Ah! Lord, my light and living breath, And ever, ever, weep and sigh, I weary of this endless strife; This living death, this heavy chain, In which her sins my soul detain. No more I weep, no more I sigh; I'm dying of desire to die. DIES IRAE THOMAS OF CELANO Translated by Wentworth Dillon That day of wrath, that dreadful day, What horror will invade the mind, The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound Shall through the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground. Nature and death shall, with surprise, And view the Judge with conscious eyes. Then shall, with universal dread, The Judge ascends his awful throne; He makes each secret sin be known, And all with shame confess their own. Oh, then, what interest shall I make Thou mighty, formidable King, Forget not what my ransom cost, Thou who for me didst feel such pain, Whose precious blood the cross did stain, Let not these agonies be in vain! Thou whom avenging powers obey, Surrounded with amazing fears, Thou who wert moved with Mary's grief, And by absolving of the thief Hast given me hope, now give relief! Reject not my unworthy prayer; Preserve me from the dangerous snare Which death and gaping hell prepare. Give my exalted soul a place Among thy chosen right-hand race, From that insatiable abyss, Where flames devour and serpents hiss, Prostrate my contrite heart I rend, Well may they curse their second breath, Who rise to a reviving death : Thou great Creator of mankind, Let guilty man compassion find! PEACE HENRY VAUGHN My Soul, there is a Countrie Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is the gracious Friend, If thou canst but get thither, The rose that cannot wither, THE WORLD HENRY VAUGHN I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great Ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright; And round beneath it, time, in hours, in days, in years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting lover, in his quaintest strain, Did there complain; Near him his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit's sour delights; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, Yet his dear Treasure, All scattered lay, while his eyes did pour Upon a flower. The darksome Statesman, hung with weights and woe, Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, He did not stay nor go; Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, Workt under ground, Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see That policy; Churches and altars fed him; Perjuries Were gnats and flies; It rained about him blood and tears; But he drank them as free. The fearful miser, on a heap of rust Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust Yet would not place one piece above, but lives Thousands there were, as frantic as himself, And hugged each one his own pelf; The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, And acorned pretense; While others, slipt into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave, And poor despised Truth sat counting by Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; But most would use no wing. "O fools," said I, "thus to prefer dark night To live in grots and caves, and hate the day The way which, from this dead and dark abode, A way where you might tread the sun and be, More bright than he!" But, as I did their madness so discuss, One whispered thus, "This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, But for his bride." |