Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

In your deep floods

Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let his eye

See sin but through my tears.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

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,

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 with the hope of gaining aught,
Not seeking a reward;

But as thyself hast loved me,
O everlasting Lord!

E'en so I love thee, and will love,
And in thy praise will sing,
Solely because thou art my God,
And my eternal King.

From the Latin of ST FRANCIS XAVIER.
Translation of EDWARD CASWALL.

DROP, DROP, SLOW TEARS.

DROP, drop, slow tears,

And bathe those beauteous feet Which brought from heaven

The news and Prince of peace!

Cease not, wet eyes,

His mercies to entreat;

To cry for vengeance

Sin doth never cease;

DARKNESS IS THINNING.

DARKNESS is thinning; shadows are retreating;
Morning and light are coming in their beauty;
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry,
God the Almighty!

So that our Master, having mercy on us,
May repel languor, may bestow salvation,
Granting us, Father, of thy loving-kindness
Glory hereafter !

This, of his mercy, ever blessed Godhead,
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us,
Whom through the wide world celebrate forever
Blessing and glory!

From the Latin of ST. GREGORY THE GREAT
Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Without thy presence, earth gives no refection ;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure ;
Without thy presence, air 's a rank infection;
Without thy presence, heaven 's itself no
pleasure :

If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee,

What 's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire ;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire;
The loudest flames that earth can kindle be
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?
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be

I'll take them first
To quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar's suckets
At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blest paths we 'll travel,
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, -
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser, bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's Attorney;
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees;
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribèd lawyer's palms.

Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of And this is mine eternal plea

thee !

FRANCIS QUARLES.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gauge ;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!

Blood must be my body's baliner,
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven,
Over the silver mountains

Where spring the nectar fountains :

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.

-

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

LONG pored St. Austin o'er the sacred page,
And doubt and darkness overspread his mind;
On God's mysterious being thought the Sage,
The Triple Person in one Godhead joined.
The more he thought, the harder did he find
To solve the various doubts which fast arose ;
And as a ship, caught by imperious wind,
Tosses where chance its shattered body throws,
So tossed his troubled soul, and nowhere found
repose.

Heated and feverish, then he closed his tome,

And went to wander by the ocean-side, Where the cool breeze at evening loved to come, Murmuring responsive to the murmuring tide;

And as Augustine o'er its margent wide Strayed, deeply pondering the puzzling theme, A little child before him he espied:

In earnest labor did the urchin seem,
Working with heart intent close by the sounding

stream.

He looked, and saw the child a hole had scooped,
Shallow and narrow in the shining sand,
O'er which at work the laboring infant stooped,
Still pouring water in with busy hand.

The saint addressed the child in accents bland:
"Fair boy," quoth he, "I pray what toil is thine?
Let me its end and purpose understand.”
The boy replied: "An easy task is mine,
To sweep into this hole all the wide ocean's brine."

"O foolish boy!" the saint exclaimed, "to hope That the broad ocean in that hole should lie!" "O foolish saint!" exclaimed the boy; "thy

scope

Is still more hopeless than the toil I ply, Who think'st to comprehend God's nature high In the small compass of thine human wit! Confine the ocean in this tiny pit, Sooner, Augustine, sooner far, shall I Than finite minds conceive God's nature in

finite!"

ANONYMOUS.

I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT DIVINE.

I WOULD I were an excellent divine

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends; That men might hear out of this mouth of mine

How God doth make his enemies his friends; Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;
And know there is none other God but he,

And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, —
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love,
And seek my bliss but in the world above.
And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer,
For all estates within the state of grace,
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.

And I would read the rules of sacred life;

Persuade the troubled soul to patience; The husband care, and comfort to the wife, To child and servant due obedience; Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace, That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.

Prayer for the health of all that are diseased,
Confession unto all that are convicted,
And patience unto all that are displeased,
And comfort unto all that are afflicted,
And mercy unto all that have offended,
And grace to all, that all may be amended.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,

FROM "PARADISE LOST," BOOK V.

THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven,
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

PRAISE.

To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise ;

Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.

I go to church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither flie;

Or, if I mount unto the skie,
I will do more.

MILTON.

Man is all weaknesse: there is no such thing
As Prince or King:

His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou

fall'st.

On the same floore,
To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,

They can do more.

Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest, O, raise me then! poore bees, that work all day,

With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,

And ye five other wandering fires that move

In mystic dance not without song, resound

His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth

Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

In clothes, cheap handsomeness doth bear the bell.

Wisdome's a trimmer thing than shop e'er gave.
Say not then, This with that lace will do well;
But, This with my discretion will be brave.
Much curiousnesse is a perpetual wooing;
Nothing, with labor; folly, long a doing.

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.
God is more there than thou; for thou art there
Only by his permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.

Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings; quit
thy state;

All equal are within the church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most: Praying's the end of preaching. O, be drest! Stay not for th' other pin: why thou hast lost A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.

Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge :
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not.
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.
The worst speak something good; if a'
want sense,

God takes a text, and preacheth Pa-ti-ence

GEORGE HERBERT.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]
« VorigeDoorgaan »