THE HYMN., "DIES IRE, DIES ILLA," &c. IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. HEARS'T thou, my soul, what serious things Both the psalm and sybil sings Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray 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 the circling sun, And urge the murmuring graves to bring Pale mankind forth to meet his King. Horror of nature, hell and death! When a deep groan from beneath 66 Shall cry, O that book! whose leaves so bright say Ah then, poor soul, what wilt thou ? But thou giv'st leave, dread Lord, that we Take shelter from thyself, in thee; And, with the wings of thine own dove, Dear Lord! remember in that day Who was the cause thou cam'st this way: Thy sheep was stray'd; and thou wouldst be Even lost thyself in seeking me. Shall all that labour, all that cost Just Mercy, then, thy reckoning be Mercy, my Judge, mercy I cry With blushing cheek and bleeding eye: O let thine own soft bowels pay Thyself; and so discharge that day. If sin can sigh, love can forgive :— 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. Oh, hear a suppliant heart, all crush'd TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN. UPON THE TRANSLATION OF LESSIUS. Go, now, and with some daring drug That which makes us have no need Nor chok'd with what she should be dress'd;— Through which all her bright features shine; As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aërial veil, is drawn O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide, More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;- No mists do mask, no lazy steams;— A happy soul, that all the way To heaven rides in a summer's day? Wouldst see a man, whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood? A man whose tuned humours be A seat of rarest harmony? Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile Age? wouldst see December smile? Wouldst see nests of new roses grow In a bed of reverend snow ? Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering In sum, wouldst see a man that can Whose latest and most leaden hours Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?— THE END. J. Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane. |