Lefs'd is the man who hath not walk'd astray
In counfel of the wicked, and i' th'way
Of finners hath not flood, and in the feat
Of fcorners hath not fate. But in the great
Jehovah's Law is ever his delight,
And in his Law. he ftudies day and night.
He shall be as a tree which planted grows
By warry ftreams, and in his feafon knows
To yield his fruit, and his leaf thall not fall,
And what he takes in hand fhall profper all!
Not fo the wicked, but as chaff which fann'd
The wind drives, fo the wicked fhall not ftand
In judgment, or abide their tryal then,
Nor finners in th' affembly of juft men.
For the Lord knows th' upright way of the juft,
And the way of bad men to ruin muft.

PSAL. II. done Aug. 8. 1653. Terzette.

Hy do the Gentiles tumult, and the Nations

WHY

Mufe a vain thing, the Kings of th'earth upftand With pow'r, and Princes in their congregations Lay deep their plots together through each Land Again the Lord and his Mefiiah dear?

Let us break off, fay they, by ftrength of hand Their bonds, and caft from us, no, more to wear, Their twisted cords: he who in Heav'n doth dwell Shall laugh, the Lord fhall feoff them, then fevere Speak to them in his wrath, and in his fell

And fierce ite trouble them but I, faith he,
Anointed have my King (though ye rebell),

On

On Sion my holy hill. A firm decree
I will declare; the Lord to me hath faid
Thou art my Son, I have begotten thee
This day; ask of me, and the grant is made;
As thy poffeffion I on thee bestow

Th' Heathen, and as thy conqueft to be sway'd
Earth's utmoft bounds: them fhalt thou bring full low
With iron Scepter bruis'd, and them difperfe
Like to a potter's veffel fhiver'd fo.

And now be wife at length ye Kings averfe,
Be taught ye judges of the earth; with fear
Jehovah ferve, and let your joy converse
With trembling; kifs the Son left he appear
In anger and ye perish in the way,

If once his wrath take fire like fuel fere,
Happy all thofe who have in him their stay.

PSAL. III. Aug. 9. 1653.

When he fled from Abfalom.

Lord How many are my foes!

That in arms against me rife!
Many are they

That of my life diftruftfully thus fay,
No help for him in God there lies.
But thou Lord art my fhield my glory,
Thee through my ftory

Th exalter of my head I count;
Aloud I cry'd

Unto Jehovah, he full foon reply'd
And heard me from his holy mount,
I lay and flept, I wak'd again,
For my fuftain

Was the Lord. Of many millions
The populous rout

I fear not, though incamping round about
They pitch againft me their Pavilions.

Rife,