The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan Edited with introduction, notes, and glossary by William Tough |
I. |
II. |
1. |
2. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
C. |
CI. |
CII. |
CIII. |
CIV. | CIV. |
CV. |
CVI. |
CVII. |
CVIII. |
CIX. |
CX. |
CXI. |
CXII. |
CXIII. |
CXIV. |
CXV. |
CXVI. |
CXVII. |
CXVIII. |
CXIX. |
CXX. |
CXXI. |
CXXII. |
CXXIII. |
CXXIV. |
CXXV. |
CXXVI. |
CXXVII. |
CXXVIII. |
CXXIX. |
CXXX. |
CXXXI. |
CXXXII. |
CXXXIII. |
CXXXIV. |
CXXXV. |
CXXXVI. |
CXXXVI. |
CXXXVII. |
CXXXVIII. |
CXXXIX. |
CXL. |
CXLI. |
CXLII. |
CXLIII. |
CXLIV. |
CXLV. |
CXLVI. |
CXLVII. |
CXLVIII. |
CXLIX. |
CL. |
The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan | ||
152
CIV.
1
Blesse God, my soule! O God, my God,How great dost thow appeare;
Glorie and highest honour are
The roabs which thow dost weare.
2
As with a garment who thyselfEnviron'd hast with light;
Whose hands the heavens haue streacht about
Thee, like a curtain bright.
3
The beames of all his high-raisd roumesWho layd in deeps aboue;
Clouds made his chariot, winging winds,
(Thus mounted,) who doth move.
4
His angells sp'rits, his ministersWho made a fyrie flame;
5
And earth, that stable it might stand,On bases firme did frame.
6
Most lyk a rayment, with the deepThow cov'redst it around;
Waters (envolving all) the tops
Of highest mountaines round.
7
But thow no sooner didst rebuik,Then all, (with gushing noise,)
Wer put to flight; all haisted have,
At thy loud thundring voyce.
8
They vpwards by the mountains move;By valleys low discend;
And for the place which thow didst found,
For ther aboad, do bend.
9
To them thow didst assigne a bound,Within the which to byde,
That they should nevir more returne,
Earth's flourie face to hyd.
153
10
Plains hee with springs provyds, which wayBetwein the mountains make;
11
Beasts of the feeld heer drinke, and hereTher thrist wild asses slaike.
12
By them the feathred flocks of heavenThemselvs do place by payrs,
And heer (securelie) midst the boughes,
Sitt warbling forth sweett ayres.
13
Hills, from his courts above, to baith,Hee moisture doth prepare.
Fild with the fruict of thy rare works,
The earth is evrie where.
14
For cattell grasse, herb for the vseOf man, hee maks to grow;
And causeth earth's cold bosome food
Aboundantlie bestow.
15
Hence wine to cheare the heart, and oyleTo clear the face, hee brings;
Hence bread, whose strenth the life sustaines,
At his appointment springs.
16
The trees of the Almightie fullOf sap and strenth do stand;
Mount Libanus' tal cedars, which
Hee planted with his hand.
17
Birds (heer) do build ther nests; the StorkeIn firrs aloft doth lodge.
18
Steep hills to goats, to coneyes smalThe rocks ar a refuge.
19
The lesser light, the moone, he madeApointed tyms to show;
The sun̄e, when time is to breck off
His daylie taske, doth know.
154
20
Thow darknes calst, 'tis night; in itFrom woods breck forth abrode
21
Wild beasts. Prey-roareing lyons seekTher sustenance from God;
22
But, gathred in their den̄s do lurk,Dayes torch whill thow dost light.
23
Man to his industry retourns,And plies his work till night.
24
How many ar thy works, O Lord,All wrought in wisdom rare?
Fild with thy riches infinite
The earth is everie where.
25
So this great sea is, whose vast arms,Stretcht out on evrie syd,
Of creeping creaturs numberlesse,
Sorts great and small do hyd.
26
Heer doe the ships make way; heere strayesThe leviathan hudge,
By thee which form'd, heerin to play,
This element doth lodge.
27
All wayt on thee, in seasoun dueThat thow mayst furnisch food.
28
Thou giust, they gathir; all, thy hand,Sprede forth, doth fill with good.
29
Thow hidst thy face, how suddenlieDoth trouble on them fall.
Their spirit thow calst back, they dye,
And turnd in dust are all.
30
Thy spirit thow sends furth, and henceA new creation springes.
Thus thow to earth's sad face, (refresh'd),
New lyff and beautie bringes.
155
31
God's glorie still may last; may stillHis works his joy provock.
32
On earth hee looks, its center shakes;Hee toucheth hills they smoake.
33
Whill, (adding dayes,) my life hee lenths,Of him my song shal bee;
Whill beeing thow bestow'st, my God,
I'le still be prayseing thee.
34
My thoghts of him shall be most sweett;My joy in God I'le place.
35
Lett sinners, from the earth cutt off,No more defyle her face.
O, that the wicked, (quite consum'd,)
Hence nevir more might spring!
Blesse thow the Lord, my soule! Let all
The Lord's high prayses sing.
The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan | ||