Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edward Farr, ed. Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. 1845.

The Praier of Ieremiah

X. Michael Drayton

CAL vnto mind, Oh mightie Lord,

The wrongs we daily take;

Consider and behold the same

For thy great mercies’ sake.

Our lands and our inheritance

Meere strangers do possesse;

The alients in our houses dwel,

And we without redresse.

We now, alas! are fatherlesse,

And stil pursude with hate;

Our mourning mothers now remaine

In wofull widdowes’ state.

We buy the water which we drink,

Such is our grievous want:

Likewise the wood euen for our vse

That we ourselues did plant.

Our neckes are subiect to the yoke

Of persecution’s thrall;

We, wearied out with cruell toile,

Can find no rest at all.

Afore time we in Egypt land

And in Assyria serued,

For food our hunger to sustaine,

Least that we should haue sterued.

Our fathers which are dead and gone

Haue sinned wondrous sore;

And we now scourg’d for their offence—

Ah! woe are we therefore.

Those seruile slaues which bondmen be,

Of them in fear we stand:

Yet no man doth deliuer vs

From cruel caitiues’ hand.

Our liuings we are forced to get

In perils of our liues;

The drie and barren wildernesse

Therto by danger driues.

Our skins be scorcht, as though they had

Bin in an ouen dride,

With famine and the penury

Which here we doo abide.

Our wiues and maides defloured are

By violence and force,

On Sion and in Iuda land,

Sans pity or remorce.

Our kings by cruel enimies

With cordes are hanged vp;

Our grauest, sage, and ancient men,

Haue tasted of that cup.

Our yoong men they haue put to sword,

Not one at al they spare:

Our litle boyes vpon the tree

Sans pitie hanged are.

Our elders sitting in the gates

Can now no more be found;

Our youth leaue off to take delight

In musick’s sacred sound.

The ioy and comfort of our heart

Away is fled and gone;

Our solace is with sorrow mixt,

Our mirth is turn’d to mone.

Our glory now is laid full low,

And buried in the ground;

Our sins full sore do burthen vs,

Whose greatnes doth abound.

Oh, holy blessed Sion hill,

My heart is woe for thee:

Mine eies poure foorth a flood of teares

This dismal day to see:

Which art destroied, and now lieth wast

From sacred vse and trade;

Thy holie place is now a den

Of filthy foxes made.

But thou, the euerliuing Lord,

Which doost remaine for aye,

Whose seat aboue the firmament

Full sure and still doth stay,—

Wherefore dost thou forsake thine own?

Shall we forgotten be?

Turn vs, good Lord, and so we shall

Be turned vnto thee.

Lord, call vs home from our exile

To place of our abode;

Thou long inough hast punisht vs—

Oh Lord, now spare thy rod.