LIV. William Alexander, Earl of Stirling

THOU, of whose power (not reach’d by reason’s height)

The sea a drop, we th’ earth a mote may call;

And for whose trophees, stately to the sight,

The azure arke was rear’d (although too small),

And from the lampe of whose most gracious light

The sun (a sparke) weake, for weake eyes did fall;

Breath thou a heavenly fury in my breast:

I sing the sabbath of eternall rest.

Though every where discern’d, no where confin’d,

O thou, whose feet the clouds (as dust) afford,

Whose voyce the thunder, and whose breath the winde;

Whose footstoole the earth, seate heaven, works of thy worde,

Guards, hosts of angels, moving by thy minde,

Whose weapons, famine, tempests, pest, and sword;

My cloudy knowledge by thy wisdome cleare,

And by my weaknesse make thy power appeare.

Loe, ravish’d, Lord, with pleasure of thy love,

I feele my soule enflamed with sacred fires,

Thy judgements and thy mercies, whilst I move,

To celebrate, my Muse with zeale aspires:

Lord, by thy helpe, this enterprise approve,

That successe so may second my desires,

Make Sathan’s race to tremble at my lines,

And thine rejoyue while as thy glory shines.