PATRICK CAREY.

CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION.

I.

Look, how he shakes for cold!
How pale his lips are grown!
Wherein his limbs to fold,
Yet mantle has he none.
His pretty feet and hands

(Of late more pure and white
Than is the snow

That pains them so,)

Have lost their candour quite.
His lips are blue,

(Where roses grew,)

He's frozen

everywhere:

All the heat he has,

Joseph, alas!

a

Gives in a groan, or Mary in a tear.

II.

Look, how he glows for heat!
What flames come from his eyes!
"Tis blood that he does sweat,
Blood his bright forehead dies.
See, see! it trickles down :
Look, how it showers amain!
Through every pore
His blood runs o'er

And empty leaves each vein.
His very heart

Burns in each part;

A fire his breast doth sear:

For all this flame,

To cool the same,

He only breathes a sigh, and weeps a tear.

III.

What bruises do I see!

What hideous stripes are those!

Could any cruel be

Enough, to give such blows?

Look, how they bind his arms,
And vex his soul with scorns!
Upon his hair

They make him wear

A crown of piercing thorns.

Through hands and feet

Sharp nails they beat;

And now the cross they rear:

Many look on;

But only John

Stands by to sigh; Mary to shed a tear.

IV.

Why did he quake for cold?
Why did he glow for heat?
Dissolve that frost he could,

He could call back that sweat.

Those bruises, stripes, bonds, taunts,
Those thorns which thou didst see,

Those nails, that cross,

His own life's loss

Why, O why suffered he?

'Twas for thy sake:

Thou, thou didst make

Him all those torments bear:

If then his love

Do thy soul move,

Sigh out a groan, weep down a melting tear.

NULLA FIDES.

FOR God's sake, mark that fly:

See what a poor, weak, little thing it is.

When thou hast mark'd and scorn'd it; know that

this,

This little, poor, weak fly

Has kill'd a pope; can make an emperor

Behold yon spark of fire:

How little hot, how near to nothing 'tis !

die.

When thou hast done despising, know that this, This contemn'd spark of fire

Has burnt whole towns; can burn a world entire.

That crawling worm there see:

Ponder, how ugly, filthy, vile, it is.

When thou hast seen and loath'd it, know that this,

This base worm thou dost see,

Has quite devour'd thy parents-shall eat thee.

Honour, the world, and man,

What trifles are they! since most true it is
That this poor fly, this small spark, this
So much abhorr'd worm, can

Honour destroy-burn worlds-devour up man.

DIRIGE VIAS MEAS, DOMINE!

OPEN thyself, and then look in;
Consider what thou mightst have been,
And what thou art now made by sin.

Asham'd o' the state to which thou'rt brought,
Detest and grieve for each past fault;

Sigh, weep, and blush for each foul thought.

Fear, but despair not, and still love;
Look humbly up to God above,
And him thou'lt soon to pity move.

Resolve on that which prudence shows;
Perform what thou dost well propose;
And keep i' the way thou once hast chose.

Vice, and what looks like vicious, shun;
Let use make good acts easily done:
Have zeal, as when thou hadst first begun.

Hope strongly, yet be humble still;
Thy good is God's; what's thine, is ill:
Do thus, and thee affect he will.

Pray, when with others; when alone,
To scorn, or praise, be as a stone:
Forget thyself, and all, but ONE.

Remove what stands 'twixt God and thee:
Use not thy fancy, him to see :

One with his will make thy will be.

Look purely on God when thou dost well;
But not on heaven, much less on hell:
Thoul't get him thus in thee to dwell.

Useless our Master we do serve;
Our labours no reward deserve;
Yet happy who these rules observe.

EXPRIMETUR.

WHO, without horror, can that house behold (Though ne'er so fair) which is with tombstones

made;

Whose walls, fraught with inscriptions writ of old, Say still-here underneath somebody's laid. Though such translated church-yards shine with gold,

Yet they the builder's sacrilege upbraid;

And the wrong'd ghosts, there haunting uncontrol'd, Follow each one his monumental shade.

But they, that by the poor man's downfall rise,