Thou walkest with me when I walk, When to my bed for rest I go, I find Thee there, And everywhere; Not youngest thought, in me doth grow, No, not one word I cast to talk, But yet unuttered, Thou dost know. If forth I march, Thou goest before; If back I turn, Thou comest behind So forth nor back Thy guard I lack, Nay, on me, too, Thy hand I find. Well I Thy wisdom may adore, But never reach with earthly mind. To shun Thy notice, leave Thine eye, Oh, whither might I take my way? To starry sphere? Thy Throne is there. To dead men's undelightsome stay? There is Thy walk, and there to lie Unknown, in vain I should essay. O Sun, whom light nor flight can match, Suppose thy lightful, flightful wings Thou lend to me, And I could flee As far as thee the evening brings: Even led to West, He would me catch, Nor could I lurk with Western things. Do thou thy best, O secret Night, In sable veil to cover me; Thy sable veil Shall vainly fail: With day unmasked my night shall be, For night is day, and darkness light, O Father of all Lights, to Thee. While this brilliant translation of the Book of Psalms would itself have sufficed to have made the reputation of the Countess of Pembroke as a scholar and poet, her poetical work was not limited thereto. We have also from her pen: "The Tragedie of Antonie: done into English by the Countess of Pembroke," published 1595, and a "Pastoral dialogue in praise of Astrea," published in Davidson's "Poetical Rapsody," in 1662, which is stated to have been made on the occasion of a visit being paid by the Queen at the house of the Countess. This learned lady also left in manuscript a poem of considerable length entitled, "The Countess of Pembroke's Passion." It is only during the present century that this work has been given to the world. The poem is a touching lamentation over the sufferings of the Saviour. The subject itself, and the way in which it is handled, show how thoroughly the mind of the writer was impregnated with religious thought, and her ever ready and tender sympathy. It is a poem of very unequal merit, but some stanzas are sweet. Take the following:-- He placed all rust, and had no resting place; He healed each pain, yet lived in sore distress; Deserved all good, yet lived in great disgrace; Gave all hearts joy, himself in heaviness; Suffered them live, by whom himself was slain: Lord, who can live to see such love again? * * * * *