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The.angel kordą, and venishThe wock night It came apsin, with a great wahering light lind she's the names álom kore often that which
, And lo! Ben Atkem's name led all the rest
here on this bless Thanksging tight,
POEMS OF RELIGION.
MY GOD, I LOVE THEE.
My God, I love thee ! not because
I hope for heaven thereby ; Nor because those who love thee not
Must burn eternally.
Thou, O my Jesus, thou didst me
Upon the cross embrace ! For me didst bear the nails and spear,
And manifold disgrace.
For as thou dost impart thy grace,
The greater shall our glorie be.
The stuffe with thee.
A life as barren to thy praise
But with delaies.
Neither bring hony with the bees, Nor flowres to make that, nor the husbandrie
To water these. I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my companie is a weed. Lord, place me in thy consort ; give one strain
To my poore reed.
And griefs and torments numberless,
And sweat of agony, Yea, death itself, — and all for one
That was thine enemy.
Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ,
Should I not love thee well ? Not for the hope of winning heaven,
Nor of escaping hell !
Not seeking a reward ;
O everlasting Lord !
THE NEW JERUSALEM.
E'en so I love thee, and will lore,
And in thy praise will sing, – Solely because thou art my God, And my eternal King. ST. FRANCIS XAVIER (Latin). Translation
of EDWARD CASWELL.
O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem,
When shall I come to thee?
Thy joys when shall I see?
O sweet and pleasant soil !
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.
Nor gloom, nor darksome night ;
For God himself gives light. Thy walls are made of precious stone,
Thy bulwarks diamond-square,
O God ! if I were there!
Thy joys when shall I see ? -
And thy felicity ?
IF as a flowre doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frost's extremitie
Nipt in the bud, The sweetnesse and the praise were thine ;
But the extension and the room Which in thy garland I should fill were mine
At thy great doom.
DARKNESS IS THINNING.
Thy gardens and thy goodly walks
Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets with pleasing sound
The flood of life doth flow ; And on the banks, on every side,
The trees of life do grow.
DARKNESS is thinning; shadows are retreating ;
God the Almighty !
Glory hereafter !
Blessing and glory!
of J. M. NEALE.
These trees each month yield ripened fruit ;
Forevermore they spring,
To thee their honors bring.
Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place
Full sore I long to see ; O that my sorrows had an end,
That I might dwell in thee !
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ?
Time posteth, O, how fast ! Unwelcome death makes haste; None can call back what's past,
Judgment delays not ; Though God bring in the light,
Sinners awake not, Because hell's out of sight,
They sin forsake not.
The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire ;
But dying sparkles of thy living fire ;
But nightly glow-worms if compared to thee. Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares ;
Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet, sadness ; Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing
madness, Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have their being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I ?
Not having thee, what have my labors got ? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ?
And having thee alone, what have I not ?
Man walks in a vain show;
But run for shadows,
In Christ's sweet meadows. Life's better slept away
Than as they use it ; In sin and drunken play
Vain men abuse it.
THE BIRD LET LOOSE.
Over the silver mountains
Is it to quit the dish Where spring the nectar fountains.
Of flesh, yet still There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
The platter high with fish ?
Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragged to go, Then by that happy, blissful day,
A downcast look, and sour?
No! 't is a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat, And taste of nectar's suckets
Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,
From old debate Then the blest paths we'll travel,
And hate, -
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin, Where no corrupted voices brawl ;
Not bin, -
And that's to keep thy lent.
I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT And when the grand twelve-million jury
DIVINE Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
I would I were an excellent divine Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
That men might hear out of this mouth of mine Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
How God doth make his enemies his friends ; Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,
Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.
Be led into presumption, or despair.
This would I be, and would none other be, That since my flesh must die so soon,
But a religious servant of my God; And want a head to dine next noon,
And know there is none other God but he, Just at the stroke when my veins start and And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, spread,
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love, Set on my soul an everlasting head :
And seek my bliss but in the world above. Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, For all estates within the state of grace, Who oft doth think, must needs die well. That careful love might never know despair,
Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; And this would I both day and night devise To make my humble spirit's exercise.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
A TRUE LENT.
Is this a fast, - to keep
The larder lean,
And I would read the rules of sacred life ;
Persuade the troubled soul to patience ;
To child and servant due obedience ;