THE HYMN.

DIES IRE DIES ILLA.

IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

HEAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things Both the Psalm and Sybil sings

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray
The world in flames shall fly away.'

O that fire! before whose face
Heav'n and Earth shall find no place :
O these eyes! whose angry light
Must be the day of that dread night.

O that trump! whose blast shall run
An even round with th' circling Sun,
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Horrour of Nature, Hell and Death!
When a deep groan from beneath
Shall cry, "We come, we come," and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O that book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light.
O that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can indure; yet none can fly.

Ah, then, poor soul, what wilt thou say?
And to what patron choose to pray?
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more then stand.

But thou giv'st leave (dread Lord) that we Take shelter from thyself in thee; And with the wings of thine own dove Fly to thy sceptre of soft love.

Dear, remember in that day
Who was the cause thou cam'st this way.
Thy sheep was stray'd: and thou would'st be
Even lost thy self in seeking me.

Shall all that labour, all that cost
Of love, and even that loss, be lost?
And this lov'd soul, judg'd worth no less
Than all that way and weariness?

Just mercy, then, thy reck'ning be
With my price, and not with me;
"Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, (my Judge) mercy, I cry,
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye,
The conscious colours of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

O let thine own soft bowels pay
Thy self; and so discharge that day.
If sin can sigh, love can forgive.
O say the word, my soul shall live.

Those mercies which thy Mary found,
Or who thy cross confess'd and crown'd,
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be
Still alive, and still for me.

Though both my pray'rs and tears combine, Both worthless are; for they are mine. But thou thy bounteous self still be ; And show thou art, by saving me.

O when thy last frown shall proclaim The flocks of goats to folds of flame, And all thy lost sheep found shall be, Let "Come ye blessed" then call me.

When the dread Ite shall divide Those limbs of death from thy left side, Let those life-speaking lips command That I inherit thy right hand.

O hear a suppliant heart; all crush'd And crumbled into contrite dust. My hope, my fear! my judge, my friend Take charge of me, and of my end.

THE HYMN.

O GLORIOSA DOMINA.

HAIL, most high, most humble one!
Above the world, below thy Son,
Whose blush the Moon beauteously mars
And stains the timorous light of stars.
He that made all things had not done
Till he had made himself thy Son.
The whole world's host would be thy guest,
And board himself at thy rich breast:
O boundless hospitality!
The feast of all things feeds on thee.

The first Eve, mother of our fall,
E'r she bore any one, slew all.
Of her unkind gift might we have
The inheritance of a hasty grave;
Quick buried in the wanton tomb
Of one forbidden bit;
Had not a better fruit forbidden it.

Had not thy healthful womb
The world's new eastern window been,
And given us Heav'n again in giving him.
Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day,
Which renders all the stars she stole away.

Let then the aged world be wise, and all
Prove nobly, here, unnatural:
'Tis gratitude to forget that other,
And call the maiden Eve their mother.
Ye redeem'd nations far and near,
Applaud your happy selves in her,
(All you to whom this love belongs)
And keep't alive with lasting songs.

Let hearts and lips speak loud, and say,
"Hail, door of life, and source of day!
The door was shut, the fountain seal'd;
Yet light was seen and life reveal'd;
The fountain seal'd, yet life found way.
Glory to thee, great Virgin's Son
In bosom of thy Father's bliss.

The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done;
As ever shall be, was, and is, Amen."

THE FLAMING HEART,

UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICĀL SAINT TERESA, as SHE IS USUALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM BESIDE HER.

WELL meaning readers! you that come as friends,
And catch the precious name this piece pretends;
Make not too much haste t'admire

That fair-cheek'd fallacy of fire,
That is a seraphim, they say,

And this the great Teresia.

Readers, be rul'd by me, and make Here a well-plac'd and wise mistake; You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right; Read bim for her, and her for him; And call the saint the seraphim.

Painter, what did'st thou understand
To put her dart into his hand!
See, even the years and size of him

Shows this the mother seraphim.

This is the mistress flame; and duteous he
Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen,
Thou could'st not so unkindly err
To show us this faint shade for her.
Why man, this speaks pure mortal frame,

And mocks with female frost love's manly flame.
One would suspect thou mean'st to paint
Some weak, inferior, woman saint.
But had thy pale-fac'd purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,
Thou would'st on her have heap'd up all
That could be found seraphical;
What e'er this youth of fire wears fair,
Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, and glistring wings,
All those fair and flagrant things,
But before all, that fiery dart

Had fill'd the hand of this great heart.
Do then as equal right requires :
Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires,
Resume and rectify thy rude design;
Undress thy seraphim into mine;

Redeem this injury of thy art;

Give him the veil, give her the dart.

Give him the veil; that he may cover The red cheeks of a rivall'd lover; Asham'd that our world, now, can show Nests of new seraphins here below.

Give her the dart for it is she

(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee.
Say, all ye wise and well-pierc'd hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,
What is't your tasteful spirits do prove -
In that rare life of her, and love?
Say, and bear witness, sends she not
A seraphim at every shot?

What magazines of immortal arms there shine!
Heav'n's great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her, who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.
But if it be the frequent fate

Of worst faults to be fortunate;
If all's prescription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song;
For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suff'ring seraphim.

His be the bravery of all those bright things, The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings; The rosy hand, the radiant dart;

Leave her alone the flaming heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her Not one loose shaft, but love's whole quiver, For in love's field was never found

A nobler weapon than a wound.
Love's passives are his activ'st part;
The wounded is the wounding beart.

O beart! the equal poise of love's both parts,
Big alike with wounds and darts,

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;
Live bere, great heart; and love, and die, and kill;
And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still.
Let this immortal life where e'er it comes
Walk in a croud of loves and martyrdoms.
Let mystic deaths wait on't; and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart;
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combin'd against this breast at once break in,
And take away from me my self and sin;
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
Othou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy pow'r of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy large draughts of intellectual day;
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;
By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire;
By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;
By the full kingdom of that final kiss

That seiz'd thy parting soul, and seal'd thee his;
By all the heav'ns thou hast in him
(Fair sister of the seraphim);
By all of him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of my self in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.

And where love lends the wing, and leads the way,
What dangers can there be dare say me nay?
If I be shipwreck'd, love shall teach to swim;
If drown'd, sweet is the death endur'd for him;
The noted sea shall change his name with me;
I'mong'st the blest stars a new name shall be;
And sure where lovers make their watry graves,
The weeping mariner will augment the waves.
For who so hard, but passing by that way
Will take acquaintance of my woes, and say,
"Here 't was the Roman maid found a hard fate
While through the world she sought her wand'ring
mate;

Here perish'd she, poor heart. Heav'ns, be my vows
As true to me, as she was to her spouse.
O live! so rare a love! live! and in thee
The too frail life of female constancy.
Farewell and shine, fair soul, shine there above
Firm in thy crown, as here fast in thy love.
There thy lost fugitive thou hast found at last;
Be happy; and for ever hold him fast.”

THE SECOND ELEGY.

THOUGH all the joys I had fled hence with thee,
Unkind! yet are my tears still true to me.
I'm wedded o'er again since thou art gone,
Nor could'st thou, cruel, leave me quite alone.
Alexis's widow now is Sorrow's wife,
With him shall I weep out my weary life.
Welcome my sad sweet mate! now have I got
At last a constant love that leaves me not.
Firm he, as thou art false, nor need my cries
Thus vex the earth, and tear the skies.
For him, alas, ne'er shall I need to be
Troublesome to the world, thus, as for thee.
For thee I talk to trees; with silent groves
Expostulate my woes and much-wrong'd loves.
Hills and relentless rocks, or if there be
Things that in hardness more allude to thee,
To these I talk in tears, and tell my pain,
And answer too for them in tears again.
How oft have I wept out the weary Sun?
My watry hour-glass hath old Time out-run.
O, I am learned grown, poor love and I
Have studied over all astrology.

I'm perfect in Heav'n's state, with every star
My skilful grief is grown familiar.

Rise, fairest of those fires, what e'er thou be,
Whose rosy beam shall point my sun to me ;
Such as the sacred light that erst did bring
The eastern princes to their infant king:
O rise, pure lamp and lend thy golden ray,
That wary love at last may find his way.

THE THIRD Clegy.

RICH, churlish land! that hid'st so long in thee
My treasures, rich, alas, by robbing me.
Needs must my miseries owe that man a spight,
Who e'er he be was the first wand'ring knight.
O had he ne'er been at that cruel cost,
Nature's virginity had ne'er been lost;
Seas had not been rebuk'd by saucy oars
But lain lock'd up safe in their sacred shores;
Men had not spurn'd at mountains; nor made wars
With rocks; nor bold hands struck the world's
strong bars;

Nor lost in too large bounds, our little Rome
Full sweetly with it self had dwelt at home.
My poor Alexis then, in peaceful life,
Had under some low roof lov'd his plain wife:

But now, ah me, from where he has no foes
He flies; and into wilful exile goes.
Cruel return or tell the reason why
Thy dearest parents have deserv'd to die;
And I, what is my crime I cannot tell,
Unless it be a crime t' have lov'd too well.
If heats of holier love and high desire
Make big thy fair breast with immortal fire,
What needs my virgin lord fly thus from me,
Who only wish his virgin wife to be?
Witness, chaste Heav'ns! no happier vows I know,
Than to a virgin grave untouch'd to go.
Love's truest knot by Venus is not ty'd;
Nor do embraces only make a bride.

The queen of angels (and men chaste as you)
Was maiden-wife, and maiden-mother too.
Cecilia, glory of her name and blood,
With happy gain her maiden vows made good.
The lusty bridegroom made approach, "Young

man

Take heed," said she, "take heed Valerian;
My bosom-guard, a spirit great and strong,
Stands arm'd to shield me from all wanton wrong.
My chastity is sacred; and my sleep
Wakeful, her dear vows undefil'd to keep.
Pallas bears arms, forsooth, and should there be
No fortress built for true virginity?
No gaping Gorgon this, none like the rest
Of your learn'd lies: here you'll find no such jest.
I'm yours, O were my God, my Christ so too,
I'd know no name of love on earth but you."
He yields, and straight baptiz'd, obtains the grace
To gaze on the fair soldier's glorious face.
Both mixt at last their blood in one rich bed
Of rosy martyrdome, twice married.
O burn our Hymen bright in such high flame;
Thy torch, terrestrial love, has here no name.
How sweet the mutual yoke of man and wife,
When holy fires maintain love's heav'nly life!
But I, (so help me Heav'n my hopes to see) [thee.
When thousands sought my love, lov'd none but
Still, as their vain tears my firm vows did try,
"Alexis, he alone is mine." (said 1)

Half true, alas, half false, proves that poor line,
Alexis is alone; but is not mine.

DESCRIPTION OF A RELIGIOUS HOUSE AND CONDITION OF LIFE.

(OUT OF BARCLAY.)

No roofs of gold o'er riotous tables shining,
Whole days and suns devour'd with endless dining;
No sails of Tyrian silk proud pavements sweep-
ing;

Nor ivory couches costlier slumbers keeping;
False lights of flaring gems; tumultuous joys;
Halls full of flattering men and frisking boys;
Whate'er false shows of short and slippery good
Mix the mad sons of men in mutual blood.
But walks and unshorn woods; and souls, just so
Unforc'd and genuine, but not shady tho' :
Our lodgings hard and homely, as our fare,
That chaste and cheap, as the few clothes we wear;
Those coarse and negligent, as the natural locks
Of these loose groves, rough as th' unpolish'd rocks.
A hasty portion of prescribed sleep;

Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep,
And sing, and sigh, and work, and sleep again;
Still rolling a round sphere of still-returning pain.
Hands full of hearty labours; pains that pay
Aud prize themselves; do much, that more they may,
And work for work, not wages; let to morrow's
New drops wash off the sweat of this day's sorrows.
A long and daily-dying life, which breaths
A respiration of reviving deaths.

But neither are there those ignoble stings
That nip the bosom of the world's best things
And lash earth-labouring souls;

No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep
Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep:
But reverend discipline, and religious fear,
And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence, and sacred rest; peace, and pure joys;
Kind loves keep house, lie close, and make no noise,
And room enough for monarchs, while none swells
Beyond the kingdoms of contentful cells.
The self-reinemb'ring soul sweetly recovers
Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers
Below; but meditates her immortal way

Home to the original source of light and intellectual day.