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 labour, 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.

Huic ergó parce Deus.
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem.

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
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 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 hear 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 to, and imitation of this same hymn, in the "Lay of the last Minstrel."

The mass was sung, and prayers were said,
And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells tolled out their mighty peal
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office close
The hymn of Intercession rose;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song,
Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla.
While the pealing organ rung.

Were it meet with sacred strain
To close my lay so light and vain,
Thus the holy Fathers sung.
REMEMBRANCER, No. 44.

HYMN FOR THE DEAD:

That day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heav'n and earth shall pass away,
What power shall be the sinner's stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?
When shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump, that wakes the dead;
O! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heav's and earth shall pass away.

3 Q

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,
That troubled neither Church nor King.
One of those few, that in this town,
Honour all preachers, hear their own.
Sermons he 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 strength
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 his 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 call'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 his 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 further on.
This stone will tell thee, that beneath
Ia entomb'd the crime of death;

The ripe endowments of whose mind
Left his 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 his wisdom's pregnant growth
Made so reverend, e'en in youth,
That in the centre of his 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,

in whose rare frame

Nature laboured for a name

And meant to leave his precions feature
The pattern of a perfect creature.

He thus goes on, a few lines after

I've seen indeed the hopeful bud,
Of a ruddy rose that stood,
Blushing to behold the ray
Of the new-saluted day;
(His tender top not fully spread)
The sweet dash of a shower now shed,
Invited him no more to hide
Within himself the purple pride
Of his forward flow'r-When lo!
Whilst he sweetly 'gan to shew

His swelling glories, Auster spied him,
Cruel Auster thither hied him,
And with the rush of one rude blast
Sham'd not-spitefully-to waste
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet
And lay them trembling at his feet.

I've seen the morning's lovely ray
Hover o'er the new-born day
With rosy wings so richly bright

As if he scorned to think of night.
When a ruddy storm, whose scowl
Made heaven's radiant face look foul,
Call'd for an untimely night
To blot the newly-blossom'd light.

But were the roses blush so rare,—
Were the morning's smile so fair,

As is He-nor cloud, nor wind
But would be courteous, would be kind.
Spare him, death, O spare him then!
Spare the sweetest among men.

"Upon the death of the most desired
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
Cherish'd in his golden prime;
E'er Hebe's hand 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-two drops-yet 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 gave.

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.