II God hath forgot, in soul he says;

He hides his face to never see. 12 Lord God, arise, thine hand upraise; Let not thy poor forgotten be. 13 Shall these insulting wretches scorn

Their God, and say, thou wilt not care? 14 Thou seest (for all thou hast forborne) Thou seest what all their mischiefs are:

That to thy hand of vengeance just Thou mayst them take: the poor distressed Rely on thee with constant trust, The help of orphans and oppressed. 15 O! break the wicked's arm of might, And search out all their cursed trains, And let them vanish out of sight. 16 The Lord as King for ever reigns.

From forth his coasts the heathen sect 17 Are rooted quite: thou, Lord, attend'st To poor men's suits; thou dost direct Their hearts to them thine ear thou bend'st; 18 That thou mayst rescue from despite

The woful fatherless and poor:

That so the vain and earthen wight
On us may tyrannize no more.

ANTHEMS

FOR

THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER.

[Anthems printed in 1660, in the volume of the Bishop's works entitled, "The Shaking of the Olive Tree."]

ANTHEM I.

LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!

What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying!
My time, my flesh, my life, and I;
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death:
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending:

My sport, sin too; my stay, a puff of breath:
What end of sin? Hell's horror, never ending:
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place,
Help to make up my doleful case.

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss:
Where dwellest thou? Up above, in perfect light:

What is thy time? Eternity it is:

What state? Attendance of each glorious sprite :

Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state,
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.

How shall I reach thee, Lord? O! soar above,

Ambitious soul: but which way should I fly?
Thou, Lord, art way and end: what wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love:
O! let these wings, that way alone,
Present me to thy blissful throne.

ANTHEM II.

FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

IMMORTAL babe, who this dear day
Didst change thine heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy Godhead veil,
Eternal Son of God, all hail!

Shine, happy star; ye angels, sing
Glory on high to heaven's King;

Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch,

See Heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch.

Worship, ye sages of the east,

The King of gods in meanness drest.
O blessed Maid, smile and adore
The God thy womb and arms have bore.

Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages;
Thou, Virgin, glory of all ages;
Restored frame of heaven and earth;
Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth!

ANTHEM III.

LEAVE, O my soul, this baser world below;
O leave this doleful dungeon of woe,

And soar aloft to that supernal rest

That maketh all the saints and angels blest:
Lo, there the Godhead's radiant throne,
Like to ten thousand suns in one!

Lo, there thy Saviour dear, in glory dight,
Adored of all the powers of heavens bright:
Lo, where that head, that bled with thorny wound,
Shines ever with celestial honour crowned:

That hand, that held the scornful reed,

Makes all the fiends infernal dread:

That back and side, that ran with bloody streams,
Daunt angels' eyes with their majestic beams :
Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree,
Trample on death and hell, in glorious glee:

Those lips, once drenched with gall, do make
With their dread doom the world to quake.

Behold those joys thou never canst behold;
Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold,
Those streams of life, those trees of Paradise,
That never can be seen by mortal eyes:
And when thou seest this state divine,
Think that it is or shall be thine.

See there the happy troops of purest sprites
That live above in endless true delights;
And see where once thyself shalt ranged be,
And look and long for immortality:

And now, beforehand, help to sing
Hallelujahs to heaven's King.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

[ 1596. ]

ELEGY ON DR. WHITAKER.

BIND ye my brows with mourning cyparisse,
And palish twigs of deadly poplar tree;
Or if some sadder shades ye can devise,

Those sadder shades veil my light-loathing eye;
I loathe the laurel bands I loved best,
And all that maketh mirth and pleasant rest.

If ever breath dissolved the world to tears,

Or hollow cries made heaven's vault resound:

If ever shrieks were sounded out so clear,

That all the worldis waste might hear around:
Be mine the breath, the tears, the shrieks, the cries,
Yet still my grief unseen, unsounded lies.

Thou flattering sun, that led'st this loathed light,
Why didst thou in thy saffron robes arise?
Or fold'st not up the day in dreary night?

And wak'st the western world's amazed eyes?
And never more rise from the ocean,

To wake the morn, or chase night-shades again?

Hear we no bird of day, or dawning morn,

To greet the sun, or glad the waking ear:
Sing out, ye screech-owls, louder then aforn,

And ravens black, of night, of death, of drear:
And all ye barking fowls, yet never seen,
That fill the moonless night with hideous din.

a From "Caroli Horni Carmen Funebre in Obitum Ornatissimi Viri Gul. Whitakeri, Doctoris in Theologia, in Academia Cantab. Professoris Regii,"

&c. Lond. 1596, 4to. Dr. Whitaker was Master of St. John's. (Subjoined to Mr. Singer's edition of the Satires.)-H.