The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

While long I did with patient constancy,
The pleasure of my God attend,
He did him self to me-ward bend,
And harkned how and why that I did cry.
And me from pitt bemired
From dungeon he retired,
Where I, in horrors lay:
Setting my feete upon
A steedfast rocky stone;
And my weake stepps did stay.

Soe in my mouth he did a song affoord,
New song unto our God of praise:
Which many seeing hartes shall raise
To feare with trust, and trust with feare the Lord.

241

Oh, he indeede is blessed
Whose trust is so addressed:
Who bendes not wandring eyes
To greate mens pecock pride,
Nor ever turnes a side
To follow after lies.

My God thy wondrous workes how manyfold!
What manne thy thoughts can count to thee?
I faine of them would speaking be;
But they are more then can by me be told.
Thou sacrifice nor offring
Burnt offring, nor sinne offring
Didst like much lesse did'st crave:
But thou didst peirce my eare;
Which should thie leassons beare;
And wittnesse me thy slave.

Thus bound I sayd loe Lord I am at hand
For in thy bookes rowle, I am writt.
And sought with deedes, thy will to hitt,
Yea Lord thy law within my hart doth stand:
I to greate congregation,
Thou know'st, made declaration
Of this sweete righteousnes:
My lipps shall still reveale,
My hart shall not conceale
Thy truth, health, gratiousnes.

Then, Lord from me, draw not thy tender grace:
Me still in truth, and mercy save.
For endlesse woes, me compast have,
So prest with synnes, I cannott see my case.
But triall well doth teach me;
Fowle faultes sore paines do reach me;
More then my head hath heares.
So that my surest part,
My life-maintaining hart,
Failes me, with ougly feares.

242

Vouchsave me helpe ô Lord and helpe with hast:
Lett them have shame, yea blush for shame;
Who joyntly sought, my bale to frame:
Lett them be curst away that would me wast.
Lett them with shame be cloied,
Yea lett them be destroied,
For guerdon of their shame:
Who-so unpittious be;
As now to say to me;
A ha! this is good game.

But fill their hartes with joy, who bend their waies,
To seeke thy bewty past conceite,
Lett them that love thy saving seate,
Still gladly say, unto our God be praise.
Though I in want be shrincking,
Yet God on me is thincking.
Thou art my help for ay,
Thou only thou art he,
That dost deliver me;
My God, ô make noe stay.