Jane Turell

A Paraphrase of the One Hundred and Thirty-Fourth Psalm
An Invitation into the country

A Paraphrase of the One Hundred and Thirty-Fourth Psalm

As on the margin of Euphrates' flood
We wail'd our sins, and mourn'd an angry God;
(For God provoked, to strangers gave our land,
And by a righteous Judge condemned we stand;)
Deep were our groans, our griefs without compare,
With ardent cries we rent the yielding air.
Borne down with woes, no friend at hand was found,
No helper in the waste and barren ground:
Only a mournful willow wither'd there,
Its aged arms by winter storms made bare;
On this our lyres, now useless grown, we hung,
Our lyres by us forsaken, and unstrung!
We sigh'd in chains, and sunk beneath our wo,
Whilst more insulting our proud tyrants grow.
From hearts oppress'd with grief they did require
A sacred anthem on the sounding lyre!
Come now, they cry, regale us with a song,
Music and mirth the fleeting hours prolong.
Shall Babel's daughter hear that blessed sound?
Shall songs divine be sung on heathen ground?
No, Heaven forbid that we should tune our voice,
Or touch the lyre! Whilst slaves we can't rejoice.
O Palestina! our once dear abode,
Thou once wert blessed with peace, and loved by God;

But now art desolate, a barren waste,
Thy fruitful fields by thorns and weeds defaced.
If I forget Judea's mournful land,
May nothing prosper that I take in hand!
Or if I string the lyre, or tune my voice,
Till thy deliverance cause me to rejoice;
O may my tongue forget her art to move,
And may I never more my speech improve!
Return, O Lord! avenge us of our foes,
Destroy the men that up against us rose:
Let Edom's sons thy just displeasure know,
And, like us, serve some foreign conquering foe
In distant realms; far from their native home,
To which dear seat O let them never come!

Thou, Babel's daughter! author of our woe,
Shalt feel the stroke of some revenging blow:
Thy walls and towns be levelled with the ground,
Sorrow and grief shall in each soul be found:
Thrice blest the man who, that auspicious night,
Shall seize thy trembling infants in thy sight,
Regardless of thy flowing tears and moans,
And dash the tender babes against the stones.

An Invitation into the country

FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets
Of Medford's flowery vales, and green retreats,
Your absent Delia to her father sends,
And prays to see him ere the summer ends.

Now while the earth's with beauteous verdure dyed,
And Flora paints the meads in all her pride;
While laden trees Pomona's bounty own,
And Ceres' treasures do the fields adorn,
From the thick smokes, and noisy town, O come,
And in these plains awhile forget your home.

Though my small income never can afford,
Like wealthy Celsus to regale a lord;
No ivory tables groan beneath the weight
Of sumptuous dishes, served in massy plate:
The forest ne'er was searched for food for me,
Nor from my hounds the timorous hare does flee:
No leaden thunder strikes the fowl in air,
Nor from my shaft the winged death do fear:
With silken nets I ne'er the lakes despoil,
Nor with my bait the larger fish beguile.
No luscious sweetmeats, by my servants plac'd
In curious order e'er my tables grac'd;
To please the taste, no rich Burgundian wine,
In crystal glasses on my sideboard shine;
The luscious sweets of fair Canary's isle
Ne'er fill'd my casks, nor in my flagons smile:
No wine, but what does from my apples flow,
My frugal house on any can bestow:
Except when Caesar's birthday does return,
And joyful fires throughout the village burn;

Then moderate each takes his cheerful glass,
And our good wishes to Augustus pass.

But though rich dainties never spread my board,
Nor my cool vaults Calabrian wines afford;
Yet what is neat and wholesome I can spread, --
My good fat bacon, and our homely bread,
With which my healthful family is fed.
Milk from the cow, and butter newly churn'd,
And new fresh cheese, with curds and cream just turn'd.
For a dessert upon my table's seen
The golden apple, and the melon green;
The blushing peach, and glossy plum there lies,
And with the mandrake tempt your hands and eyes.

These I can give, and if you'll here repair,
To slake your thirst a cask of Autumn beer,
Reserv'd on purpose for your drinking here.
Under the spreading elms our limbs we'll lay,
While fragrant zephyrs round our temples play;
Retired from courts, and crowds, secure we'll sit
And freely feed upon our country treat;
No noisy faction here shall dare intrude,
Or once disturb our peaceful solitude.

No stately beds my humble roofs adorn,
Of costly purple, by carved panthers borne;
Nor can I boast Arabia's rich perfumes,
Diffusing odors through our stately rooms.
For me no fair Egyptian plies the loom,
But my fine linen all is made at home.
Though I no down or tapestry can spread,
A clean soft pillow shall support your head,
Fill'd with the wool from off my tender sheep,
On which with ease and safety you may sleep.
The nightingale shall lull you to your rest,
Aud all be calm and still as is your breast.