THE HYMN.,

"DIES IRE, DIES ILLA," &c.

IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

HEARS'T 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?

O that fire! before whose face Heav'n and earth shall find no place : O these eyes! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night.

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.

Horror of nature, hell and death! When a deep groan from beneath

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

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.

say

Ah then, poor soul, what wilt thou
And to what patron choose to pray ?
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more then stand.

?

But thou giv'st leave, dread Lord, that we Take shelter from thyself, in thee;

And, with the wings of thine own dove,
Fly to the sceptre of soft love.

Dear Lord! remember in that day Who was the cause thou cam'st this way: Thy sheep was stray'd; and thou wouldst be Even lost thyself in seeking me.

Shall all that labour, all that cost
Of love, and ev'n that loss, be lost?
And this lov'd soul, judg'd worth no less
Than all that way and weariness?

Just Mercy, then, thy reckoning be
With my price, and not with me:
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, my Judge, mercy I cry

With blushing cheek and bleeding eye:
The conscious colours of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

O let thine own soft bowels pay Thyself; and so discharge that day. If sin can sigh, love can forgive :—

say the word, my soul shall live.

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.

Though both my pray'rs and tears combine, Both worthless are; for they are mine: But thou thy bounteous self still be; And show thou art, by saving me.

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,

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.

Oh, hear a suppliant heart, all crush'd
And crumbled into contrite dust!
My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend!
Take charge of me, and of my end.

TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN.

UPON THE TRANSLATION OF LESSIUS.

Go, now, and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go, take physic, dote upon
Some big-nam'd composition,
The oraculous doctors' mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills,
And what at last shalt gain by these ?-
Only a costlier disease.

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man, all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well;
Her garments, that upon her sit,
As garments should do, close and fit;
A well-cloth'd soul that's not oppress'd

Nor chok'd with what she should be dress'd;—
A soul sheath'd in a crystal shrine,

Through which all her bright features shine; As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aërial veil, is drawn

O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,

More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;-
A soul, whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy steams;—

A happy soul, that all the way

To heaven rides in a summer's day?

Wouldst see a man, whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man whose tuned humours be

A seat of rarest harmony?

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile

Age? wouldst see December smile?

Wouldst see nests of new roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow ?

Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old-and still a man?

Whose latest and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;
And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?

This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?—
Hark hither! and thyself be he.

THE END.

J. Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane.