Verse > Anthologies > Edward Farr, comp. > Elizabethan Poetry
Edward Farr, ed.  Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.  1845.
Psalme CXLIV
VI. Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke
Benedictus Dominus.

PRAIS’D bee the Lord of might,
  My rock in all allarms,
By whom my hands doe fight,
  My fingers manage armes:
My grace, my guard, my fort,        5
  On whom my safety staies:
To whom my hopes resort,
  By whom my realm obaies.
Lord, what is man that thou
  Should’st tender soe his fare?        10
What hath his child to bow
  Thy thoughts unto his care?
Whose neerest kinn is nought;
  No image of whose daies
More lively can bee thought,        15
  Then shade that never staies.
Lord, bend thy arched skies
  With ease to let thee down,
And make the stormes arise
  From mountane’s fuming crown.        20
Lett follow flames from sky,
  To back their stoutest stand:
Lett fast thy arrowes fly,
  Dispersing thickest band.
Thy heav’nly helpe extend,        25
  And lift me from this flood:
Lett mee thy hand defend
  From hand of forraine brood;
Whose mouth no mouth at all,
  But forge of false entent,        30
Wherto their hand doth fall
  As aptest instrument.
Then in new song to thee
  Will I exalt my voice:
Then shall, O God, with me        35
  My ten-string’d lute rejoyce.
Rejoyce in him, I say,
  Who royall right preserves,
And saves from sword’s decay
  His David that him serves.        40
O Lord, thy help extend,
  And lift mee from this flood:
Lett me thy hand defend
  From hand of forrain brood;
Whose mouth no mouth at all,        45
  But forge of false entent,
Whereto their hand doth fall
  As aptest instrument.
Soe then our sonnes shall grow
  As plants of timely spring,        50
Whom soone to fairest shew
  Their happy growth doth bring.
As pillers both doe beare
  And garnish kingly hall,
Our daughters, straight and faire,        55
  Each howse embellish shall.
Our store shall ay bee full;
  Yea, shall such fullness finde,
Though all from thence wee pull,
  Yet more shall rest behinde:        60
The millions of encrease
  Shall breake the wonted fold;
Yea, such the sheepy prease,
  The streetes shall scantly hold.
Our heards shall brave the best;        65
  Abroad no foes alarme;
At home to breake our rest,
  No cry the voice of harme.
If blessed tearme I may,
  On whom such blessings fall;        70
Then blessed, blessed they
  Their God Jehova call.

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