They shall say, "O Christ! when saw we
That thou calledst for our aid,
And in prison, or sick or hungry,
To relieve have we delayed?
Whom again the Judge shall answer:
"Since ye never cast your eyes
On the sick and poor and needy,
It was Me ye did despise."

Backward, backward, at the sentence,
To Gehenna they shall fly,
Where the flame is never-ending,
Where the worm can never die;
Where are Satan and his angels
In profoundest dungeon bound;
Where are chains and lamentation,
Where are quenchless flames around.

But the righteous, upward soaring,
To the heavenly land shall go,
Midst the cohorts of the angels,
Where is joy for evermo:
To Jerusalem, exulting,

They with shouts shall enter in;

That true "sight of peace" and glory
That sets free from grief and sin.
Christ shall they behold forever,
Seated at the Father's hand,
As in Beatific Vision

His elect before Him stand.

Wherefore man, while yet thou mayest,
From the dragon's malice fly:
Give thy bread to feed the hungry,
If thou seek'st to win the sky;
Let thy loins be straitly girded,
Life be pure, and heart be right;
At the coming of the Bridegroom,
That thy lamp may glitter bright,

Tr. from the Latin by J. M. Neale.
643. DAY OF JUDGMENT. Dies Iræ.
Day of vengeance, without morrow!
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow,
As from saint and seer we borrow.

Ah! what terror is impending,
When the Judge is seen descending,
And each secret veil is rending!

To the throne, the trumpet sounding,
Through the sepulchres resounding,
Summons all with voice astounding.

Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking,
When, the grave's long slumber breaking,
Man to judgment is awaking.

On the written volume's pages,
Life is shown in all its stages-
Judgment-record of past ages!

Sits the Judge the raised arraigning,
Darkest mysteries explaining,
Nothing unavenged remaining.

What shall I then say, unfriended,
By no advocate attended,
When the just are scarce defended.

King of Majesty tremendous,
By Thy saving grace defend us;
Fount of pity, safety send us!

Holy Jesus! meek, forbearing,
For my sins the death-crown wearing,
Save me, in that day, despairing.

Worn and weary, Thou hast sought me;
By Thy cross and passion bought me ;
Spare the hope Thy labors brought me.

Righteous Judge of retribution,
Give, oh, give me absolution
Ere the day of dissolution.

As a guilty culprit groaning,
Flushed my face, my errors owning,
Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning!
Thou to Mary gav'st remission,
Heard'st the dying thief's petition,
Bad'st me hope in my contrition.

In my prayers, no grace discerning,
Yet on me Thy favor turning,
Save my soul from endless burning!

Give me, when Thy sheep confiding
Thou art from the goats dividing,
On Thy right a place abiding!

When the wicked are confounded,
And by bitter flames surrounded,
Be my joyful pardon sounded!
Prostrate all my guilt discerning,
Heart as though to ashes turning;
Save, oh, save me from the burning!

Day of weeping, when from ashes
Man shall rise 'mid lightning flashes,
Guilty, trembling with contrition,
Save him, Father, from perdition!

Thomas of Celano, tr. by John A. Dix. 644. DAYS, Lost.

The lost days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street

Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat

Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The throats of men in Hell, who thirst al-
way?

I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,
Each one a murdered self, with low last
breath.

"I am thyself,-what hast thou done to

me?

"And I—and I-thyself," (lo! each one saith,) "And thou thyself to all eternity!

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

645. DAYS, Old.

So many good lessons,
So many good sermons,
And so few devocions,
Sawe I never.

So many empti purses,
So few good horses,
And so many curses,
Sawe I never.

Such bosters and braggers,
So newe fashyoned daggers,
And so many beggers,

Sawe I never:

So many propre knyves,
So well apparrelled wyves
And so yll of theyr lyves,
Sawe I never.

So much strivinge

For goodes and for wivinge,
And so lytle thryvynge,
Sawe I never:
So many capacities,
Offices and pluralites,
And changing of dignities,
Sawe I never.

So much wrath and envy,
Covetous and glottony,
And so little charitie,

Sawe I never:

So many carders,
Revelers and dicers,
And so many yl ticers,
Sawe I never.

Amendment
Were convenient,
But it may not be;

We have exiled verite.

God is neither dead nor sicke;
He may amend al yet,
And trowe ye so in dede,

As ye believe ye shall have mede.
After better I hope ever,
For worse was it never.

(A.D. 1568) John Skelton.

646. DEAD, Blessed.

O safe at home, where the dark tempter roams not,

How I have envied thy far happier lot! Already resting where the evil comes not, The tear, the toil, the woe, the sin forgot.

O safe in port, where the rough billow breaks not,

Where the wild sea-moan saddens thee no more;

Where the remorseless stroke of tempest shakes not;

When, when shall I too gain that tranquil shore ?

O bright, amid the brightness all eternal, When shall I breathe with thee the purer air?

Air of a land whose clime is ever vernal,
A land without a serpent or a snare.

Away, above the scenes of guilt and folly, Beyond this desert's heat and dreariness, Safe in the city of the ever-holy,

Let me make haste to join thy earlier bliss.

Another battle fought, and oh, not lost

Tells of the ending of this fight and thrall, Another ridge of time's lone moorland crossed,

Gives nearer prospect of the jasper wall.

Just gone within the veil, where I shall follow,
Not far before me, hardly out of sight-
I down beneath thee in this cloudy hollow,
And thou far up on yonder sunny height.

Gone to begin a new and happier story,
Thy bitterer tale of earth now told and
done;

These outer shadows for that inner glory

Exchanged forever.-O thrice blessed one! O freed from fetters of this lonesome prison, How I shall greet thee in that day of days, When He who died, yea rather who is risen, Shall these frail frames from dust and darkness raise. Horatius Bonar.

647. DEAD, Censuring the.

Dead.

There's an answer to arrest

All carping. Dust's his natural place ; He'll let the flies buzz round his face, And though you slander, not protest! For such an one, exact the Best!

Opinions gold or brass are null.

We chuck our flattery or abuse, Called Cæsar's due, as Charon's dues, I' the teeth of some dead sage or fool, To mend the grinning of a skull.

Be abstinent in praise and blame.

The man's still mortal, who stands first, And mortal only, if last and worst. Then slowly lift so frail a fame, Or softly drop so poor a shame.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

648. DEAD, Dirge for the.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must, Consign to thee, and come to dust. Shakespeare.

649. DEAD, Forget Not the.

Forget them not: though now their name Be but a mournful sound,

Though by the hearth its utterance claim A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm not elsewhere found;
Sad, yet it sanctifies the air,

The stream-the ground.

Then though the wind an altered tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not! no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden bower,
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!

The holy dead!-oh bless'd we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar,
Through all our woe!

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,

That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, By springs untold!

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,

Yet all for heaven!

Mrs. F. D. Hemans.

650. DEAD, Glory of the.

They are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear;

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,-

Or those faint beams in which this hill is

drest

After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,—
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's-nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our
wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there, But when the hand that locked her up gives

room,

O hearts that never cease to yearn!
O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!
The dead, though they depart, return,
As though they had not died!

The living are the only dead;

The dead live, nevermore to die;
And often, when we mourn them fled,
They never were so nigh!

And though they lie beneath the waves,
Or sleep within the churchyard dim,
(Ah! through how many different graves
God's children go to Him.)

Yet every grave gives up its dead

Ere it is overgrown with grass; Then why should hopeless tears be shed, Or need we cry, "Alas"?

Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, And like a sorrowing mourner craped, Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,

Whose captives have escaped?

'Tis but a mound, and will be mossed
Whene'er the summer grass appears;
The loved, though wept, are never lost;
We only lose-our tears!

Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead
By bending forward where they are;
But Memory, with a backward tread,
Communes with them afar.

The joys we lose are but forecast,

And we shall find them all once more; We look behind us for the Past,

But lo! 'tis all before!

652. DEAD, Happiness of the.

Thou art in heaven, and I am still on earth; 'Tis years, long years, since we were parted here,

I still a wanderer amid grief and fear,

And thou the tenant of a brighter sphere.
Yet still thou seemest near;
But yesterday it seems,

Since the last clasp was given,
Since our lips met,

And our eyes looked into each other's depths.

Thou art amid the deathless, I still here,
Amid things mortal, in a land of graves,
A land o'er which the heavy-beating waves
Of changing time move on, a land where raves,
The storm, which whoso braves
Must have his anchor fixed
Firmly within the vail;

So let my anchor be;

Such be my consolation and my hope.

Thou art amid the sorrowless, I here
Amid the sorrowing; and yet not long
Shall I remain 'mid sin, and fear, and wrong:
Soon shall I join you in your sinless song.
Thy day has come, not gone,
Thy sun has risen, not set,
Thy life is now beyond

The reach of death or change;
Not ended but begun,
Such shall our life be soon,
And then, the meeting-day,
How full of light and joy!
All fear of change cast out,
All shadows passed away,
The union sealed forever
Between us and our Lord.

Horatius Bonar.

653. DEAD, Invoking the. There are who fondly call upon the dead To hear them, and imagine they receive Some dark response in symbols or in sounds: But either in their minds their own prayers

raise

Distemper'd phantasies, or spirits unblest,
Perceiving that the bond of fealty

Is broken with the One and Only God,
Assume the very lineaments and voice

Of those invoked, and answering them, allure
Their worshippers to ruin. Bickersteth.

654. DEAD, Mantles of the.
From the eternal shadow rounding
All unseen and starlight there,
Voices of our lost ones sounding,

Bid us be of heart and cheer

Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the inward ear.

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,-

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

657. DEAD, Message to the.

Thou'rt passing hence, my brother! Oh! my earliest friend, farewell! Thou'rt leaving me without thy voice, In a lonely home to dwell, And from the hills, and from the hearth, And from the household tree, With thee departs the lingering mirth, The brightness goes with thee.

But thou, my friend and brother!
Thou'rt speeding to the shore

Where the dirge-like tone of parting words
Shall smite the soul no more!
And thou wilt see our holy dead,

The lost of earth and main;
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts
Thou will be bound again!

And tell our fair young sister,
The rose cut down in spring,

That yet my gushing soul is filled

With lays she loved to sing:

Tender and sadly sweet:

Tell her my heart within me burns

Once more that gaze to meet.

And tell our white-hair'd father, That in the paths he trod, The child he loved, the last on earth, Yet walks and worships God; Say, that his last fond blessing yet

Rests on my soul like dew, And by its hallowing might I trust Once more his face to view.

But when I go
To my lone bed, I find no mother there;
And weeping kneel, to say the prayer she
taught;

Or when I read the Bible that she loved,
Or to her vacant scat at Church draw near,
And think of her, a voice is in my heart,
Bidding me early seek my God, and love
My Blessed Saviour; and that voice is hers;

Living as thou art-even now; Looking upon life's busy scene

With glance as careless, light, as thou.

All these, like thee, have lived and moved,
Have seen-what now thou look'st upon,
Have fear'd, hoped, hated, mourned, or loved,
And now from mortal sight are gone.

Yet, though unseen of human eye,
Their relics slumber in the earth,
The boon of immortality

To them was given with vital birth.

They were; and, having been, they are! Earth but contains their mould'ring dust;

Their deathless spirits, near or far,

With thine must rise to meet the just.

Thou know'st not but they hover near,
Witness of every secret deed,
Which, shunning human eye or ear,
The spirits of the dead may heed.

An awful thought it is to think

The viewless dead outnumber all
Who, bound by life's connecting link,
Now share with us this earthly ball.
It is a thought as dread and high,
And one to wake a fearful thrill,
To think, while all who live must die,
The dead, the dead, are living still!