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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.

Lord ! 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 thyself in seeking me.

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

The original of this fine hymn is still to be found in the Roman Missal, and as it may not be familiar to many of our readers, we subjoin it for its great beauty and sublimity of expression, and harmony of numbers. Dies iræ, dies illa

Quærens me sedisti lassus :
Solvet sæclum in favilla

Redemisti crucem passus ;
Teste David cum Sybilla.

Tantus labor non sit cassius,
Quantus tremor est futurus,

Juste Judex ultionis
Quando Judex est venturus,

Donum fac remissionis
Cuncta stricté discussurus.

Ante diem rationis.
Tuba mirum spargens sonum

Ingemisco tanquam reus :
Per sepulchra regionum

Culpâ rubet, vultus meus ;
Coget omnes ante thronum.

Sapplicanti parce Deus. ,
Mors stupebit et natura,

Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Cum resurget creatura

Et latronem exaudisti
Judicanti responsura.

Mibi quoque spem dedisti.
Liber scriptus proferetur,

Preces mcæ non sunt dignæ :
In quo totum continetur,

Sed tu bonus fac benigné,
Unde mundus Judicetur.

Ne perenni cremer igue.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,

Inter oves locum præsta,
Quidquid latet, apparebit,

Et ab bædis me sequestra,
Nil inultum remanebit,

Statnens in parte dextra.
Quid sum, miser, tunc dicturus ?

Confutatis maledictis,
Quem patronum rogaturus?

Flammis acribus addictis,
Cum vix justus sit securus.

Voca me cum benedictis.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,

Oro supplex et acclinis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,

Cor coutritum quasi cinis.
Salva me fous pietatis.

Gere curam mei finis.
Recordare, Jesu pie,

Lacrymosa dies illa,
Quòd sum causa tuæ viæ,

Quâ resurget ex favilla
Ne me perdas illâ die.

Judicandus homo reus!
Huic ergó parce Deus.
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem,

AMEN.

Just mercy! then thy reck’ning be
With my price, and nut 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
Thyself, 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 prayers, and tears combine,
Both worthless are, for they are mine ;
But thou thy bounteous self still be,
And shew 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 the right hand.
O bear a suppliant heart all crush't,
And crumbled into contrite dust
My Hope, my Fear, my Judge, my Friend,
Take charge of me and of my end.

We trust that our readers will not be displeased, if we subjoin farther that short but beautiful introduction tu, and imitation of this sane hymn, in the “ Lay of the last Minstrel." The mass was sung, and prayers were said, HYMN FOR THE DEAD. And solemn requienı for the dead; That day of wrath, that dreadful day, And bells tolled out their mighty peal When heav'n and earth shall pass away, For the departed spirit's weal;

What power shall be the sinner's stay? And ever in the office close

How shall be meet that dreadful day? The hymn of Intercession rose; And far the echoing aisles prolong

When shrivelling like a parched scroll, The awful burtben of the song,

The flaming heavens together roll; Dies iræ, dies illa

When louder yet and yet more dread, Solvet sæclum in favilla.

Swells the high trump, that wakes the dead ; While the pealing organ rung,

O! on that day, that wrathful day, Were it meet with sacred strain When man to judgment wakes from clay,

To close my lay so light and vain, Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, Thus the holy Fathers sung:

Thoogh licav'o and earth shall pass away, REMEMBRANCER, No. 44.

3Q

AN EPITAPH ON MR. ASHTON,

A CONFORMABLE CITIZEN.

The modest front of this small floor,
Believe me, reader, can say more
Than many a braver marble can,

Here lies a truly honest man.
One, whose conscience was a thing,
Tbat troubled neither Church nor King
One of those few, that in this town,
Honour all preachers, hear their own.
Sermons be heard, yet not so many
As left no time to practise any.
He heard them reverendly, and then
His practice preached them o'er again.
His Parlour-Sermons rather were
Those to the eye, than to the ear.
His prayers took their price and strengtlı
Not from the loudness, nor the length.
He was a Protestant at home
Not only in despight of Rome.
He lov'd his Father-yet bis zeal
Tore not off his mother's veil.
To the Church he did allow her dress
True beauty to true holiness.
Peace, which he lov'd in life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When age and death eall'd for the score,
No surfets were to reckon for.
Death tore not therefore, but sans strife
Gently untwin'd his thread of life.

What remains then, but that thou
Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow,
And by bis fair example's light
Burn in thy imitation bright.
So while these lines can but bequeath
A life perhaps unto his death,
His better epitaph shall be
His life still kept alive in thee.

EPITAPH ON MR. HERRYS.

Passenger, whoe'er thou art
Stay awhile, and let thy heart
Take acquaintance of this stone,
Before thou passest furtber on.
This stone will tell thee, that beneath
Is entomb'd the crime of death;

The ripe endowments of whose mind
Left bis years so much behind,
That numbering of his virtues' praise,
Death lost the reckoning of his days:
And believing what they told
Imagin'd him exceeding old.
In him perfection did set forth
The strength of her united worth.
Him bis wisdom's pregnant growth
Made so reverend, e'en in youth,
That in the centre of bis breast
(Sweet as is the Phoenix-nest)
Every reconciled grace
Had their general meeting-place.
In him goodness joy'd to see
Learning learn humility.
The splendour of his birth and blood
Was but the gloss of his own good.
The flourish of his sober youth
Was the pride of naked truth.
In composure of his face
Liv'd a fair, but

manly grace.
His mouth was Rhetorick's best mould,
His tongue the touchstone of her gold.
What word so e'er his breath kept warm,
Was no word now, but a charm;
For all persuasive graces thence
Suck'd their sweetest influence.
His virtue, that within had root,
Could not choose but shine without.

There are two other elegiac pieces to the memory of this same Gentleman, and in one of these occur the two following similes, which possess great beauty. Having described

him as one,

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in whose rare frame
Nature laboured for a name
And meant to leave his precious feature

The pattern of a perfect creature.
He thus goes on, a few lines after-
I've seen indeed the hopeful bud,

I've seen the morning's lovely ray
Of a ruddy rose that stood,

Hover o'er the new-born day Blushing to behold the ray

With rosy wings so richly bright Of the new-saluted day;

As if he scorned to think of night. (His tender top not fully spread)

When a ruddy storm, whose scowl The sweet dash of a shower now shed, Made heaven's radiant face look foul, Invited him no inore to hide

Callid for an untimely night Within himself the purple pride

To blot the newly-blossom'd light. Of his forward flow'r-When lo !

But were the roses blush so rare, Whilst he sweetly 'gan to shew

Were the morping's smile so fair, His swelling glories, Auster spied him, As is He-nor cloud, nor wind Cruel Auster thither bied him,

But would be conrteous, would be kind. And with the rush of one rude blast

Spare him, death, O spare him then ! Sham'd not-spitefully—to waste

Spare the sweetest among men. All bis leaves, so fresh, so sweet

Upon the death of the most desired And lay them trembling at his feet.

Mr. Herrys."

And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth,
At each corner peeping forth,
Pointed him out in all his ways
Circled round in his own rays;
That to his sweetness all men's eyes
Were vow'd Love's flaming sacrifice.

Him while fresh and fragrant time
Cherisb'd in his golden prime;
E'er Hebe's band had overlaid
His smooth cheeks with a downy shade,
The rush of death's unruly wave
Swept him off into his grave.

Enough now (if thou can'st) pass on-
For now, alas! not in this stone,

Passenger, (whoe'er thou art)
Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.

THE WIDOW'S MITES.

Two mites-lwo dropsyet all her house and land Falls from a steady heart, tho' trembling hand, The others wanton wealth foams high and brave; The others cast away-she only gare,

ST. MARK XII.

(Give to Cesar....)

(And to God....)
All we have is God's, and yet
Cesar challenges a debt ;
Nor hath God a thinner share,
Whatever Cesar's payments are,
All is God's; and yet'tis true
All we have is Cesar's too ;
All is Cesar's ; and what odds
So long as Cesar's self is God's?

THE AUTHOR'S MOTTO.
Live Jesus, live-and let it be
My life to die for love' of Thee.

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