His praises too all human tongues
Resound, and tune the noblest songs,
While the glad stars that round the pole
"Twixt Heaven and earth incessant roll,
Seize from both worlds the tuneful sound,
And waft the' immortal echoes round.
CORPORE Cur hæres, Wattsi? cur incola terræ ?
Quid cupis indignum, mens habitare lutum ?
Te caro mille malis premit; hinc juvenes gravat
artus
Languor, et hinc vegetus crimina sanguis alit.
Cura,amor, ira, dolor mentem malè distrahit; anceps
Undique adest Satanas retiva sæva struens.
Suspice ut æthereum signant tibi nutibus astra.
Tramitem, et aula vocat partà cruore Dei.
Te manet Uriel dux; et tibi subjicit alas
Stellatas seraphin officiosa cohors.
Te superûm chorus optat amans, te invitat Jesus,
'Huc ades et nostro tempora conde sinû.'
Verè amat ille lutam quem nec dolor aut Satan arcet
Inde, nec alliciunt angelus, astra, Deus.
TRANSLATION. BY DR. GIBBONS.
WHY dost thou linger in thy cell,
My soul, contented here to dwell?
What, are the charms of sinful clay
To court and entertain thy stay?
A thousand ills thy body feels:
In weakness now the fabric reels,
And now the crimson currents roll
In poison, and infect the soul:
Fear, love, wrath, sorrow, mix their strife,
And break the harmony of life.
See how the stars their beams unite
To point thy course, and guide thy flight
To the fair temple of thy God,
The purchase of Immanuel's blood.
Kind Uriel waits to lead thy way
In triumph to the realms of day':
Seraphic squadrons from the skies
Tender their wings, and bid thee rise.
Heaven opes its gates to give thee room:
Jesus in smiles invites thee home.
Here on the pillow of my breast
(He cries) thy weary temples rest.'
How criminal his fond delight
In earth, who still delays his flight;
When Satan, and the pains of sense,
Try all their powers to drive him hence;
And friendly angels, Heaven, and God!
Court him in vain to quit his clod.
EXCITATIO CORDIS CÆLUM VERSUS.
HEU quod sêcla teris carcere corporis,
Wattsi? quid refugis limen et exitum?
Nec mens æthereum culmen et atria
Magni patris anhelitat?
Corpus vile creat mille molestias,
Circum corda volant et dolor, et metus,
Peccatumque malis durius omnibus
Non hoc grata tibi gaudia de solo
Surgunt: Christus abest, deliciæ tuæ,
Longè Christus abest, inter et angelos
Et picta astra perambulans.
Cœli summi petas, nec jaculabitur 1.
Iracunda tonans fulmina: te Deus
Hortatur; Vacuum tende per Aëra
Pennas nunc homini datas.
THE EXCITATION OF THE HEART TOWARDS HEAVEN.
WHAT, shall whole ages wear away,
And I a willing prisoner stay
Immur'd within these walls of clay?
1 Vide Horat. Lib. I. Od. 3.
The porch, the open door I see;
Shall both conspire to set me free,
And I start back from liberty?
Shall I not pant to' ascend the road
That leads to yon sublime abode,
The palace of my Father, God?
From this vile flesh what countless ills
Arise! now fear my bosom chills,
Now grief in trickling tears distils;
While Sin, the worst of all my foes,
Prevents or murders my repose,
And spares of dark destruction strows.
On this poor spot where canst thou find Pleasures of such exalted kind,
To fill the wishes of the mind?
Jesus, thy love, far far from sight,
Midst stars and seraphs pure and bright,
Dwells high-enthron'd in worlds of light.
Thither should'st thou attempt to go,
The' Almighty would no thunders throw,
Nor would one cloud obscure his brow:
Himself invites thee to the skies:
From sin and all its sorrows rise;
Wings of swift flame his love supplies.
BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.
CASIMIR, BOOK I. OD. 19. IMITATED.
Urit me Patria Decor, &c.
THE beauty of my native land
Immortal love inspires;
I burn, I burn with strong desires,
And sigh, and wait the high command.
There glides the moon her shining way,
And shoots my heart through with a silver ray,
Upward my heart aspires:
A thousand lamps of golden light
Hung high, in vaulted azure, charm my sight,
And wink and beckon with their amorous fires.
O ye fair glories of my heavenly home,
Bright centinels who guard my Father's court,
Where all the happy minds resort,
When will my Fathers chariot come?
Must ye for ever walk the' ethereal round,
For ever see the mourner lie
An exile of the sky,
A prisoner of the ground?
Descend some shining servants from on high,
Build me a hasty tomb;
A grassy turf will raise my head;
The neighbouring lilies dress my bed;
And shed a sweet perfume.
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