Still would those beauteous ministers of light
Burn all as bright,

And bow their flaming heads before Thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee; Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire Keep warm Thy praise

Both nights and days,

And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre.

Let froward dust then do its kind,

And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares In the eternity of Thy old cares?

Why shouldst Thou bow Thy awful breast to see What mine own madnesses have done with me?

Should not the king still keep his throne
Because some desperate fool's undone?
Or will the world's illustrious eyes
Weep for every worm that dies?

ހ

Will the gallant sun

E'er the less glorious run?

Will he hang down his golden head,

Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Grows wanton, and will die?

If I were lost in misery,

What was it to Thy heav'n, and Thee?

What was it to Thy precious blood
If my foul heart call'd for a flood?

What if my faithless soul and I
Would needs fall in

With guilt and sin,

What did the Lamb that He should die?
What did the Lamb that He should need,
When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed?

Bargain'd with death and well-beseeming dust, Why should the white

Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame?

Why should His unstain'd breast make good My blushes with His own heart blood?

O, my Saviour, make me see How dearly Thou hast paid for me,

That, lost again, my life may prove As then in death, so now in love!

SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM,

Or the Mother of Sorrows; a Pathetical descant upon the devout plainsong of "Stabat Mater

dolorosa."

N shade of death's sad tree

Stood doleful she;

Ah, she now by none other

Name to be known, alas! but Sorrow's Mother.

Before her eyes

Her's, and the whole world's joys,

Hanging all torn, she sees, and in His woes

And pains her pangs and throes.

Each wound of His from every part,

All, more at home in Her own heart.

What kind of marble, then,

Is that cold man

Who can look on and see,

Nor keep such noble sorrow's company?
Sure even from you,

My flints, some drops are due,

To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft breast;

While with a faithful, mutual flood

Her eyes bleed tears, His wounds weep blood!

O, costly intercourse

Of death's, and worse

Divided loves: while Son and Mother

Discourse alternate wounds to one another!
Quick deaths that grow

And gather as they come and go;

His nails write swords in Her; which soon Her heart
Pays back, with more than their own smart;

Her swords, still growing with His pain,
Turn spears, and straight come home again.

She sees Her Son, Her God,

Bow with a load

Of borrow'd sins, and swim

In woes that were not made for Him.
Ah! hard command

Of Love! Here must She stand

Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye
See Her life die;

Leaving Her only so much breath
As serves to keep alive Her death.

O, Mother turtle-dove!

Soft source of love!

That these dry lids might borrow Something from Thy full seas of sorrow!

O, in that breast

Of Thine, the noblest nest

Both of Love's fires and floods, might I recline
This hard, cold heart of mine,

The chill lump would relent, and prove

Soft subject for the siege of Love!

O, teach those wounds to bleed
In me; me, so to read

This book of loves, thus writ

In lines of death, my life may copy
With loyal cares.

it

O, let me here claim shares!
Yield something in thy sad prerogative,
Great Queen of griefs, and give

Me to my tears; who, though all stone,
Think much that Thou should'st mourn alone.

Yea, let my life and me

Fix here with Thee,

And at the humble foot

Of this fair tree take our eternal root.

That so we may

At least be in Love's way;

And in these chaste wars while the wing'd wounds flee
So fast 'twixt Him and Thee,

My breast may catch the kiss of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand from either heart.

O you, your own best darts,

Dear doleful hearts!

Hail, and strike home and make me see That wounded bosoms their own weapons be!

Come, wounds! come, darts!

Nail'd hands! and pierced hearts!

Come, your whole selves, Sorrow's great Son and
Mother,

Nor grudge a younger brother