To pass for odoriferous,

But such alone whose sacred pedigree

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Can prove itself some kin (sweet Name!) to Thee.

How many thousand mercies there
In Pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping!

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Happy he who has the art

To awake them,

And to take them

Home, and lodge them in his heart.

O, that it were as it was wont to be!

When Thy old friends of fire, all full of Thee,

Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase To persecutions; and against the face

Of Death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave

And sober pace, march on to meet A GRAVE.

On their bold breasts, about the world they bore Thee,
And to the teeth of Hell stood up to teach Thee,

In centre of their inmost souls, they wore Thee;
Where racks and torments strived, in vain, to reach

Thee.

Little, alas, thought they

Who tore the fair breasts of Thy friends,

Their fury but made way

For Thee, and served them in Thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons but with wider pores

Enlarge Thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire

That impatient fire,

The heart that hides Thee hardly covers ?

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What did their weapons but set wide the doors
For Thee? fair, purple doors, of Love's devising;
The ruby windows which enrich'd the East
Of Thy so oft-repeated rising!

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Each wound of theirs was Thy new morning,

And re-enthroned Thee in Thy rosy nest,

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With blush of Thine Own blood Thy day adorning :

It was the wit of Love o’erflow'd the bounds

Of Wrath, and made Thee way through all those wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adorèd Name!

For sure thee is no knee

That knows not Thee:

Or, if there be such sons of shame,
Alas! what will they do

When stubborn rocks shall bow

And hills hang down their heaven-saluting heads

To seek for humble beds

Of dust, where in the bashful shades of Night
Next to their own low Nothing, they may lie,

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And couch before the dazzling light of Thy dread majesty. They that by Love's mild dictate now

Will not adore Thee,

Shall then, with just confusion bow

And break before Thee.

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VIII.

DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA:

THE HYMN OF THE CHURCH, IN MEDITATION OF
THE DAY OF Judgment.

I.

HEAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things

Both the Psalm and Sybil sings

Of a sure Judge, from Whose sharp ray
The World in flames shall fly away.

II.

O that fire! before whose face
Heaven and Earth shall find no place.
O those eyes! Whose angry light
Must be the day of that dread night.

III.

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.

IV.

5

ΙΟ

Horror of Nature, Hell, and Death!
When a deep groan from beneath

Shall cry, "We come, we come," and all
The caves of Night answer one call.

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V.

O that Book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the World in severe light.
O that Judge! Whose hand, Whose eye
None can endure; yet none can fly..

VI.

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.

VII.

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But Thou giv'st leave (dread Lord!) that we
Take shelter from Thyself, in Thee;

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And with the wings of Thine Own dove
Fly to Thy sceptre of soft love.

And this lov'd soul, judg'd worth no less
Than all that way, and weariness?

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X.

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.

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XI.

Mercy (my Judge), mercy I cry
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye:
The conscious colours of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

XII.

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!

XIII.

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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.

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XIV.

Though both my prayers and tears combine,
Both worthless are; for they are mine.

But Thou Thy bounteous Self still be;
And show Thou art, by saving me.

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XV.

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.

XVI.

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.

D

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