The world is grown old, and her pleasures are past; The world is grown old, and her form may not last; The world is grown old, and trembles for fear: For sorrows abound, and judgment is near.
The sun in the heaven is languid and pale, And feeble and few are the fruits of the vale; And the hearts of the nations fail them for fear: For the world is grown old, and judgment is near.
The king on his throne, the bride in her bower, The children of pleasure, all feel the sad hour: The roses are faded, and tasteless the cheer: For the world is grown old, and judgment is near.
The world is grown old: but should we complain, Who have tried her, and know that her promise is vain? Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here,
And we look for our crown when judgment is near.
"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.
Consenuit tellus fugitivaqve gaudia ponit; Consenuit mundi non iam durabilis ordo, Consenuit, vastoqve omnis terrore tremiscit, Dum vis iudicio crescit veniente dolorum. Pallidus attonito langvescit in aethere Titan; Vallis habet tenui minuentes ubere fructus; Horrescunt gentes, depressae corda timore, Qvod nunc iudicium mundo canente propinqvat. In solio princeps, sub amoeno tegmine nupta, Gaudia deponunt: maeret deiecta Voluptas; Deperiere rosae; marcent Bacchusqve Ceresqve, Iudicium mundo cum iam canente propinqvet. Consenuit mundus; qvid nos, pia turba, qveramur, Gnara diu vitae, nec rebus credula vanis?
Qvis caelum in voto est, non hac in sede morari, Nobis iudicio dat spes veniente coronam.
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.
In childhood, when, with eager eyes, The season-measured year I viewed, All, garbed in fairy guise,
Pledged constancy of good.
Spring sang of heaven; the summer flowers Let me gaze on, and did not fade; Even suns o'er autumn's bowers
Heard my strong wish, and stayed.
They came and went, the short-lived four; Yet, as their varying dance they wove, To my young heart each bore Its own sure claim of love.
Far different now!-the whirling year Vainly my dizzy eyes pursue, And its fair tints appear All blent in one dusk hue.
Why dwell on rich autumnal lights, Spring-time, or winter's social ring? Long days are fireside nights, Brown autumn is fresh spring.
Then what this world to thee, my heart? Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless; Thou hast no owner's part
In all its fleetingness.
The flame, the storm, the quaking ground, Earth's joy, earth's terror, nought is thine; Thou must but hear the sound
Of the still voice divine.
O princely lot! O blissful art!
E'en while by sense of change opprest,
Thus to forecast in heart
Heaven's age of fearless rest.
In se sua per Vestigia volvitur Annus. Annum temporibus dispositum suis Dum miror cupido lumine parvulus, Sponderi mihi visa est
Mansuri series boni.
Ver caeli cecinit gaudia; non Canis Aestatis roseum praeripuit decus; Nec sol ipse rogatas Invidit foliis moras.
Venerunt Charites qvattuor et vice Discessere cita: sed puero breves Saltus inter amoris
Pignus qvaeqve tulit suum.
Ut versa est species! Ut rapidum seqvor Annum vix oculis deficientibus!
Pallet, praeterit omnis
Subsidens tenebris color.
Autumnale iubar qvid morer, aut opes Vernas, aut hiemis concilia et choros? Nil Octobribus horis
Maiae, nil brevior dies
Longo discrepat. O pars melior mei, Qvo te terra beat munere, qvo cibo Pascit? Num fugitivi
Menses te dominam vocant?
Tempestas, tonitru, flamma, tremor soli, Terrarum timor et gaudia, nil tuum: Observanda tibi una est Magni vox tenuis Dei.
O regum mihi sors sorte beatior, Dum motus qvatiunt, dumqve metus, metu
Sic motuqve vacantem
Praesensisse animo polum !
The Wonders of the Deep.
They that go down to the sea in ships, And do business in great waters;
These men see the works of the Lord, And his wonders in the deep.
For at his word the stormy wind ariseth,
Which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They are carried up to the heaven, and down again to the
Their soul melteth away because of their trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, And are at their wit's end.
So when they cry unto the Lord in their trouble,
He delivereth them out of their distress.
For he maketh the storm to cease,
So that the waves thereof are still.
Then are they glad because they are at rest:
And so he bringeth them to the haven where they would be.
Lord, I have fașted, I have prayed, And sackcloth has my girdle been, To purge my soul I have essayed With hunger blank and vigil keen. O God of mercy! why am I Still haunted by the self I fly?
Sackcloth is a girdle good,
O bind it round thee still; Fasting, it is angels' food,
And Jesus loved the night-air chill; Yet think not prayer and fast were given To make one step 'twixt earth and heaven.
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