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STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

[A Latin poem, written in the thirteenth century by JACOPONE, a Franciscan friar, of Umbria. Of this and the two preceding poems Dr. Neale says: "The De Contemptu is the most lovely, the Dies Ira the most sublime, and the Stabat Mater the most pathetic, of mediæval poems."]

STABAT Mater dolorosa

Juxta crucem lacrymosa,

Dum pendebat filius; Cujus animam gementem, Contristatam et dolentem, Pertransivit gladius.

O quam tristis et afflicta,
Fuit illa benedicta

Mater unigeniti,
Quæ mœrebat et dolebat,
Pia mater, dum videbat

Nati pœnas inclyti!

Quis est homo qui non fleret, Christi matrem si videret

In tanto supplicio ? Quis non posset contristari Piam matrem contemplari Dolentem cum filio?

Pro peccatis suæ gentis,
Vidit Jesum in tormentis,
Et flagellis subditum.
Vidit suum dulcem natum,
Morientem, desolatum,

Dum emisit spiritum.

Eia mater, fons amoris,
Me sentire vim doloris

Fac, ut tecum lugeam.
Fac ut ardeat cor meum
In amando Christum Deum,
Ut illi complaceam.

Sancta Mater, istud agas,
Crucifixi fige plagas

Cordi meo valide.

Tui nati vulnerati,
Tam dignati pro me pati,
Pœnas mecum divide.

Fac me vere tecum flere,
Crucifixo condolere,

Donec ego vixero;

Juxta crucem tecum stare,

Et tibi me sociare

In planctu desidero.

Virgo virginum præclara,
Mihi jam non sis amara ;

Fac me tecum plangere ; Fac ut portem Christi mortem, Passionis fac consortem,

Et plagas recolere.

STOOD the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping Whereon hung her Son and Lord ; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing,

Also passed the cruel sword.

Oh how mournful and distressed
Was that favored and most blessed
Mother of the only Son,
Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,
While perceiving, scarce believing,
Pains of that Illustrious One!

Who the man, who, called a brother,
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother
In such deep distress and wild?
Who could not sad tribute render
Witnessing that mother tender
Agonizing with her child?

For his people's sins atoning,
Him she saw in torments groaning,
Given to the scourger's rod;
Saw her darling offspring dying,
Desolate, forsaken, crying,

Yield his spirit up to God.

Make me feel thy sorrow's power,
That with thee I tears may shower,
Tender mother, fount of love!
Make my heart with love unceasing
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing
I may be to him above.

Holy mother, this be granted,
That the slain one's wounds be planted

Firmly in my heart to bide.

Of him wounded, all astounded
Depths unbounded for me sounded -
All the pangs with me divide.

Make me weep with thee in union; With the Crucified, communion

In his grief and suffering give; Near the cross, with tears unfailing, I would join thee in thy wailing Here as long as I shall live.

Maid of maidens, all excelling!
Be not bitter, me repelling;

Make thou me a mourner too; Make me bear about Christ's dying, Share his passion, shame defying; All his wounds in me renew.

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[This hymn was written in the tenth century by ROBERT II., the gentle son of HUGH CAPET. It is often mentioned as second in rank to the Dies Ira.]

VENI, Sancte Spiritus,

Et emitte cœlitus
Lucis tuæ radium.

Veni, pater pauperum,
Veni, dator munerum,
Veni, lumen cordium.
Consolator optime,
Dulcis hospes animæ,
Dulce refrigerium.

In labore requies,
In æstu temperies,
In fletu solatium.

O lux beatissima! Reple cordis intima, Tuorum fidelium.

Sine tuo numine, Nihil est in homine, Nihil est innoxium.

Lava quod est sordidum, Riga quod est aridum, Sana quod est saucium.

Flecte quod est rigidum,
Fove quod est frigidum,
Rege quod est devium.

Da tuis fidelibus,
In te confidentibus,
Sacrum septenarium ;

Da virtutis meritum,
Da salutis exitum,
Da perenne gaudium !

ROBERT II. OF FRANCE

COME, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine! From highest heaven on us down shine! Comforter, be thy comfort mine!

Come, Father of the poor, to earth; Come, with thy gifts of precious worth ; Come, Light of all of mortal birth!

Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest
The heart where thou art constant guest,
Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.

Come, thou in whom our toil is sweet,
Our shadow in the noonday heat,

Before whom mourning flieth fleet.

Bright Sun of Grace! thy sunshine dart
On all who cry to thee apart,
And fill with gladness every heart.

Whate'er without thy aid is wrought,
Or skilful deed, or wisest thought,
God counts it vain and merely naught.

O cleanse us that we sin no more,
O'er parched souls thy waters pour ;
Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.

Thy will be ours in all our ways; O melt the frozen with thy rays; Call home the lost in error's maze.

And grant us, Lord, who cry to thee,
And hold the Faith in unity,

Thy precious gifts of charity;

That we may live in holiness,
And find in death our happiness,
And dwell with thee in lasting bliss!

CATHARINE WINKWORTH.

VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS.

This hymn, one of the most important in the service of the Latin Church, has been sometimes attributed to the EMPEROR CHARLEMAGNE. The better opinion, however, inclines to POP GREGORY 1., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the sixth century.]

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THE HOLY SPIRIT.

IN the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When I lie within my bed,
Sick at heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill
Has or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill, -

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the Furies, in a shoal,
Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said
Because my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I'm tost about
Either with despair or doubt,
Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed,
When to thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

ROBERT HERRICK.

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