Verse > Anthologies > Edward Farr, comp. > Elizabethan Poetry
Edward Farr, ed.  Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.  1845.
XLIV. Francis Davison
TO myne humble supplication,
Lord, give eare and acceptation:
Heare me now so weake, so poore,
That, ah! I can beare no more.
Save my soule which thou didst cherish        5
Vntill now, now like to perish;
Save thy seruant, that hath none
Help nor hope but thee alone.
After thy sweet wonted fashion,
Shower downe mercie and compassion        10
On me, sinfull wretch, that crie
Vnto thee vncessantly.
Send, oh send relieuing gladnes
To my soule opprest with sadnes;
Which, from clog of earth set free,        15
Wing’d with zeale flyes vp to thee:
To thee, rich in mercies’ treasure,
And in goodnes without measure,
Neuer fayling help to those
Who on thy sure help repose.        20
Let thine eares, which long haue tarried
Barred up, be now vnbarred,
That my cries may entraunce gayne,
And being entred, grace obtayne.
As I haue, so will I ever,        25
In my stormy times perséver
Vnto thee to pray and crie,
For thou hear’st me instantly:
No God els is comparable
Vnto thee; none els is able        30
Once to counterfeyt but one
Of the workes which thou hast done.
Nations all thy hands did fashion;
And of this round globe each nation
With bow’d knees shall come before        35
Thee, and thy great name adore.
For, thou darter of dread thunders,
Thou art great, and workest wonders:
Other gods are wood and stone,
Thou the living God alone.        40
Heauenly tutor, of thy kindnes,
Teach my dulnes, guid my blindnes,
That my steps thy pathes may tread,
Which to endles blisse doe lead.
In knotts, to be loosed never,        45
Knitt my heart to thee for ever,
That I to thy name may beare
Fearfull loue and louing feare.
Lord, my God, thou shalt be praised,
With my heart to heauen raised;        50
And whilst I haue breath to liue,
Thancks to thee my breath shall giue.
For when justice I deserued,
Thy sweet mercie me preserued,
Rescuing me from death’s sharp clawes,        55
And the grave’s all-swallowing jawes.
Mightie men, with mallice endles,
Band against me, helples, friendles;
Vsing, without feare of thee,
Force and fraud to ruyne me.        60
But thy might their mallice passes,
And thy grace thy might surpasses;
Swift to mercie, slow to wrath,
Bound nor end thy goodnes hath.
Thy kind looke no more deny me,        65
But with eies of mercie eie me:
Oh give me, thy slave, at length
Easing aid, or bearing strength.
And some gratious token show me,
That my foes, that watch to orethrow me,        70
May be sham’d and vex’d to see
Thee to help and comfort me.

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