O, HOW blest are ye whose toils are ended!
Who, through death, have unto God ascended!
Ye have arisen
From the cares which keep us still in prison.
We are still as in a dungeon living,
Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving ;
Our undertakings
Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.
Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping,
Quiet, and set free from all our weeping;
No cross nor trial
Hinders your enjoyments with denial.
Christ has wiped away your tears for ever;
Ye have that for which we still endeavour.
To you are chanted
Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.
Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, To inherit heaven for earthly sadness ?
Who here would languish
Longer in bewailing and in anguish ?
Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us!
Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us!
With thee, the Anointed,
Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed.
DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.
THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,
And tore the shining haubert from his breast;
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.
"Rest, Sire," he cried," for rest thy suffering needs."
The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on,-there is no hope of life;
In paradise, where the almoners live again,
There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain."
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!
That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass.
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France! how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!"
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,
"My gentle friend!-what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ;-
Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee!
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath
The Hebrew prophets from the second death."
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;—
No heart had he to smile,-but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest!-
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart,-his panting bosom heaves,—
Death comes apace,-no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,-
Born of the Virgin,-scorned and crucified,-
In paradise would place him by his side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison;
'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;-
God grant to him his holy benison !
LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thine :
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!
HENCE away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
Think ye thus to govern me
my life long, as ye have done ?
That shall ye not, I promise ye:
Reason shall have the mastery.
So hence away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
If ever ye return this way,
With your mournful company,
A curse be on ye, and the day
That brings ye moping back to me!
Hence away, begone, I say,
Carking care and melancholy!
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
GENTLE Spring, in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou-thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields, and the trees so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low,
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised! thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for naught both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.
To gallop off to town post-haste,
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,-
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,
To honour virtue, and pursue it,
That's a pious, Christian deed,—
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
To mingle with a knowing smile,
The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say 'tis yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,-
Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety,
But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,—but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
When an evil deed's to do,
Friar Lubin is stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly,
As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade;
Love was not felt till noble heart beat high,
Nor before love the noble heart was made.
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