Ah! Lord, my light and living breath,
Take me, Oh, take me from this death,
And burst the bars that sever me
From my true life above!
Think how I die thy face to see,
And cannot live away from thee,
O my eternal Love.

And ever, ever, weep and sigh,
Dying, because I do not die.

I weary of this endless strife;
I weary of this dying life,

This living death, this heavy chain,
This torment of delay,

In which her sins my soul detain.
Ah! when shall it be mine? Ah! when,
With my last breath to say,-

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,
Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.

What horror will invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find!

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,
Behold the pale offender rise,

And view the Judge with conscious eyes.

Then shall, with universal dread,
The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.

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
To save my last important stake,
When the most just have cause to quake?

Thou mighty, formidable King,
Thou mercy's unexhausted spring,
Some comfortable pity bring!

Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost
In storms of guilty terror tost.

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,
Cancel my debt, too great to pay,
Before the sad accounting day!

Surrounded with amazing fears,
Whose load my soul with anguish bears,
I sigh, I weep, accept my tears!

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,
The sons of God and heirs of grace.

From that insatiable abyss,

Where flames devour and serpents hiss,
Promote me to thy seat of bliss.

Prostrate my contrite heart I rend,
My God, my Father, and my Friend,
Do not forsake me in my end!

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
-Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd centrie
All skilful in the wars.
There, above noise and danger,

Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is the gracious Friend,
And (O my soul awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst but get thither,
There grows the flower of peace,

The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave them thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, the life, thy cure!

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
Upon his soul,

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
His own hands with the dust;

Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves.

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,
Who think them brave;

And poor despised Truth sat counting by
Their victory.

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
Before true light!

To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shows the way,—

The way which, from this dead and dark abode,
Leads to God;

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."