'Tis there Thou dwell'st enthroned in light;

Or dive to hell's infernal plains,

'Tis there Almighty vengeance reigns.
If I the morning's wings could gain,
And fly beyond the western main,
Thy swifter hand would first arrive,
And there arrest Thy fugitive.

Or should I try to shun Thy sight
Beneath the sable wings of night;
One glance from Thee, one piercing ray,
Would kindle darkness into day.
The veil of night is no disguise,

No screen from Thy all-searching eyes;
Thro' midnight shades Thou find'st Thy way,
As in the blazing noon of day.

Thou know'st the texture of my heart,

My reins, and every vital part;

Each single thread in nature's loom

By Thee was cover'd in the womb.
I'll praise Thee, from whose hands I came,
A work of such a curious frame;
The wonders Thou in me hast shown,
My soul with grateful joy must own.

Thine eyes my substance did survey,
While yet a lifeless mass it lay;
In secret how exactly wrought,

Ere from its dark inclosure brought.
Thou didst the shapeless embryo see,
Its parts were register'd by Thee;
Thou saw'st the daily growth they took,
Form'd by the model of Thy book.

Let me acknowledge too, O God,
That, since this maze of life I trod,
Thy thoughts of love to me surmount
The power of numbers to recount.
Far sooner could I reckon o'er

The sands upon the ocean's shore.
Each morn, revising what I've done,
I find th' account but new begun.

The wicked Thou shalt slay, O God:
Depart from me, ye men of blood,
Whose tongues heaven's Majesty profane,
And take th' Almighty's Name in vain.
Lord, hate not I their impious crew,
Who Thee with enmity pursue?
And does not grief my heart oppress,
When reprobates Thy laws transgress?

Who practise enmity to Thee

Shall utmost hatred have from me;

Such men I utterly detest,

As if they were my foes profest.

Search, try, O God, my thoughts and heart, If mischief lurks in any part;

Correct me where I go astray,

And guide me in Thy perfect way.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, AND ITS

BIBLICAL SCHOLARSHIP.

Of all the British centuries, the richest in religious authorship is the one of which we are now to take leave-the century illustrated by the earnestness of Baxter, the profundity of Owen, the lofty idealism of Howe, the masculine energy of Barrow, the oriental opulence of Jeremy Taylor, the magnificence of Milton, the bright realisations of Bunyan-the century which produced the Authorised Version of the Bible, which compiled the Westminster Standards, and which has bequeathed to us "The Saint's Rest," and " Holy Living and Dying," "Paradise Lost," and "The Pilgrim's Progress."

Our survey has been almost entirely confined to its more popular Christian literature, but it would leave our sketch very incomplete if we did not glance for a moment at its

SACRED SCHOLARSHIP.

The forty-seven translators of the Bible were, most of them, mighty in the knowledge of the original languages; and from the beginning to the close of the century, names like Hugh Broughton, Henry Ainsworth, Joseph Mede, Henry Hammond, James Ussher, John Selden, Patrick Young, and Simon Patrick, retained for England a rank which drew towards it the respectful regards of Biblical interpreters on the Continent, like Grotius and Voetius, Marckius and Buxtorf, Bochart, De Dieu, and the Spanheims.

Pre-eminent amongst them was Dr EDWARD POCOCK. In 1630, when he was in his six-and-twentieth year, and when