Their breasts are filled with gladness, Their mouths are tuned to praise, What time, now safe for ever, On former sins they gaze: The fouler was the error, The sadder was the fall, The fulness of His love, Instead of death, that life Brief life is here our portion, The tearless life, is there. Short toil, eternal rest, For mortals and for sinners A mansion with the blest! That we should look, poor wand'rers, To all one happy guerdon Of one celestial grace; For all, for all, who mourn their fall, For virgin-souls abound. No human heart can know; And after this world's night, And passionless renown; And Sion, in her anguish, With Babylon must cope; But He whom now we trust in Shall then be seen and known, And they that know and see Him Shall have Him for their own. The miserable pleasures Of the body shall decay; The bland and flattering struggles Of the flesh shall pass away, And none shall there be jealous, And none shall there contend; Fraud, clamor, guile-what say I? All ill, all ill shall end! And there is David's Fountain, And life in fullest glow, And there the light is golden, And milk and honey flow; The light that hath no evening, The health that hath no sore, The life that hath no ending, But lasteth evermore. There Jesus shall embrace us, A place, however low, But there by Living Bread. The morn is bright with gladness: The Cross becomes our harbor, And we triumph after sadness, Brings trophies fair to see, Shall shine as doth the day; Behold thy King's array, Behold thy God in beauty, The Law hath past away! For thee, oh dear dear Country! Thy happy name, they weep: Is unction to the breast, O Paradise of Joy! All plants are, great and small, The hyssop of the wall: Unite in thee their rays: True God and Man, they sing : The ever-golden Ring: The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, The Guardian of his Court: The Day-star of Salvation, The Porter and the Port. Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! Thou hast no time, bright day! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy tower: Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower: Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, O Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses, The Prince's loveliest smile; Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl thine own; The Lamb is ever near thee, The Bridegroom thine alone; The Crown is He to guerdon, The Buckler to protect, And He Himself the Mansion, And He the Architect. The only art thou needest, Thanksgiving for thy lot: The only joy thou seekest, The Life where Death is not: And all thine endless leisure In sweetest accents sings, The ill that was thy merit,The wealth that is thy King's! Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppress'd: I know not, oh I know not, What social joys are there; What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare! And when I fain would sing them, My spirit fails and faints; And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints. They stand, those halls of Sion, Conjubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng: The Prince is ever in them; The daylight is serene; The pastures of the Blessed Are deck'd in glorious sheen. There is the Throne of David,— And there, from care released, The song of them that triumph, The shout of them that feast; And they who, with their Leader, Have conquer'd in the fight, For ever and for ever Are clad in robes of white! O holy, placid harp-notes Yet evermore content! Of God cunctipotent! That divers merits claim: That deck our earthly sky, This star than that is brighter, And so it is on high. Jerusalem the glorious! The glory of the Elect! O dear and future vision That eager hearts expect: Even now by faith I see thee: Even here thy walls discern: To thee my thoughts are kindled, And strive and pant and yearn: Jerusalem the onely, That look'st from heaven below, In thee is all my glory; In me is all my woe: To earth and flesh again. How gloriously they rise: All human thought and heart: And none, O Peace, O Sion, Can sing thee as thou art. New mansion of new people, Whom God's own love and light Promote, increase, make holy, Identify, unite. Thou City of the Angels! Thou City of the Lord! Whose everlasting music Is the glorious decachord! And there the twelvefold chorus The roses' martyr-glow, He, Lamb Immaculate. O fields that know no sorrow! Jerusalem, exulting On that securest shore, I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, I ask not for my merit: A child of wrath am I: Who made me, and who saved, Bore with me in defilement, And from defilement laved; When in His strength I struggle, For very joy I leap, When in my sin I totter, I weep, or try to weep; And grace, sweet grace celestial, Shall all its love display, And David's royal Fountain Purge every sin away. O mine, my golden Sion! I have the hope within me To comfort and to bless! Shall I ever win the prize itself? Oh, tell me, tell me, Yes! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, His for ever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, His for ever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! BERNARD OF CLUNY. (Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.) CHRIST WILL GATHER IN HIS CHRIST will gather in His own Day by day the voice saith, "Come, This dear soul its summons there. Had He ask'd us, well we know Lord, we love him; let him stay." But the Lord doth naught amiss, Many a heart no longer here, Yet, O Love, 'tis Thou dost call, AUTHOR UNKNOWN. DIES IRE. Dies Iræ, Dies Illa, dies tribulationis et angustiæ, dies calamitatis et miseriæ, dies tenebrarum et caliginis, dies nebulæ et turbinis, dies tubæ et clangoris super civitatis munitas, et super angulos excelsos !— Sophonia, i. 15, 16. DIES Iræ, Dies Illa! Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando Judex est venturus, Cuncta stricte discussurus. Tuba mirum spargens sonum Per sepulcra regionum, Coget omnes ante thronum. Mors stupebit, et natura, Quum resurget creatura, Judicanti responsura. Liber scriptus proferetur, In quo totum continetur, Unde mundus judicetur. Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet, apparebit: Nil inultum remanebit. Quid sum, miser! tunc dicturus, Recordare, Jesu pie, Quærens me, sedisti lassus, Redemisti, crucem passus : Tantus labor non sit cassus. Juste Judex ultionis, Donum fac remissionis Ante diem rationis. Ingemisco tanquam reus, Qui Mariam absolvisti, Preces meæ non sunt dignæ, Inter oves locum præsta, Et ab hædis me sequestra, Statuens in parte dextrâ. Confutatis maledictis, Flammis acribus addictis, Voca me cum benedictis! Oro supplex et acclinis, Lacrymosa dies illâ ! THOMAS DE CELANO. DIES IRE. TRANSLATION OF WILLIAM J. IRONS. Oh what fear man's bosom rendeth Wondrous sound the Trumpet flingeth, Death is struck, and Nature quaking, To its Judge an answer making! Lo, the Book, exactly worded! When the Judge His seat attaineth, What shall I, frail man, be pleading, King of Majesty tremendous, Think! kind Jesu, my salvation Faint and weary Thou hast sought me, Righteous Judge of retribution, Guilty, now I pour my moaning, Thou the sinful woman savedst, Worthless are my prayers and sighing, With Thy favor'd sheep, oh place me! While the wicked are confounded, Low I kneel with heart submission; Ah! that Day of tears and mourning! From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him; Spare, O God, in mercy spare him! Lord, who didst our souls redeem, Grant a blessed Requiem! Amen. DIES IRE. PARAPHRASE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day, When, shrivelling like a parchèd scroll, |