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Tempestas, tonitru, flamma, tremor soli,
Terrarum timor et gaudia, nil tuum:

Ο

Observanda tibi una est

Magni vox tenuis Dei.

regum mihi sors sorte beatior, Dum motus qvatiunt, dumque metus, metu Sic motuqve vacantem

Praesensisse animo polum !

Κ.

Miracula Ponti.

Ὅσοι βεβῶτες πόντιοι νεῶν ἔπι
ἐν εὐρυνώτῳ χρήματα σπεύδουσ ̓ ἁλί,
τούτοις πάρεστιν εἰσορᾶν τὸν Κύριον
ὁποῖα θαύματ' ἐν βυθοῖς ἐργάζεται.
κείνου γὰρ ἐντέλλοντος εὐθὺς ὄρνυται
τυφὼς ἀείρων οἶδμ ̓ ἁλὸς μετάρσιον.
οἱ δ ̓ οὖν ἐς αἰθέρ', ἄλλοτ ̓ ἐς πόντου βάθη
χωροῦσ ̓ ἄνω τε καὶ κάτω φορούμενοι·
καὶ πᾶς τις ἔνδον τήκεται λύπης ὕπο.
βίᾳ γὰρ ἄλλοτ ̓ ἄλλοσ ̓, ὡς οἰνωμένοι,
σκιρτῶσιν, εἱλίσσουσι παράφορον πόδα,
ἤδη παραλλάσσοντες ἔξεδροι φρενών.
ὅταν δ ̓ ἀμηχανοῦντες εὔχωνται Θεῷ,
ἐκρύεται σφᾶς τοῦ ταλαιπώρου πάθους.
κοιμῇ γὰρ οὖν ἄελλαν, ὥστ ̓ ἀκύμονα
θάλασσαν εὕδειν· οἱ δ ̓ ὁρῶντες εὐδίαν
χαίρουσ ̓· ὁ δ ̓ ὅρμον ὃν ποθοῦσιν εἰσάγει.

Τ. S. Ε.

The Better Land.

I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou callest its children a happy band:
Mother, oh where is that radiant shore;
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle-boughs?—
Not there, not there, my child.

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies;
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?-
Not there, not there, my child.

Is it far away in some region old,
Where the river wanders o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand;
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?—
Not there, not there, my child.

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy;
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child.

MRS. HEMANS.

Arva beata.

Narras de meliore, mater, ora:
Felices ibi dicis incolentes:

Dic, mater, nitida est ubi illa tellus?
O, si fletus abest, eamus illuc.

Anne est, aurea mala qva coruscant,
Et musca radiant flagrante myrti ?—
Illo in litore, mi puelle, non est.

Anne est, qva gracilis comare palma
Maturoqve solet tumere fructu;
Qva virentibus insulis profunda
Lucent, et zephyros odorat arbos,
Stellatasqve avium triumphus alas
Effert omnigeno nitore pictas?-
Illo in litore, mi puelle, non est.

An mundo procul abditur vetusto,
Qva flumen rapit aureas arenas;
Qva secreta vibrant per antra lucem
Gemmae multicolore fulgurantes
Hinc illinc radio, coralliisqve
Litus sternitur atqve margaritis ?-
Illo in litore, mi puelle, non est.

Nullis illa oculis, puelle, visa est:
Nulla carmen in aure cantitavit :
Fingunt somnia nulla tam serenam,
Qva mors exsulet et qverela, terram:
Illi nescit edax nocere tempus:
Nam trans nubila vasta, trans sepulcrum,
Vernat, care puer, beata tellus.

K.

Sonnetto.

Dov'è, Signor, la tua grandezza antica,
E l'ammanto di luce, e l' aureo trono ?
Dove il fulmin tremendo, il lampo, il tuono,
E l'atra nube che al tuo piè s' implica?

Parmi che turba rea m' insulti e dica:

Questi è il tuo Nume? e quel vagito è il suono
Scotitor de la terra? e quelle sono

Le man' ch' arser Gomorra empia impudica?

Esci, gran Dio, da l' umil cuna, e in tempio
Cangiato il vil presepio, al primo onore
Torna del soglio, e sì favella a l'empio:

Vedrai, vedrai del giusto mio furore

La forza immensa a tuo gran danno e scempio,
Tu che non sai quanto in me possa amore.

ANTONIO TOMMASI.

The Fathers.

"The fathers are in dust, yet live to God:"
So says the Truth; as if the motionless clay
Still held the seeds of life beneath the sod,
Smouldering and struggling till the judgment-day.

And hence we learn with reverence to esteem
Of these frail houses, though the grave confines:
Sophist may urge his cunning tests, and deem

That they are earth;-but they are heavenly shrines.

LYRA APOSTOLICA.

Nunc ubi maiestas?

Deus in Cunis.

Ubi nunc, Deus, aurea sedes?

Circumfusa tibi taenia lucis ubi?

Fulgur ubi tonitruqve tuum fulmenqve tremendum,
Qvaeqve obducta tuos inplicat umbra pedes?
Inpia gens risu me provocat: Hoc tibi numen
Scilicet, et mundum vox qvatit ista suum?
Haene manus, qvibus ultricem iaculantibus ignem
Neqvitiae poenas foeda Gomorra dedit?
Qvo potes usqve pati? Templum praesepia fiant;
Surge tuis cunis, maxume, surge, Deus:
Surge potens soliiqve tui reparatus honore
Protere terribili voce rebelle caput:

Qvi qvid amor valeat nescis meus, in tua damna
Qvid valeat disces vindicis ira Dei.

K.

Patres sepulti.

Vivit adhuc veterum, qvi sunt in pulvere, patrum
Cara Deo, docuit sic Deus ipse, cohors,
Ceu premerentur humo luctantia semina vitae,
Dum rupto eliceret caespite summa dies.

Has itaqve exuvias, qvamvis sapientia mendax Mole putet tumuli semper inerte premi, Debita conservat reverentia; qvaeqve sophistes Esse lutum fingit, sunt ea templa Dei.

K.

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