A Library of Poetry and Song

DARKNESS IS THINNING.
DARKNESS is thinning; shadows are retreating;
Morning and light are coming in their beauty.
Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outery,
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-blesséd Godhead,
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us, —
Whom through the wide world celebrate forever
Blessing and glory!

ST. GREGORY THE GREAT (Latin). Translation
of J. M. NEALE.

She is my tender nurse, she gives me food: But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?

Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air, her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their
flesh,

And with their polyphonian notes delight me : But what's the air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee? I love the sea, - she is my fellow-creature,

My careful purveyor; she provides me store; She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye, Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee?

Without thy presence, heaven 's no heaven to

me.

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 Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of

thee !

FRANCIS QUARLES.

TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO

PRAY.

Two went to pray? O, rather say,
One went to brag, the other to pray;

One stands up close and treads on high,
Where the other dares not lend his eye;

One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

THE VALEDICTION.

THE silly lambs to-day
Pleasantly skip and play,
Whom butchers mean to slay,
Perhaps to-morrow;

In a more brutish sort
Do careless sinners sport,
Or in dead sleep still snort,
As near to sorrow;

Till life, not well begun,

Be sadly ended,

And the web they have spu

Can ne'er be mended.

What is the time that's gone,
And what is that to come?
Is it not now as none?

The present stays not.

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

THE bird let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings!

THOMAS MOORE.

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 'balmer, 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.

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 bribéd lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and
spread,

Set on my soul an everlasting head:
Then am I, like a palmer, fit

To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragged to go,
Or show

A downcast look, and sour?

No! 't is a fast to dole

Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,

Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate, To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin,

And that 's to keep thy lent.

ROBERT HERRICK.

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 merey'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.

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
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

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. To give us only good; and if the night

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

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

PRAISE.

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. To write a verse or two is all the praise

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.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
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.

Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest,

That I can raise ;

MILTON.

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.

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.

A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore,
On the same floore,

To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,
They can do more.

With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies, O, raise me then! poore bees, that work all day,

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,

Sting my delay,

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory ?

O Death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

PRAYER BY MARY, QUEEN OF HUNGARY.

[Translation.]

O GOD! though sorrow be my fate,
And the world's hate

For my heart's faith pursue me,
My peace they cannot take away;
From day to day

Thou dost anew imbue me; Thou art not far; a little while Thou hid'st thy face with brighter smile Thy father-love to show me.

Lord, not my will, but thine, be done; If I sink down

When men to terrors leave me, Thy father-love still warms my breast, All's for the best ;

Shall man have power to grieve me When bliss eternal is my goal, And thou the keeper of my soul,

Who never will deceive me?

Thou art my shield, as saith the Word. Christ Jesus, Lord,

Thou standest pitying by me, And lookest on each grief of mine As if 't were thine:

What then though foes may try me, Though thorns be in my path concealed? World, do thy worst! God is my shield! And will be ever nigh me.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, O, quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

DIES IRE.

DAY of wrath, that day of burning,
All shall melt, to ashes turning,
All foretold by seers discerning.

O, what fear it shall engender
When the Judge shall come in splendor,
Strict to mark and just to render !

Trumpet-scattered sound of wonder,
Rending sepulchres asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

All aghast then Death shall shiver,
And great Nature's frame shall quiver,
When the graves their dead deliver.

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