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Their breasts are filled with gladness,
Their mouths are tuned to praise,
What time, now safe for ever,
On former sins they gaze:
The fulness of His love,
Instead of death, that life
Brief life is here our portion,
O happy retribution!
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 Babyion must cope; But He whom now we trust in
Shall ther be seen and known And they that know and see Hir 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 ay î 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 hatn no evening, The health that hath no sore, The life that hath no ending, But lasteth evermore.
There Jesus shall embrace us, There Jesus be embraced,That spirit's food and sunshine Whence earthly love is chased. Amidst the happy chorus.
A place, however low, Shall show Him us, and showing, Shall satiate evermo. By hope we struggle onward, While here we must be fed By milk, as tender infants,
But there by Living Bread, The night was full of terror,
The morn is bright with gladness: The Cross becomes our harbor,
And we triumph after sadness, And Jesus to His true ones
Brings trophies fair to see,
Beheld, when morn shall waken,
Shall shine as doth the day;
Behold thy King's array, Behold thy God in beauty,
The Law hath past away!
Yes! God my King and Portion,
Dear fountain of refreshment
In fulness of His grace,
We then shall see for ever,
From earthlier self estranged, And Leah into Rachel,
For ever shall be changed: Then all the halls of Sion
For aye shall be complete, And, in the Land of Beauty, All things of beauty meet.
For thee, oh dear dear Country!
Thy happy name, they weep:
Is unction to the breast,
O Paradise of Joy!
And smiles have no alloy;
All plants are, great and small,
The hyssop of the wall:
Unite in thee their rays:
Thy ransom'd people raise:
True God and Man, they sing: The never-failing Garden,
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!
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 Bridegroom thine alone;
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:
My spirit seeks thee fain,
To earth and flesh again.
How gloriously they rise:
Can sing thee as thou art.
Thou City of the Angels!
Thou City of the Lord!
Whose everlasting music
Is the glorious decachord! And there the band of Prophets United praise ascribes,
And there the twelvefold chorus
Of Israel's ransom'd tribes:
The roses' martyr-glow,
He, Lamb Immaculate.
O fields that know no sorrow!
On that securest shore,
I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, And love thee evermore!
I ask not for my merit:
I seek not to deny
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!
Confutatis maledictis, Flammis acribus addictis, Voca me cum benedictis!
Oro supplex et acclinis,
Lacrymosa dies illâ !
THOMAS DE CELANO.
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.
PARAPHRASE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
When, shrivelling like a parchèd scroll,