Classic Poem

Psal. 8.

As the 113. Psalme;

Ye Children, &c.

How noble is thy mighty name,
O Lord o're all the worlds wide frame,
Whose glory is aduanc't on hye
Aboue the rouling heauens rack!
How for the gracelesse scorners sake,
To still th'auenging enemy,
Hast thou by tender infants tongue,
The praise of thy great name made strong,
While they hang sucking on the brest!
But when I see thine heauens bright
The Moon & glittering stars of night,
By thine almighty hand addrest;
Oh! what is man, poore silly man,
That thou so mind'st him, & dost daine
To look at his vnworthy seed!
Thou hast him set not much beneath
Thine Angels bright; & with a wreath
Of glory hast adorn'd his head.
Thou hast him made hy souerayne
Of al thy works; & stretcht his raigne
Vnto the heards, and beasts vntame,
To foules, and to the scaly traine,
That glideth through the watery main,
How noble each-where is thy name!