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Pass the stream— before thee lies
All the conquered land of glory: Hark what songs of rapture rise; These proclaim the victor's story;
Soldier, lay thy weapons down,
Quit the sword, and take the crown ; Triumph! all thy foes are banished, Death is slain, and earth has vanished.
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given ;
There's nothing true but Heaven.
And false the light on glory's plume
As fading hues of even ;
There's nothing bright but Heaven.
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way;
There's nothing calm but Heaven.
Traiice iam fluvium : patet en tibi lata per arva
Aetheris in medio clarior ora polo : Audin', laetifica dulcedine murmurat aer,
Dum pia victorem carmine turba sonat. Tu qvoqve depositis clipeo, bellator, et ense
Laetus Io magna voce Triumphe cane : Necte comas : hostes rapuit fuga: mortua Mors est: In nihilum tellus, unde creata, redit.
Vita fugaci pompae similis
Solidi nihil est nisi caelum.
Splendet inani Gloria crista,
Nitidi nihil est nisi caelum.
Nos obeuntes deforme fretum
Placidi nihil est nisi caelum.
The Praise of God. Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author rise ; Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds, That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
The Parish Priest to his Successor,
If thou dost find
Without thy cost,
My labour is not lost.
Aerii humores, terrai spiritus udae,
T. S. E.
Haec tibi si cordi est, qui nunc mea munia curas,
Sumtubus haud propriis aedificata domus, Da tu pauperibus tanto plus ipse Deoqve: Sic poterit noster non periisse labor.